An Ethical Analysis of the Falling Man
The first hijacked airliner ripped into the north tower of the World Trade Center, bringing the nation to a shocked standstill. As the north tower smoldered, a second Boeing 757 ripped into the south tower — bringing the nation to its knees. Images streamed across broadcast networks the world over as the towers, first the south, then the north, collapsed upon themselves, spreading debris across Manhattan and terror across the nation. In total, more than 3,000 died during the attacks, including 343 firefighters and paramedics, 23 New York City police officer and 37 Port Authority officers. Almost 10,000 were treated for injuries. Only six survived.
The videos and images from September 11, 2001, are countless, and the events have profoundly shaped the world we live in. One photograph, taken by Associated Press photographer Richard Drew, cut through the cacophony of destruction with striking serenity and invoked quick outrage from the public after its wide dissemination. Drew’s “Falling Man” captured the fatal plunge of a man who leapt as the towers became engulfed in flames. The image is void of gore, smoke, explosions or blood. Still, it drew ire from many of those who viewed it.
In the photograph, the man is seen streaming to his death, arms extended defiantly at his sides, in perfect symmetry with the towers behind him. Drew captured a dozen stills of his tumbling descent, which began when he leapt around 9:41 a.m. He was one of hundreds who would leap, or fall, from the burning towers. Drew’s photograph ran in hundreds of newspapers across the country, including on page seven of the New York Times, the next day. Following the broad dissemination of the image was an equally broad outrage from viewers.
Newsrooms across the country drew near universal criticism for publishing the “Falling Man” photograph the day after the 9/11 attacks. Many readers said the publication of the photo exploited the subject’s humanity and death, while some expressed the desire to know who the falling man was. Anonymity seemed to exacerbate the sin of publication by stripping the man of the dignity of his name.
The reaction to the poignant photograph exists as a microcosm of a larger issue — American’s unease and intentional disregard of the hundreds who chose to leap to their death before the towers collapsed. This is not anecdotal. The office of New York’s chief medical examiner refused to declare the deaths suicide and insisted the jumpers were forced out by the unrelenting smoke and fire overtaking the towers. Jumping, they said, implied suicide.
After the publication of “Falling Man” and the subsequent outcry, the media and public alike tried to wipe the images of jumpers from their collective memory. It may have been that news outlets were unwilling to field such harsh criticism again, or perhaps they were trying to dignify the victims by overlooking their chosen demise. The public turned cheek, perhaps due to the deep religiosity of America. Many believe suicide leads to unequivocal damnation, regardless of the circumstances surrounding the choice. The religious implications of suicide coupled with the purported cowardice some see it in may have been cause for the collective blind eye turned toward the jumpers’ reality. Patriotic fervor swept the nation following 9/11, and some may have looked at the suicides as a coward’s way out. In any case, Drew’s photograph was effectively expunged from America’s collective memory.
The decision to publish “Falling Man” immediately after the attacks was a collective one; journalism as an industry was culpable for any ethical failings. Undoubtedly, newsrooms around the country wrestled with the quandary of publishing an image showing imminent death. As is typical with the profession, the decision to publish largely won out. But, was it the correct ethical decision? Did the choice violate an established precedent within the profession? Did it eschew Bok’s Model and the empathy it requires? Is the decision one that could be universal law as Kant’s Categorical Imperative defines it? Did it violate professional codes of ethics?
Each newsroom develops internal rules to handle the coverage of tragedy and death. However, the Society of Professional Journalists’ ethical code implore journalists to minimize harm, ensure accuracy, independence and integrity while avoiding potential conflicts. At face value, the publication of Drew’s image does not appear to violate these tenets. The image is void of any graphic content, instead communicating the tragedy of 9/11 in a subdued, silent and gut-wrenching way. Drew said he felt the photograph represented all those who perished by jumping to their deaths, and this may hold true in hindsight. But, in the immediacy of the tragedy, the image shocked viewers, eliciting outrage from a broad swath of the public.
Within journalism, there is hardly a precedent of self-censorship. There have been several historic and acclaimed photographs rife with graphic content. A Pulitzer Prize-winning image come to mind: John Filo’s image of Mary Ann Vecchio crouching over Jeffrey Miller’s lifeless body after National Guardsmen opened fire on Kent State students in 1970, killing four. Even the harrowing photographs of Abu Ghraib prison abuse during the Iraq War, which sparked international outrage, are more disturbing and vulgar in nature than Drew’s “Falling Man.”
Most newspapers chose not to run Drew’s image after the initial publication, even years after the vitriolic reaction to 9/11 had faded. That retrospective choice appears to contradict Kant’s Categorical Imperative, which implores the decision-maker to decide if their choice could be universal law. Journalists following Kant’s theory essentially espouse the Golden Rule to make consistent decisions. Following Kant’s logic, the decision to publish emotionally disturbing or graphic content in the immediate wake of tragedy becomes the standard. News outlets have an obligation, when current events call for it, to share with their readers accurate images of life at its most disturbed or tragic. This necessarily includes wars, drownings, school shootings, prison abuse scandals and even terrorist attacks. Drew’s image captured the reality for hundreds of people who chose to leap to their deaths after the attacks obliterated any chance at survival. Publishing his image speaks truth to the events of 9/11 and adheres to a standard of exposure long set in journalism. Cowing to the outrage or distaste of readers, while possibly minimizing harm, toes a line that can take the teeth from the fourth estate. The press does not exist to appease, but rather to expose, explain, contextualize and unveil. Drew’s image answered the call of journalism and acted as a witness to the final tragic moments of many.
While Drew’s image may have fulfilled part of the duty of journalism, the lack of identification was viewed by some as an egregious omission. Many viewers questioned why he was not identified in the photograph, and some journalists worked to provide an answer. From the photos it appeared the man was goateed with darker skin. He wore an orange T-shirt under a white chef’s coat. Based on his attire, some believed him to be an employee at Windows on the World, a popular restaurant atop the north tower. In the attacks, 79 employees and 91 patrons of the restaurant died. Details gleaned from Drew’s photographs led Peter Cheney, of the Toronto Globe & Mail, to try and identify the man. Cheney’s task was tall, the entirety of New York City was plastered with flyers of missing persons. After digitally enhancing the photograph, Cheney guessed the man was probably Latino. Eight days after the attacks he caught a break, finding a poster of a missing Windows on the World pastry chef, goateed and in a white jacket, by the name of Norberto Hernandez.
Cheney’s investigation led him to Hernandez’s religious wife and three daughters, all of whom aggressively dismissed his claims and refused to cooperate. “That piece of shit is not my father,” said Jacqueline Hernandez when Cheney presented her with Drew’s photograph at Norberto’s funeral. Cheney went on to publish a story positing Norberto, with verification from his mother, as the jumper in Drew’s image.
When questioned by another journalist, Tom Junod, Hernandez’s wife, Eulogia, and daughters maintained that it could not be him, because Eulogia dressed Norberto in a blue Old Navy shirt on the day of the attacks. She vehemently confirms that it is not Norberto this when shown Drew’s twelve photograph sequence of the Falling Man. Junod’s process for attempting to identify the falling man were more tactful and appeared to adhere to stricter ethics. His investigation was removed from the vitriolic immediacy of the attacks, which lent him leverage with the subjects at hand. Larger questions arise about the need to identify the falling man at all, but the ethics of Junod’s approach appear sound.
Cheney’s story led to trying times for the Hernandez family. One daughter began experiencing hallucinations in their family home, forcing them to move from Queens. His investigation brought to light several ethical issues about the quest to identify victims and the effects that has on the family. Should journalists pursue accuracy and verification if it results in the harm of peoples already stricken by tragedy? Is it just to pursue truth to these ends?
At first glance, Cheney’s investigation clearly violates the ethics Bok’s Model outlines. This theory posits that the journalist must consider two constant goals: to have empathy for the subjects and maintain social trust throughout the process. Cheney’s collective actions demonstrate a harsh antipathy for the Hernandez family, and his story, while loosely verified, damaged their well-being to the point of displacement. If the effects of his actions had been known beforehand, any ethical journalist would’ve abandoned the story — it never would’ve been published. Furthermore, his approach of verification, especially at the funeral, would do well to paint journalists in a unflattering light. Cheney makes no effort to minimize harm, even after being told in clear terms his search was unwanted by the family. By continuing to pursue and publish the story, without their consent, Cheney demonstrates a clear ethical misjudgment.
Journalists are often tasked with pursuing unpopular stories and holding powerful people and institutions accountable for their decisions. Some of the craft’s most impactful work has come after dogged investigations of tragedy, injustice and scandal. However, the Hernandez family was not a perpetrator of any sort of social wrong. By all accounts, they were a quiet, tight-knit family that adhered to Norberto’s motto: “Together Forever.” They were victims of a tragic and terrible attack, and they should’ve been treated with respect and empathy.
It’s possible that Cheney wasn’t considering Bok’s Model during his pursuit of the Falling Man’s identity. His editor tasked him with the story, and, while his methods may have been flawed, he was pursuing it as directed. Even given the leeway afforded by other ethical principles, Cheney’s investigation appears calloused. His work did not fulfill a great social good or spur some sweeping change as prioritized in utilitarian ends-based thinking. Perhaps he was snared by illusions of grandeur, as is often the case with utilitarianism, and thought his work was more important than it was.
Would Cheney be comfortable with using his decisions in the Falling Man investigation as a universal standard? If he followed rules-based thinking, then he would have to be comfortable pursuing all stories, no matter the cost to victims or their families, to that degree. Not only would most journalists avoid such ruinous tactics, but industry codes of ethics reject them as well. In the pursuit of accuracy, Cheney tangibly harmed a grief-stricken family from Queens.
There’s not much in the way of debate about whether Cheney’s actions could be deemed care-based thinking. He almost certainly didn’t treat the Hernandez family as he would prefer his family be treated in the wake of such a devastating tragedy. Furthermore, Cheney showed a obtuse lack of awareness for the family’s well-being and desires; his actions did nothing to adhere to Rawl’s Veil of Ignorance. The veil of ignorance implores that journalists makes decisions to benefit the weaker party — in this case the Hernandez family. The Hernandez’s were grieving the death of their patriarch, the man who held their family together unequivocally. While at the funeral for Norberto, Cheney, in a astounding act of incognizance, approached the family to implore if the Falling Man was indeed their father. His tactless approach did nothing to benefit the party weakened by tragedy.
That leaves communitarianism — the pursuit of the common good. After viewing Drew’s photograph, some readers were soliciting for identification of the subject; this is an undeniable facet of the public’s reaction to its publication. But does identification of the Falling Man serve a societal good? In the context of 9/11, it most certainly does not. The enormous scale and impact of the attacks, not to mention the events that unfolded in the following years, dwarfed the importance of the Falling Man’s identity. Cheney’s pursuit, and possibly erroneous identification, do not move the needle of history even an iota. In fact, as Drew stated, the Falling Man may better serve society as an anonymous tribute to the hundreds that leapt from the towers that day. That homage, like the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, may stand as witness to the crushing tragedy that forced the jumpers to choose their own deaths. At worst, Cheney displayed a shortage of tact and empathy in the way he pursued his investigation and the subsequent story he published. At best, his decisions were due diligence run wildly amok.
The “Falling Man” photograph left an indelible mark on history. The subject’s unsettling tranquility, the symmetry exacerbating the speed of his descent and the unspoken knowledge of his suicide left many shaken. On a day of remarkable tragedy that profoundly shaped the modern world, one photograph — void of gore, rife with context — stands out like comet streaming toward Liberty Street. Within the wake of the photograph are two stories of diligence and reportage. In one, Peter Cheney comes off as relentless in his faulty pursuit of the identity of Drew’s Falling Man. His investigation, carried out immediately after the attacks, is ethically loose and damaging to the family of Norberto Hernandez. In the other, Tom Junod takes a more thoughtful, careful route in his inquiry. He appears to follow ethical considerations more carefully and approaches his subjects with respect and empathy. In both pursuits a larger question exists about the ethics of pursuing the identity of the falling man. As Drew said, his photograph exists best as a tribute to all those who leapt from the towers that day.
