We are taught, over and over again, that journalism begins with truth.

Truth in writing.

Truth in sourcing.

Truth in ownership.

But what happens when the very institutions that enforce these principles are the first to compromise them?

That is not just irony.

That is hypocrisy.

The recent plagiarism issue in the Regional Schools Press Conference (RSPC) is not an isolated lapse in judgment—it is a reflection of a system that selectively enforces ethics. A system that is strict when teaching students, yet hesitant when it is time to hold itself accountable.

And frankly, this is no longer surprising.

For years, there have been whispers—of outsourced layouts, of “packaged” newspapers being sold to schools, of outputs that are more manufactured than created. These are not baseless rumors; they are patterns. And patterns, when ignored, become culture.

So when a winning output mirrors a previous work almost entirely, the real shock is not that it happened—but that it was allowed to happen.

And more importantly—how?

How does a competing entry gain access to archived outputs that are supposed to be secured? These are not publicly circulating materials. They are entrusted to authorities with the expectation of protection. If that trust is broken, then the issue is no longer just plagiarism.

It is negligence.

It is a breach of responsibility.

And it is a failure of the system.

Yet despite these serious implications, what followed was not decisive action—but silence.

No official clarification.

No transparent investigation.

No accountability.

This is where the problem becomes indefensible.

Because silence, in situations like this, is not neutrality—it is complicity.

When authorities choose not to act, they do not merely overlook wrongdoing; they legitimize it. They create an environment where violations are tolerated, where standards are negotiable, and where outcomes matter more than integrity.

That is a dangerous precedent.

Because journalism, at its core, is not about winning—it is about credibility. And credibility cannot coexist with tolerated dishonesty.

But the issue does not stop at the system—it extends to the culture being cultivated within it.

When campus journalists—and even mentors—begin to prioritize awards, recognition, and prestige over authenticity, journalism loses its purpose. It becomes performative. Competitive. Hollow.

We begin producing winners, not writers.

And that distinction matters.

Because a writer understands responsibility. A winner, in a flawed system, may only understand results.

So let us be clear: plagiarism is not a gray area. It is not a creative overlap. It is not “inspiration.”

It is theft.

A theft of ideas.

A theft of effort.

A theft of identity.

And no amount of justification can soften that truth.

Which is why an apology will never be enough.

Because what was taken cannot simply be returned with words. The damage extends beyond the output—it affects trust, credibility, and the morale of those who chose to create honestly.

And this is exactly why accountability is non-negotiable.

The region must act—not later, not quietly, but now. And not just this region; the entire country must confront this issue head-on, especially in campus journalism contests where integrity should be the standard, not the exception.

Because if this is ignored, then what exactly are we preserving?

A system that rewards imitation?

A culture that excuses dishonesty?

A competition that values output over ethics?

If that is the case, then the problem is no longer the plagiarism.

The problem is what we are willing to tolerate.

And that is unacceptable.

Because behind every entry is a student who chose to create, not copy. A student who stayed up late to refine ideas, to design with purpose, to produce something they could truly call their own.

They deserve more than silence.

They deserve protection.

They deserve fairness.

They deserve accountability.

And if the system cannot provide that, then it is not just failing—it is teaching the wrong lesson.

That integrity can be ignored.

That truth can be borrowed.

That effort can be replaced.

We cannot allow that narrative to take root.

As campus journalists, we are not only storytellers—we are watchdogs of truth. And sometimes, that means turning our gaze toward the very institutions we are part of.

Not to tear them down—but to hold them to the standards they claim to uphold.

Because journalism is not just about what we write.

It is about what we refuse to tolerate. It is about what we stand for.

And if we fail to stand for originality, accountability, and integrity now, then we risk losing the very essence of the stories we claim to tell.

So the question is no longer just who owns the story.

The real question is:

If no one is held accountable—who is responsible for losing it?

The Frontman