Cry press freedom

IT IS mid-afternoon in Lusaka, the capital of Zambia, and a newsroom has formed on a pavement. Journalists tap away at laptops in the shade of a tree; phone conversations are held on mobiles against the sound of traffic. Cables lead out of cars. An ice-cream salesman does brisk business out of a cool box mounted on a bicycle.

The newspaper is the Post, a punchy tabloid that is Zambia’s biggest independent media organisation. Opposite the makeshift office on the street are the real ones—but the journalists cannot enter. The paper, a staunch critic of President Edgar Lungu’s government, was shut down on June 22nd by the Zambian tax authorities; its reporters were pushed out with tear gas. A week later, its editor, Fred M’Membe, was arrested and beaten. Coming barely a month before elections, it is a sign of how dissenting voices are being quietened.

Press freedom is under assault in much of Africa. Jihadists threaten and sometimes murder journalists in northern Nigeria and Mali. Eritrea’s despotic regime bans independent journalism entirely. Elsewhere, hacks are most likely to be harassed around voting time, when politicians particularly resent criticism. According to Reporters Without Borders, an NGO, press freedom declined in Uganda, the Republic of Congo and Djibouti over the past year—all of which had elections. In Burundi, it has all but disappeared. Zambia seems to be the latest country to fall victim.

The government says that the closing of the Post is about taxes, not politics. The authorities demanded $6m in unpaid taxes and when it was not paid, seized the paper’s assets, including its offices and printing presses. A week later, on June 28th, Mr M’Membe claimed to have a court order declaring the seizures illegal and reopened the offices—only to be arrested for trespass and using false documents.

Nobody disputes that some taxes have gone unpaid. The dispute is over the scale. The government says the Post has been underpaying taxes for a decade and that the taxman is acting independently. Mr M’Membe says his business is far more up-to-date than most organisations in Zambia. He points out that government-owned competitor newspapers have had their tax debts written off, and accuses Mr Lungu of ordering the crackdown personally.

Proving who is right is impossible. But Zambia’s only source of independent news is now struggling. And that has an outsize effect. Though few people actually buy newspapers, the Post’s stories—full of lurid details about vote-rigging and corruption—are repeated on radio stations across the country. Now they will have to rely more on the official media, which are nakedly pro-government and all but ignore the opposition. In a recent bulletin on public radio, eight out of the ten headlines began with the words “President Lungu”.

For now, the Post carries on, printed on cheap paper at a secret site. It has plenty to write about. On July 11th the government banned campaigning after a man was killed at an opposition rally. “We are still doing what we know best,” says Mr M’Membe, flat cap on his head, apparently thriving despite having only just been released from jail. “For us, the most important thing is to keep coming out every day.” That, sadly, is a lot to ask.