After a debate between the parliament and the president over some provisions of the public broadcasting act (see IRIS, 1997-10: 12), Ukraine has finally adopted a law that creates the legal basis for creation of public broadcasting system in this country: Ukrainian Parliament adopted and President of Ukraine signed into action the statute “On the System of Public Television and Radio Broadcasting of Ukraine” that entered into force on November 5, 1997.
The system is created in the name of an all-round satisfaction of the needs of society in the current information and provision of a pluralistic character of broadcasting, as well as taking into consideration the national traditions, moral and ethical norms of the people of Ukraine, says the Statute in its preamble.
The Statute has 10 articles. It establishes Public Broadcasting as a TV and radio organization—an independent legal entity—that has a status of a nationwide unitary and non-profit system of mass communication and is an object of property of the people of Ukraine (Art. 1). The Supreme Rada (parliament) approves the statute of the Public Broadcasting, its programme concept, and takes part in creation of its governing bodies. General overseeing of the activity of the Public Broadcasting shall be done by the Public Council. Members of the Council represent all political parties in parliament, nationwide artistic and public societies, and a number of governmental offices (Art. 3, 4). Qualification Council shall be created to serve as an advisory committee to the Public Council on the professionalism of the candidates to the Administrative Council (Art. 5). The latter is under the Public Council and is in charge of day-to-day running of the Public Broadcasting (Art. 6).
Public Broadcasting shall be financed from license fee, procurement fees for the programmes produced for the government, commercial activity related to broadcasting, and other sources. Advertising shall be prohibited (Art. 7). Formation of the Public Broadcasting and its activity in the first year of existence shall be financed from the national budget (Art. 10).
On February 13, 1998, another Ukrainian statute, “On Cinematography” (Zakon Ukrainy «Pro kinematografiyu»), entered into force. The statute that consists of seven chapters sets legal grounds for regulation of social relations in production, distribution, storage, and exhibition of movies. The statute introduces obligatory governmental licensing of activity on distribution and exhibition of movies. All movies that are to be distributed and exhibited in Ukraine shall also get licenses and put into a state registrar. (Art. 15) The government shall provide subsidies to Ukrainian producers through a special fund. Tax and custom duties relief, reduced communication tariffs shall support national production of movies, co-production with foreign companies (Chapter 4). All foreign movies (including Russian products) shall be dubbed, or have subtitles in Ukrainian before distribution (Art. 14). The statute establishes for Ukrainian movies a minimum quota of 30 percent of exhibition time in the theatres and airtime devoted to movies on TV (Art. 22). The statute confirms all copyright obligations taken by Ukraine in international treaties and written in the national statute on copyright and neighbouring rights.
Andrei Richter
Political and Legal Factors
Relationships between the media and the political establishment of Kyrgyzstan are complex and fluid. Although President Akayev has taken action against opposition media, he has also supported the principles of press freedom. In public statements, he has endorsed efforts to reform libel law, and proposed an amendment to the Criminal Code which would decriminalize libel. In 1997, his office produced two draft bills—”On Access to Information” and “On the Rights and Responsibilities of Journalists”—which, despite some vagueness in drafting, proposed extending the rights of journalists to report on and investigate the work of government and other public institutions. He opposed more restrictive draft bills circulating in parliament, saying he would veto any measure which severely curtailed media rights. When parliament approved a bill in November with restrictive provisions, including a ban on reporting on criminal proceedings, he did what he said he would do—he vetoed it.
a. Political Context: The President’s Struggle with Parliament
President Akayev’s apparent defense of press freedom has to be placed within the wider context of the ongoing power struggle between the executive and legislative branches. In 1994, Akayev led a campaign which resulted in the closing of the parliamentary newspaper, Svobodniye Gory (see e. Government Pressure on the Media). His re-election to a second five-year term in December 1995 was marred by controversy; the Supreme Court disqualified three of the five other presidential candidates for improperly collecting voters’ signatures, and human rights groups complained of government pressure on voters. After winning the election with almost 72 per cent of the vote, Akayev immediately called for a referendum on constitutional amendments that would strengthen presidential power at the expense of the government and parliament. In the referendum held in late February 1996, 94 per cent of voters supported the amendments. Under the revised constitution, the President nominates all government ministers, ambassadors and the chairman of the National Bank. The nominations need only the approval of the 70-member People’s Assembly, which is largely composed of local and regional government officials appointed by the president. In effect, the revised constitution shifted power away from the 35-member upper house, the Legislative Assembly, a politically conservative body which had opposed some government reform measures (28). The deputies have sought to reassert their political power by challenging the president on a number of fronts, including press freedom and the media law. The deputies had other motives for wanting to restrict the press. Many had been stung by press criticism, and said openly that they wanted revenge on what they felt was an irresponsible press corps. And with more than 100 members of both houses under indictment for various criminal offenses, the restriction on the reporting of criminal cases clearly had an element of self-interest. However, the battle over the media bill was not only about press freedom—it was part of an ongoing power struggle between the president and the deputies.
b. Reasons for Lack of Political Coverage on Television
The anger of the deputies is clearly directed mostly towards the print media, which has taken a more serious and critical interest in government and politics than the electronic media. There are several reasons for this. The first is simply the different nature of the media. Government and political stories are often complex, requiring explanation and analysis; newspapers have the space to devote to such subjects, but radio and television find it difficult to cover such events in short, narrative-form stories. These stories also often lack visual interest—meetings and talking heads—so television journalists tend to keep them short. The second reason is simply the lack of professional experience and specialized knowledge of most radio and television journalists. Newspapers assign reporters to political beats (the White House, the Parliament, the ministries, etc.) but all electronic journalists are expected to be generalists, and so often lack the background to ask searching questions when they approach a political story. The third reason is simply that reporting on politics can be bad for business. Television and radio stations have seen newspapers closed by the Ministry of Justice and journalists tried in court for criminal libel. Anxious to keep their licenses and broadcasting facilities, they have been reluctant to take on controversial or sensitive issues in their news and information programming. Indeed, all stations are dependent on government to some degree—for frequency allocations, transmission facilities, building permits, and other needs. Until they become stronger and more financially independent, they may not run the risk of offending people in high places. Adylbek Binazarov, President of Piramida TV/Radio, described his company’s policy in a recent issue of the ANESMI Newsletter: “Our first priority. No politics. Only information and entertainment programs.” What he means is that politics is bad for business (29).
c. Criminal Libel and the Res Publica Cases
In 1997, domestic and international attention focused on the use of Kyrgyzstan’s libel law by government officials—or members of the political elite—to punish opponents and to discourage criticism. Kyrgyzstan’s libel law differs from that of most other countries in three important respects. First, libel is a criminal, not a civil offense, and the penalties include criminal fines and jail sentences. Although many journalists, human rights organizations and other groups have called for libel to be decriminalized, the campaign has so far been unsuccessful. When the Legislative Assembly reviewed a draft of the Criminal Code in June 1997, it decided to keep libel as a criminal offense; some deputies felt that “without this provision there would be anarchy . . . politicians and public officials would be left unprotected from the lies printed by the media.” However, the deputies agreed to reduce the penalties, substituting fines for prison terms for most forms of libel; the only category punishable by a jail sentence is a false accusation of crime, and the maximum penalty was reduced from five to three years (30). In a speech on Journalists’ Day in November 1997, President Akayev endorsed efforts to reform libel law. In late December, his staff forwarded an amendment to the Criminal Code to the Legislative Assembly of the Jogorku Kenesh to decriminalize libel; at the time of writing, the deputies had taken no formal action on the amendment. Secondly, the law draws no distinctions between the rights of public figures—elected or appointed officials or others such as entertainment or sports stars who are in the public eye—and those of private citizens. As American libel law has developed since the landmark 1964 New York Times vs. Sullivan Supreme Court decision, public figures have needed to show that the libel was committed with “actual malice or reckless disregard for the truth.” By contrast, private citizens need only show that the journalist was negligent in checking facts. The principle here is that public figures should expect a greater degree of criticism than private persons, because they have voluntarily put themselves in the public eye. Thirdly, the law includes fines for “insulting,” which is defined as abasing the “honor and dignity” of a person. What this means is that truth is not a defense; a journalist can prove that a story is factually based, and still be successfully prosecuted because the story insults the “honor and dignity” of the plaintiff.
The case that brought Kyrgyzstan’s libel law to international attention was the 1997 trial of Zamira Sydykova, the editor of the opposition weekly Res Publica, and three other journalists from the newspaper. The case was brought by Dastan Sarygulov, head of the state gold mining concern Kyrgyzaltyn, over articles about him published between 1994 and 1996. In May, a judge sentenced Sydykova and reporter Aleksandr Alianchikov to 18 months in prison; the other two defendants, acting editor Marina Sivasheva and reporter Bektash Shamshiev, were fined and banned from working as journalists (31). An outcry followed; the sentences were roundly criticized in the press, Sydykova supporters began a hunger strike outside the White House, and international human rights groups launched a letter-writing campaign (32). In June, an appeals court acquitted Sivasheva and Shamshiev, suspended Alianchikov’s sentence, and said that Sydykova should serve her sentence in a minimum-security labor colony. Finally in August, the Supreme Court released Sydykova on the grounds that she had already served a one-and-a-half year suspended sentence for libel for a separate libel case brought by President Akayev in 1995. The court’s decision was widely regarded as a legal fiction which helped the beleaguered government—taken aback by international reaction and domestic opposition (some newspapers featured pictures of Sydykova’s distraught young children)—to extricate itself from what had become a politically embarrassing situation. The decision allowed it to maintain that the Res Publica journalists were guilty of libel, but without sending them to prison.
This high-profile case overshadowed another libel action that in fact provided a more serious test of the libel law. The principal issue in the first Res Publica case was the criminal penalties imposed on the defendants, not the question of whether the articles on Sarygulov were libellous. Indeed, they may have been. However, in another case, also involving a Res Publica journalist, Ryspek Omurzakov, the issue involved standards of proof. In February 1997, Mikhail Paryshkura, the manager of a machine-building factory in Bishkek, filed a criminal libel suit against Omurzakov for an article he had written about living conditions at the factory workers’ hostel. The article was based on first-hand observations and interviews with residents and Omurzakov showed Paryshkura a petition signed by 108 employees of the plant, complaining about sub-standard conditions. Despite a pledge by Paryshkura to drop the case, Omurzakov was arrested in late March and held in prison until the case went to trial on May 19. Two factory workers, who testified that Omurzakov’s article had been accurate, were in turn charged with “disseminating deliberately false information” to Omurzakov and were named as co-defendants. When the trial reopened, their testimony had vanished from the record. Fearful of losing their jobs, no new workers came to testify on Omurzakov’s behalf. The judge sent the case back to the prosecutor for re-investigation, and following protests from international organizations, Omurzakov was released on June 10 after spending almost three months in jail (33). “The trial should never have started,” said Amnesty International. “The Kyrgyzstani authorities have already been internationally condemned for bringing a criminal prosecution in what should be a civil case of libel. They are clearly using criminal legislation in a bogus manner to punish and silence a prominent government critic.” (34) According to the International League for Human Rights, “this case demonstrates clearly why criminal libel laws are bad legislative policy and the ease with which they can be abused for political or other improper purposes by those charged with administration of the laws.” In September, the Bishkek district court sentenced Omurzakov to two and a half years in prison under the provisions of the Criminal Code. He was released under an amnesty law signed on January 1, 1998. Later in the month, Kyrgyzstan’s Supreme Court upheld his conviction but ruled that he was guilty of libel under the Civil, not the Criminal Code—a creative legal interpretation, considering libel is still a criminal offense in Kyrgyzstan (35).
Although both cases involving Res Publica raise the issue of criminal penalties for libel, the Omurzakov case shows clearly that truth is not a defense against libel, and that officials can use the “honor and dignity” clause to silence critics. Omurzakov’s story met basic journalistic standards; the description of conditions at the hostel was based not only on his observations but on testimony from workers. The Committee for the Protection of Journalists (CPJ), in a letter to President Akayev protesting Omurzakov’s conviction, stated:
d. Changes in Media Law
In late Fall 1997, the Legislative Assembly began debating a new media law, considering drafts submitted by deputies and the President’s Office. The current media law, which is in force until a new law is enacted, was passed by the Supreme Soviet in 1992. This law asserts the freedom of the press and mass media, supports the rights of journalists to obtain information, to publish without prior restraint and to protect sources. However, the law bans material that advocates war, violence, or intolerance towards ethnic or religious groups, or desecrates national symbols such as the flag, pornography, and what is referred to as “false information.” The law also says that the press should not violate the privacy or dignity of individuals (37). Such vaguely worded provisions—particularly on false information and individual privacy—have provided government officials with a legal basis to try to muzzle the press.
In what seems to have been a genuine effort to extend and codify press freedom (although public reaction to the Res Publica cases was also an immediate concern), the President’s office released drafts of two new bills in early summer 1997. Despite drafting problems—some evident gaps, contradictions and vagueness in wording—both were broadly supportive of journalists’ rights. One required government agencies and officials, non-governmental organizations, businesses and institutions, to make information readily available within a specified time frame, and provided legal remedies if they refused. Certain categories of information were excluded, but the law seemed to imply that most government documents would be made available. One article also provided the basis for what is commonly referred to as a “shield law,” which provides protection and confidentiality for people who want to provide information to journalists, but fear the consequences if their names are revealed. Under a shield law, only a court can order a journalist to name his or her sources, and must prove that the disclosure is in societal or national interest (38). The second draft bill outlined the rights and responsibilities of journalists, and provided legal protection against interference in their professional work. The law appeared to prohibit prior restraint—the practice of censoring or demanding changes in material before it is published or broadcast—and guaranteed access to court proceedings, the scenes of natural disasters, and war zones (39).
Provisions from these draft laws were incorporated in the new media law adopted by the Legislative Assembly on November 11. Indeed, the deputies’ version clarified and expanded the sections on journalists’ rights (Article 34) and accreditation procedures (Article 35.) However, several sections imposed serious restrictions on the press. In contrast to the President’s draft bill which guaranteed access to court proceedings, Article 33 of the deputies’ bill prohibits the media from publishing information “regarding cases under investigation and cases which are being heard by a court until legally binding court decisions in regard to such cases come into effect.” (40) This article was widely viewed as self-serving, because more than 100 members of both houses of parliament are currently under indictment for various criminal offenses. The law also tightened up the procedures for registration of media organizations with the Ministry of Justice, giving the ministry more leeway to deny registration. The law does not apply to government media, including Kyrgyz State Television and Radio.
President Akayev had threatened to block the media law if it contained certain provisions which he considered incompatible with press freedom, such as the ban on reporting criminal proceedings. His veto in early December set the stage for a new round in the battle with parliament. Akayev’s staff sent the bill back to the Legislative Assembly with suggested amendments. A parliamentary committee reviewed the new bill, and forwarded it to the full assembly without comments. In an emotional debate, most deputies opposed the President’s amendments. They decided to send the original bill back to Akayev without changes, claiming that his amendments were not in the proper legal form. The deadlock will most likely kill the media bill. The most likely scenario now is that the President’s office will drop the bill, and propose amendments to the 1992 act.
e. Government Pressure on the Media
Although the Res Publica libel cases are the most evident examples of political pressure, it is important to note the many, and often subtle ways in which government authorities can exert control over the print and electronic media. Usually, this takes an economic form. Except for a small commercial plant in Bishkek, all newspaper printing facilities in the country are government-owned and managed. Under instructions from government officials, the printing plant may refuse to print a newspaper (or a specific edition of a newspaper), reduce a print run (usually claiming a shortage of newsprint) or arbitrarily increase printing costs. Most of the independent newspapers in Bishkek have experienced this kind of economic harassment in the past. The message is clear—toe the line (or at least tone down criticism) if you want to stay in business.
In July 1994, President Akayev sharply criticized the press for alleged irresponsibility and proposed legal action to shut down the parliamentary newspaper, Svobodniye Gory, which had been outspokenly critical of his regime. Akayev’s campaign—which stemmed at least in part from his continuing power struggle with the parliament—succeeded when a Bishkek court ordered the closing of Svobodniye Gory and its August 19 edition was impounded by Uchkun, the government printing house. The procurator brought a suit against Svobodniye Gory for allegedly publishing “deliberately distorted information aimed at discrediting the President, circulating material which violates ethical norms, and deliberately insulting the leaders of foreign states and their symbols, thus significantly damaging the interests and integrity of the State and threatening its stability.” The President issued a decree establishing a council on the activities of mass media which, according to the government newspaper Slovo Kyrgyzstana “will help journalists in their work and prevent the use of the media to cause political instability and upset interethnic accord and civic peace.” On August 23, the Ministry of Justice ordered Uchkun to stop printing the weekly newspaper Politika, which had been a frequent critic of the President and the government. The Ministry claimed that Politika was not registered as a newspaper, although it was a supplement to the legally registered newspaper Delo, whose name appeared above the masthead. Other newspapers, including government ones, print weekly supplements without having them registered separately (41).
The pattern of legal harassment has continued. In early January 1997, the Ministry of Justice ordered Uchkun to stop printing the newspaper Kattama, following a claim by a deputy that it was publishing pornography; the decision was upheld by a raion court at the end of February. In mid-January, the Ministry instructed Uchkun not to publish the second edition of a new newspaper, Kriminal, “in connection with the investigation of the facts of the deepest violations [by the newspaper] of the Kyrgyz law on mass media.” After stories about the closure appeared in Res Publica and deputies questioned ministry officials, the Ministry of Justice admitted that it had acted wrongly in closing the newspaper. On January 28, it formally brought a case against Kriminal. When the raion court hearing was eventually held in March, the government lawyers held that the newspaper had incorrectly reported that the Prime Minister had illegally given tax breaks to companies in which his relatives worked, had wrongly claimed that government positions had been given to relatives of President Akayev and his wife, and had insulted the honor and dignity of government officials. Defense lawyer Yuri Maximov claimed that the Ministry had acted illegally in closing the newspaper, and said that the “honor and dignity” clause could be used only by an individual, not by the government. It was not the responsibility of the Ministry to defend individual reputations, and none of the people who had been “insulted” by the newspaper had appeared before the court. Nevertheless, the judge upheld the Ministry’s decision to close the newspaper, and the city court turned down an appeal. Maximov said that he did not blame the judges or the ministry for their actions, because he said they were acting under orders “from the higher echelons of power.” He said he could cite numerous examples of the so-called “telephone right” in which a call comes from a senior government official, ordering the courts to rule a certain way (42).
Government action against newspapers seems to follow a set pattern. The Ministry of Justice orders the government printing house not to publish a newspaper on the grounds that it has broken the law. The newspaper’s only legal recourse is to the courts, but bringing a case to trial is expensive and time-consuming; meanwhile, the newspaper remains closed, with no income from advertising. If the newspaper eventually succeeds in appealing the decision, and forcing the Ministry of Justice to explain its decision, its chances of winning are slim because judges are appointed and paid by the government, and are easily influenced by government officials. The 1996 public opinion poll conducted for USAID revealed that citizens are losing confidence in the judicial system. Not only did many feel that the police were more likely to violate their rights than protect them, but 63 per cent expressed no confidence in the courts and 61 per cent no confidence in the public prosecutor. On a sensitive issue such as press criticism of the government, it is hardly surprising that the courts follow the government’s bidding (43).
Another way for government officials to bring pressure on the media is through the use of various agencies—building code inspectors, fire marshals, and especially the tax inspectors. In late November 1997, the opposition newspaper Asaba created a controversy by publishing a photo-collage of President Akayev and Res Publica editor Zamira Sydykova in wedding dress to promote a story about Sydykova’s book about sexual relations in the White House. Asaba was roundly criticized by both the government and non-government press for irresponsible, tabloid journalism; even the independent Delo No recommended that Akayev sue for libel. However, the government decided to take more immediate action. On December 1, the Tax Inspectorate sealed the offices of Asaba, following an investigation of improper sales practices by newspaper vendors. As Vecherny Bishkek commented: “The official version [of the reasons for the action by tax inspectors] looks quite convincing. But it is surprising that the closing of Asaba coincided with the campaign against some of its quite inaccurate publications, which was started by government newspapers.” (44)
Radio and television stations face many of the same potential pressures. A key issue is that of frequency allocation, particularly in television. KTV broadcasts nationally on the VHF band, which can be picked up by all television receivers; in most regions of the country, other VHF frequencies are allocated to the Russian networks ORT and RTR. In Bishkek, three of the four commercial stations currently on the air—NBT, Vosst and Asman—have their own transmitters, but they are on the UHF band, requiring a special antenna. The only commercial station broadcasting full-time on a government VHF channel is Piramida; this enables it to reach a larger audience than its competitors, and consequently charge more for advertising. Evidently, one of the reasons that the management of Piramida wants to steer clear of controversy is to hold onto this prized piece of broadcast real estate.
Most vulnerable are the TV stations which do not own transmitters, but lease time on government channels for broadcasting. Only one station outside Bishkek, Osh TV, has its own transmitter; the rest lease time on oblast government channels in fringe periods when KTV is not broadcasting—usually during the day or after 11:00 p.m. (45). Because these stations are dependent on government broadcasting facilities, they are in the same position as the newspapers printed at government plants. State broadcasting officials may refuse to lease time, change broadcast hours or raise prices at will. It is difficult to document how widespread this practice is and how much it stems from official attempts to suppress criticism or simply from the corruption of underpaid state employees. However, some examples will suffice. Makhabat-Jildizy, one of the four stations in Jalal-Abad, was paid by opposition parliamentary candidates to cover and broadcast an election meeting in October 1997. When the piece was aired, the sound track from the candidates’ speeches had been removed and replaced by a bland voice-over and music. When pressed on this issue, the station manager admitted that the local KGB had visited the station and threatened to ban it from broadcasting if it ran excerpts from the candidates’ speeches (46). Another Jalal-Abad TV station, Mars, ran afoul of the authorities when it aired an interview with the manager of the local flour factory who criticized the new governor of Jalal-Abad Oblast. One of the governor’s assistants called the manager of the oblast transmission center, and Mars was banned from broadcasting for a few days (47).
The most systematic campaign against an independent television station appears to be the case of Kyrgyz-Jer, which was forced off the air a year ago. The Bishkek-based station was founded in April 1991 and began broadcasting in October, making it the second private TV station in the country to go on the air (the first was Osh TV, which began broadcasting in April 1991.) The station broadcast nationally for two hours a week on the government channel, reaching urban and rural viewers with a mix of Kyrgyz and Russian-language programs. According to director Kadyrbek Abdraev: “We wanted to fill the information vacuum and provide alternative points of view. Because we did not broadcast every day, we could not do news, but we covered all the important events of the week, and inserted musical spots and cartoons. No one had done this before. But someone didn’t like our policy of diverse programs.”
The station’s problems began when KTV started changing its broadcast times, making it difficult for the station to build a regular audience. Then fire and building inspectors cited the station for alleged violations, and visits from the tax police became more frequent. Kyrgyz-Jer’s running battle with the authorities intensified in 1995, the year of the presidential election and the Manas celebrations. “We wanted to give a chance to every Presidential candidate,” said Abdraev. “So we gave time to [Medetken] Sherimkulov [the former parliamentary speaker] who had no opportunity to express his views in the media. We did not support him. Our position was simply that people should know what he is doing and saying. We were not forgiven for this.” During the Manas Celebration, the station “did not express excitement. . . . We pointed out that the events were organized primarily for government officials and international guests—and not for the people, despite what the government said.”
What broke Kyrgyz-Jer was the increasing cost of air time on KTV. In 1993 when the som was first introduced, the station was charged 300 som an hour for air time; by the end of 1995, the price had gone up to 25,000 som an hour, and, according to Abdraev, “we were told that if we paid the price would be doubled.” (A clearly discriminatory charge—in 1997, another station renting time on the national channel, Osh’s Keremet TV, was paying 4,000 som an hour.) After a brief attempt to broadcast on the ORT channel in late 1996, Kyrgyz-Jer was forced to shut down its operations (48).
f. The Dangers of Sponsorship
For a commercial media organization to survive in Kyrgyzstan, it needs not only financial support but a powerful political backer. In his 1994 survey of media in Central Asia, Eric Johnson noted how rising production costs, decreasing government subsidies, and low advertising rates had forced newspapers to seek sponsorship:
Not only is this sort of dependence bad journalism , but it also polarizes political conflict, driving positions towards extremes. . . . The danger of this legacy is not only that an editorial war might provoke a civil conflict, as readers of different truths square off against each other, but also that the newspapers would exacerbate this tendency by pandering to the interests and prejudices of the groups which they are helping to define. The tradition of serving a master was very strong in Soviet journalism and remains dominant, so it would be all too easy for newspapers to replace their standard subject of the past, the Party boss, with a self-defined ‘the people’ of the present (49).
Television stations have taken the same course, seeking wealthy and politically well connected sponsors. Piramida was first established as a unit within Kyrgyz State Television, and all its founders were former state officials. Indeed, almost every television station in the country owes its existence to a single founder: for example, industrialist Valeri Khon (Vosst), Dastan Sarygulov, president of the Kyrgyzaltyn state gold mining concern (Asman), White House officials and, reportedly, the Russian entrepreneur Boris Berezovsky (KOORT.)
Why are wealthy entrepreneurs such as Khon, Sarygulov and Berezovsky interested in putting money in television stations? The stations may turn out to be good investments in the long run, but for now the financial rewards are slim. Of these three ventures, only KOORT stands to make a profit in the short term because it can sell commercials on the most watched channel in the country; Asman is losing money and Vosst with its new building, modern equipment and large staff is certainly not profitable. The answer may have more to do with politics than economics. Although commercial TV stations do not yet appear to be allied with political factions as is the case with some newspapers, the situation is likely to change. Presidential elections are scheduled for the year 2000, and every party and candidate knows that it will need to use television to reach voters. In the 1995 election, Akayev made effective use of his control of KTV to gain maximum coverage for his campaign; his opponents had few opportunities to put their case on TV. In covertly backing KOORT, Akayev will be able to provide his hand-picked successor with access to the most popular channel in the country (in Bishkek, ORT consistently attracts three times as many viewers as KTV.) Asman TV may emerge to back Sarygulov’s candidate, and VOSST to support a new political party of which Khon is one of the founders. These predictions are, of course, somewhat speculative; over the course of the next two years, the financial and political players and landscape may change. However, it seems likely that, as in the case of Boris Yeltsin’s successful reelection campaign in Russia, entrepreneurs in Kyrgyzstan recognize that media investments, particularly in TV, can bring political as well as financial returns.
Covert (or not so covert) alliances between stations and political figures exist at the oblast and city level too. Both parties stand to gain from the arrangement; the politician offers the station protection against interference from official agencies such as the tax police; in return, the station provides the politician with a public platform to explain policies or to launch an election campaign. Erkin Ala-Too, one of the two Kyrgyz-language stations in Osh, is closely allied with the city’s mayor, Joldoshbek Raimbekov. The station’s director, Nurdin Isakov, openly boasts of his friendship with the mayor, and claims that it has enabled him to obtain apartments and other privileges for his staff. In return, the station runs thinly disguised sponsored programs, lauding Raimbekov’s achievements in office. Isakov makes no secret of the deal. “The TV station is a political instrument,” he said, “and we are going to continue to cooperate with the local authorities.” (50)
Political and ethnic divisions in Osh intensify the need for friends in high places. In a city where Kyrgyz occupy most government positions, Osh TV is politically vulnerable because it broadcasts in Uzbek and has a stronger Islamic orientation than other stations. Although Osh TV has its own VHF transmitter and is financially stable, it carefully cultivates relations with the authorities. Its daily newscasts avoid criticism of the mayor and local authorities. After what apparently was a secret challenge to its license from another station, Osh TV decided to devote one day a week (Saturday) to Kyrgyz-language broadcasting (51). The city’s other Uzbek-language station, Mezon, which leases 10 hours a week on the regional government channel, has the powerful support of Davron Sabirov, a parliamentary deputy and manager of the company that supplies gas from Uzbekistan to the city of Osh (52). Omurbek Abdraimov, president of the Kyrgyz-language Keremet TV, clearly has a political agenda. The station is on the air on leased government channels for only six and a half hours a week. It buys half an hour three days a week on the national service to broadcast to the whole country. In business terms, it makes no sense for an Osh-based station to spend 6,000 som a week (82 per cent of its expenditures on air time) to reach viewers in Bishkek, Talas, Karakol and Naryn. It recoups little of its outlay through advertising. Abdraimov appears to have a sense of public service, and proudly recalls that his was the first station to broadcast a debate between parliamentary candidates to the nation. And there is the element of prestige—Keremet is the only private station reaching the whole country, albeit at late afternoon fringe times. But ultimately the motives may be more political, with Abdiraimov attempting to parlay national TV access into influence in time for the Presidential election (53).
David H. Mould**
Notes:
*Television and Radio in Kyrgystan: Problems and Prospects For Development is an analysis conducted for the United States Agency For International Development (USAID) Regional Mission For Central Asia.
**1996-1997 Fulbright Senior Scholar, Kyrgyzstan