The question isn’t just about what will happen to this particular journalist. It’s about what the next journalist who wants to investigate a difficult case involving those in power will think
The truth has no biography. Credibility, however, does. Anyone who has made serious mistakes, been proven wrong, or handled information carelessly justifiably loses some of the trust they once enjoyed. They do not always return to the public discourse with a clean slate. Credibility is a resource that is built up and eroded. However, this concerns how easily we believe someone, not whether a specific fact is true. And this distinction is crucial in the case of Makarios Drousiotis.
“The Mafia State” underwent an independent, extensive, and in-depth institutional investigation. Not every claim in the book was confirmed. However, several—with enormous political implications—were substantiated and led to further criminal investigations. Later, a different case (the “Santi” case) raised serious questions about journalistic judgment and the methods of the same individual. These questions are legitimate. Journalism that demands accountability from those in power must, in turn, accept equally rigorous scrutiny of its own practices.
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That, however, is where the tit-for-tat must stop. Once specific allegations have undergone an independent institutional investigation, their validity no longer depends exclusively on the personal credibility of the person who made them. It is a fact that without the courageous and thorough investigative journalism of Makarios Drousiotis, the Independent Anti-Corruption Authority would not have reached its shocking findings regarding former PresidentPresident Anastasiades and the takeover of institutions by those he influenced. The subsequent questioning of Mr. Drousiotis’s credibility in the “Santi” case cannot be used to retroactively rewrite the evidentiary record of a different case.
This is where the political dimension comes into play. In public life, the discussion can be self-servingly shifted from the substance of an allegation to the character of the person who made it. If the whistleblower is found to be problematic in one instance, it is easy to create the impression that their previous allegations were also problematic. The discussion ceases to focus on the specific allegations that were investigated and substantiated, and instead becomes a discussion about the person who made the allegations. Of course, those accused benefit from this, which is why they resort to the tactic of broadly discrediting the accuser. They selfishly exploit a genuine mistake in a single case to discredit an entire career.
The second issue is different and even more serious. It concerns the manner in which state power is exercised. In a short period of time, various legal and criminal proceedings have piled up against M. Drousiotis. A complaint regarding a publication from four years ago is now being pursued! Even the legitimate effort to raise funds for legal expenses has become the subject of a police investigation. This barrage of prosecutions is reminiscent of authoritarian regimes that seek to crush a troublesome critic.
Decades ago, Malcolm Feeley described a reality of the justice system with the phrase “The Process Is the Punishment.” The very process of prosecution can impose costs long before any final decision is reached, such as financial burden, time, professional damage, social pressure, and the constant need to defend oneself. When multiple prosecution proceedings target the same person at the same time, their cumulative effect takes on enormous institutional significance. Not because every proceeding is necessarily abusive, but because a state governed by the rule of law must also be concerned with the overall effect of the power it exercises.
This is precisely where the government needs to show greater political sensitivity. Invoking legality (“the law is being enforced”) can become a form of hypocrisy—that is, the law is being exploited rather than applied impartially. Citizens see when the state acts swiftly and when it does not, when it activates services and mechanisms and when it does not, when to devise legal tools and when to show resolve, and when not to. Citizens compare this picture with their experience of cases of corruption, public mismanagement, or the accountability of political figures—which often proceed at entirely different paces—and, inevitably, they ask themselves: Why the sudden, concerted action against a specific individual right now? Why does the state selectively wield its immense power?
This comparison is unavoidable. The rule of law also has a temporal dimension. It involves intensity, consistency, and priorities. When a complaint is pursued four years after the fact, the question “why now?” is a reasonable one. It raises legitimate suspicions of ulterior motives. Above all, it demands a convincing institutional response. The more a government asks citizens to trust that the state is impartial, the more it must realize that impartiality is not enough to simply proclaim. It must also be evident that it exists.
This takes on even greater significance when it comes to journalism. Freedom of the press does not mean immunity from the law. No journalist can invoke their public mission to avoid the consequences of false claims, inadequate research, or other violations. The flip side of this principle, however, is that state institutions must exercise their authority with such restraint that accountability does not become a deterrent to everyone else. The question is not merely about what will happen to this particular journalist. It concerns what the next journalist—who wishes to investigate a difficult case involving those in power—will perceive.
In this context, the continued existence in the Cypriot Penal Code of a provision concerning false information capable of undermining “the public’s trust in the state or its institutions.” A similar provision exists in authoritarian regimes such as Erdogan’s. The wording itself warrants political debate. In liberal democracies, trust in the state is not the property of the state. It is the result of citizens’ judgment regarding how the state and its institutions function. It is not effectively protected by criminal provisions but is earned when the state demonstrates that it applies the same rigor, the same speed, and the same measure in all directions—that it is impartial.
That is why the Drousiotis case is of interest beyond the man himself. Any mistakes he has made must be judged strictly, and his actions must be scrutinized, just like everyone else’s. Any credibility he has lost is his own concern. But be careful: if we want to be reasonable and well-meaning democrats who care about the rule of law, there is no reason to turn this loss of credibility into a blanket license to overturn what has already been validly documented, nor to regard the cumulative use of state power against him as irrelevant.
A mature democracy must be able to hold both ideas in mind at the same time. The journalist is accountable for his own credibility. The authorities are accountable for the way in which they use their power.
One does not negate the other.
