On 22 July 2011, Norway suffered its darkest day since the Second World War. Seventy-seven people were murdered in Oslo and on Utøya by Anders Behring Breivik.

Just a week ago the 15th anniversary of the traumatic event was commemorated in Norway. The whole nation was mourning.

The lawyer who defended him was Geir Lippestad, a high-profile and respected lawyer, also a distinguished politician in Norway’s Labour Party. He was criticized at first for accepting the case, but his answer was simple:

“No matter what actions a person is charged with having done, everyone is entitled to a defense.”

I agree. It is one of the foundations of a democratic society.

In fact, many lawyers have earned respect precisely because they were willing to defend the most hated people imaginable.

So here comes the paradox.

In my own profession, the logic is almost the opposite.

Crisis advisers are expected to remain invisible, even when we represent decent people caught in extraordinary circumstances. Most of the time, our anonymity is appropriate. We are there to help clients explain themselves, prepare for interviews and communicate with those affected. The story is not about us. No need for us to step into the limelight.

But there are moments when silence comes at a price.

A courtroom is governed by rules. Evidence is tested. Both sides are heard before judgment is passed. Of course, the system sometimes fails and innocent people are convicted. But still: there are rules.

A media crisis that escalates into a feeding frenzy or trial by media is very different. It gets ugly. It gets aggressive. When I lecture at the University of Gothenburg, I often use the expression The Public Pillory (see footnote). I describe it as a modern version of the medieval pillory, with a distinct ’hang them high’ atmosphere.

Why do we instinctively defend the right to legal representation, yet become suspicious of anyone who publicly defends a person already condemned in the court of public opinion?

During the MeToo movement I turned down assignments because I feared that simply representing certain clients would damage my own credibility. I am not proud of that decision.

I accepted one case because I knew the client was innocent, and together we cleared his name.

How many lawyers could make a living if they accepted only clients they personally knew were innocent? Really..?

I usually get one objection from my students: “But you defend only people who can afford it. The right to legal defense is for everyone. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided.”

My answer is always the same: You are right, there is a difference. But the average person is seldom exposed and hunted by the media. Even when someone has committed a serious crime, they remain anonymous (at least in Sweden) until convicted.

The people who most often end up in the Public Pillory are public figures, business leaders or organisations exposed to relentless scrutiny for moral and ethical reasons. Some have even been acquitted in court.

In my previous newsletter I wrote: “For me and for my clients, the media becomes the enemy only when it starts playing dirty.”

At those moments I sometimes want to step forward from the shadows. My presence on social media is significant, and if I criticize traditional media I have a highly qualified audience.

Right now I am advising a client who is being treated very unfairly by an influential news organisation. If I publicly exposed what I believe is journalism that has stopped playing fair, many in the traditional media establishment would dismiss my arguments before hearing them:

“Of course you say that. You’re paid.”

Curiously, no one reacts the same way when a lawyer insists that a client has been wrongly accused. And that lawyer is probably even better paid than I am.

That question has stayed with me ever since I became a crisis management consultant.

Perhaps one day I will decide that defending clients against the Public Pillory sometimes requires stepping into it myself. Someone has to break the tradition of remaining in the shadows. With the client’s consent, it might as well be me.

Footnote

The Public Pillory is my own expression.

Wikipedia describes the medieval pillory as a wooden or metal framework erected on a post, with holes for securing the head and hands. It was used during the medieval and Renaissance periods for punishment through public humiliation and often further physical abuse.

The medieval pillory was limited in both time and place.

The Public Pillory is not. Once a feeding frenzy or trial by media has begun, the punishment can continue indefinitely, depending on the severity of the crisis.

Paul Ronge

(First published  in my LinkedIn Newsletter on July 28, 2026)

I love the media.

Ever since 1975, when I received my first press card from the Swedish Union of Journalists, I have lived in, with and by the media. It has shaped my entire professional life. And when I changed sides in 1998 to become a media trainer, communications adviser and crisis management consultant, I brought one insight with me that has proved invaluable:

It is rarely personal when the media comes after you for something you have done and you find yourself at the centre of a media storm.

I have been the news hunter. I know the excitement—even the taste of blood—when a powerful person who has failed is forced to resign.

But personal?

What hunter hates the moose he brings down?

For the person under scrutiny, however, it is deeply personal.

Reporters camp outside your home and workplace. Your phone vibrates endlessly with text messages. Relatives and friends are contacted in the search for new angles. Colleagues and employees begin looking at you differently.

Isolation. Powerlessness.

A crisis awakens every instinct we once needed to survive on the savannah: self-preservation, fear, aggression, the desire for revenge, conspiracy theories—everything our reptilian brain still carries within it.

My principal strategy, whenever I am brought into a crisis, is to persuade my client to climb out of the trench and, as quickly as possible, dare to ask one simple question together with me:

Where are our critics right?

When that happens, the entire mindset changes. Only then can we begin working according to a model.

First, analyse the situation without blinders or defensive reflexes.

Second, correct what can actually be corrected in the short term.

Third, explain to everyone who matters what happened and what has been done about it. Accept responsibility. Be honest about what resulted from your own mistakes and what other circumstances contributed to the crisis.

Fourth, journalists will inevitably ask what you are doing to prevent a similar crisis from happening again. You should have thoughtful answers ready.

Throughout these stages, you also need a strategy that allows you to keep working without being constantly distracted by media attention and endless conversations with external stakeholders.

I often compare the situation to an old Western film, where you are forced to dance while bullets strike the ground around your feet.

If the crisis is prolonged and becomes utterly devastating—like BP’s Deepwater Horizon disaster in the Gulf of Mexico in 2010—this approach naturally has its limits. When oil continues pouring into the sea for almost five months—152 days—you cannot simply move on.

But when a crisis is handled the way Ericsson handled one in May 2008, it works.

A television investigation revealed shocking images showing children dismantling discarded mobile phone batteries for a local subcontractor in Bangladesh. They were handling sulphuric acid and lead without any protective equipment.

Ericsson immediately terminated the relationship with the supplier. More remarkably, the company almost expressed gratitude to the media. Even a global corporation cannot have eyes everywhere or ensure that every supplier always complies with its Code of Conduct.

Critical journalism is not only of immeasurable value to democracy. With the right mindset, it can also help companies and organisations become better.

In crisis management, I try to avoid words such as always and never.

“Always be transparent.” “Always put all your cards on the table.” Advice like that tends to force creative thinking into a straitjacket.

The media is like the weather. You have to dress for the conditions. Shaking your fist at the storm rarely achieves anything.

In the middle of a crisis, I often use another metaphor.

We are all raw material in the media industry, much like the logs delivered to a paper mill. We come out as fine writing paper, ordinary printing paper—or toilet paper.

In other words, we emerge as the hero, the victim, the expert—or the villain.

Whatever role we are assigned, our task is always the same: present our strongest arguments and display our best behaviour as guests in the journalist’s story.

But when does the media actually become the enemy?

For Donald Trump—and for a growing number of political leaders around the world who have realised that his tactics can be effective—the media becomes the enemy the moment it asks uncomfortable questions. Then it is labelled “woke”, “fake news”, malicious, irresponsible and anti-society.

For me and for my clients, the media becomes the enemy only when it starts playing dirty.

I am reminded of Argentina’s national football team, whose rough play and aggressive behaviour against Spain continued even after the referee had blown the final whistle. They damaged their reputation totally.

As I wrote at the beginning, it is very rarely personal when journalists pursue you. But for the reporter—and for the media organisation—professional recognition often depends on claiming a scalp. Someone has to resign. Someone has to fall.

However, If crisis management succeeds, my client may escape with nothing worse than a black eye, a split lip and an expensive lesson.

For some, that is not enough. The pursuit continues long after any reasonable news value has disappeared. At that point, journalism begins to resemble a vendetta.

That is when the media becomes the enemy.

And over the years, that is precisely when I have been forced to expand my own crisis management toolbox and develop new strategies.

Paul Ronge

(Published as my first newsletter in English at LinkedIn 22 July)

Vad har Mick Jagger och Jan Guillou gemensamt? Jo, de är båda män, 82 år och fortfarande i högsta grad relevanta.

I helgen läste jag en intervju med Jan Guillou och lyssnade på Mick Jagger i New York Times podd The Interview. De är ju samtidigt två personligheter som knappast kunde vara mer olika.

Guillou rör sig med käpp och saknar sina promenader i skogen. Han säger att han tänker långsammare, men inte nödvändigtvis dummare. Det är en underdrift. Guillou är mer skärpt än någonsin, vilket han visar i intervjun. Den är, enligt min mening full av sådana nyanser och kontraster som kommer med lång erfarenhet och självdistans. Att jag ofta inte håller med honom, till exempel om den synen på den militanta islamismen, ger bara en extra krydda i att läsa honom.

Jagger pratar om sitt jobb på ett sätt som kan vara en delförklaring till varför han inte har blivit patetisk. Egentligen helt ofattbart. En 82-åring som studsar omkring på scenen och sjunger om sinnlig sex!

Han beskriver hur han kliver in och ur rollen som rockstjärna, ungefär som en skådespelare. Han talar med humor, självdistans och nyfikenhet. Det är en kille, sju år äldre än jag, som jag kan föreställa mig i tweed och fluga på en engelsk pub och gärna skulle ta en öl med. En belevad gentleman.

Han säger i intervjun att för en 25-30-årig rockstjärna är det svårare. Man känner att man dygnet runt måste leva upp till myten. Det är då inte konstigt att så många talanger, som Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin och Amy Winehouse dog vid 27.Jagger är, precis som Paul MCartney 84, en av pop-och rockmusikens överlevare och de har bara blivit klokare med åren.

Jag tror både Jagger och Guillou är bevis på en klyscha som råkar vara helt rätt: En del människor åldras som ädelt vin.

De har också något gemensamt med mig, som leder in till några tankar om ålderism: Vi är alla tre selfmade och entreprenörer, även om de förstås spelar i en egen liga. Ingen av oss behöver be någon om lov för att få fortsätta arbeta och de båda herrarna behöver absolut inte tjäna mer pengar. De kan vara uppkäftiga som tonåringar.

Guillou vägrar att acceptera att han skulle vara en manschauvinistisk stofil därför att han går i polemik med någon gång kan vara yngre kvinnor. Han säger: ”Det är fusk att komma och säga, ”det där säger du bara för att jag är ung kvinna. Nej! Du är kollega, din jävel!”

Han har en lång historia av strid med Expressen och jag citerar ett stycke ur SvD-artikeln:

”Häromveckan skrev biträdande chefredaktören Karin Olsson att hon hoppas att jag ska dö…?

Han stannar upp en stund, ser smått förfärad ut.

– Eller åtminstone drabbas av demens. Eftersom Aftonbladet inte har vett att tysta mig. Hoppas att jag ska dö? Inte ens Sverigedemokraterna jag har i mejlen vågar skriva det.

Han syftar på en text i höstas där Olsson skrev: ”Det är nog bara döden, demens eller möjligen hans fru, den osentimentala förläggaren Ann-Marie Skarp, som kan stoppa honom från att fortsätta baktala kvinnliga grävjournalister. Låt oss hoppas på det senare.”

Kampen mot ålderismen och föraktet mor äldre är oerhört viktig och jag tycker John Mellkvist är en av Sveriges viktigaste lobbyister som så hårt drivit den.

En gång skrev till exempel Karin Olsson om mig i en artikel med rubriken ”Goda råd är inte dyra, strunta i PR-konsulten”:

”Som intäkt för sin analys hänvisade han till när han jobbade på Aftonbladet och Expressen. Det var så länge sedan att jag undrar om det första sms:et i världen hade skickats då.”

Lite hedrande är det ju att hamna i samma ”stofil-garderob” som Jan Guillou.

Jag tänker fortsätta utveckla mig. Ungdomlig snabbhet som ibland ställde till det för mig ersätter jag numera oftare med ”hellre långsamt och rätt än fort och fel”. Jag får fortfarande de mest häftiga krisuppdrag och tänker ofta efteråt som min barndoms favoritdetektiv Ture Sventon alltid uttryckte det: ”Ett intressant fall på det hela taget”.

Jan Guillou vill att hans fru ska säga till om han börjar bli gaggig och jag har bett min kära fru om samma sak. Men annars tänker jag hålla på tills de bär ut mig med fötterna före.

Paul Ronge

(Publicerad på LinkedIn som Nyhetsbrev 2)