Reflection on Jason Arday’s Death

It’s really hard to wrap my head around it. I just… didn’t want Jason Arday to die.

A week ago, just three days before his passing in his London home, I wrote a piece. In it, I shared what I thought might be a joke or maybe even a hoax theory that Arday was a clever trickster. Someone who could exploit the liberal system to feed into racial and ideological fears. It was all, I guess, a rather humorous take, but looking back, perhaps it was insensitive, almost cruel.

Was no one listening, no one checking? That nagging question still lingers. People should’ve intervened sooner.

I thought, maybe, one day he’d write a book titled “I thought you would believe in me.” I wanted to see that book materialize, not an obituary.

This week, Graham Wood presented a compelling argument in a piece suggesting that my trickster notion could have been overly charitable. Arday, it appears, didn’t take the revelations seriously; he simply observed as the fraudster was apprehended, asserting his truthfulness. Wood’s perspective draws from Henrik Ibsen’s “The Wild Duck,” discussing the idea of self-delusion and the lies one tells themselves until they can no longer see the truth.

Could that be the case here? Maybe we will never truly know.

One thing is clear: Arday was dishonest. His public persona is marred by false claims regarding academic roles, fundraising successes, and remarkable athletic accomplishments. Many assertions proved to be dubious or outright unverified. He even used extensive passages from lesser-known scholars in his academic work. Ultimately, Cambridge began investigating his qualifications, leading to an independent inquiry after his resignation.

The web of deceit seemed endless.

But it’s not only about Arday; it reflects a broader issue of accountability for those exposed.

Ibram X. Kendi recently responded to the media’s scrutiny, asserting that Arday was lynched by journalism. His argument suggested that the media’s investigation into Arday was an abandonment of a prominent Black figure under racial duress. But, frankly, I think he missed the mark.

Calling it “lynching” trivializes the term. Reporting true information, however uncomfortable, is not akin to committing murder simply because the subject passes away.

What were reporters supposed to overlook? False narratives around fundraising? The anecdote of running 30 marathons in 35 days? Or perhaps fabricated accounts of racial attacks? A memoir?

The waves of grief resonated as thousands gathered in Trafalgar Square to pay homage to Arday. There was genuine sorrow—mirrored with a shared frustration directed towards the media and society at large. Academics like Nathan Kofnas, who played a role in revealing Arday’s fabrications, sparked a significant ripple. Kofnas has, admittedly, polarizing views on race, but that shouldn’t detract from the validity of his findings.

This has become a classic evasion tactic. Instead of addressing the evidence, the discourse shifts to discrediting those who reveal it.

It’s now quite concerning that a petition, termed “Arday’s Law,” is circulating in the UK. It aims to restrict the number of articles published about a person over a set timeframe, rooted in the belief that excessive coverage can cause psychological harm. As of now, it has garnered over 3,500 signatures.

Government-imposed limitations on journalism? It raises a lot of eyebrows.

I sometimes wonder if this trend will spiral out of control, leading us to a darker place. Thank goodness for the First Amendment!

The concern didn’t arise without reason. We’ve spent years promoting the idea that words can inflict harm, suggesting the media has an obligation to shield vulnerable individuals.

Yet, is there any space that can be deemed completely safe?

When dialogue is deemed violent, censorship manifests as “protection.” We’ve seen this mentality permeate beyond college campuses. Journalists are loaded with questions, and as many outlets disseminate their findings, some individuals suffer. Where do we draw the line?

This isn’t what liberalism represents. Genuine liberalism demands a tougher balance. While we acknowledge that free speech can offend, discomfort, or harm, allowing the government to dictate acceptable discourse is, well, far more dangerous.

If we’re examining who brought Arday down, it makes sense to scrutinize the institutions that initially elevated him.

Wood presents a compelling argument that Arday was placed in circumstances where evidence favoured exposing his unpreparedness. Institutions like Cambridge and media outlets amplified his narrative without thoroughly vetting the facts. Eventually, someone took notice.

In hindsight, was there any hope for correction? It seems that, sadly, very few noticed until it was too late.

Upon hearing of Arday’s death, I was struck by a feeling that echoed the age-old myth of Hubris meeting Nemesis. But the conclusions of such tales don’t guarantee justice.

Arday didn’t get what he ‘deserved.’ It’s not that simple. Tragedy, in the classical sense, doesn’t always equate to a measure of justice; it often underscores a failing that’s recognized too late. The outcome becomes worse than anyone could have anticipated.

Both his family and friends have our sympathy, particularly his children who have lost someone dear.

Yet compassion shouldn’t be code for falsehoods.

Just because someone dies, it doesn’t validate their lies. Being dishonest doesn’t absolve one of accountability. Moreover, even if Arday took his life, that alone doesn’t make anyone who reported on him a murderer.

The tragedy stands on its own. Let’s not distort that reality.