Editorial Note: The following article is based on an interview conducted by Freddie Sayers with Stephen Sackur, the iconic host of BBC’s HARDtalk, to discuss the shocking closure of the long-running show after nearly three decades. In this candid conversation, Sackur reflects on his career, the state of the BBC, and the ideological currents shaping the future of British journalism.
In a seismic shift within the BBC, one of its most revered and confronting programs, HARDtalk, is coming to an end after almost three decades. Hosted by the unflinching and highly regarded Stephen Sackur, the show has become synonymous with in-depth interviews that didn’t shy away from difficult questions, no matter how controversial or high-profile the interviewee. The abrupt closure of the show has shocked audiences, raising questions not only about the changing media landscape but also about the BBC’s direction in the 21st century. In an exclusive conversation with Freddie Sayers, Sackur sheds light on the inner workings of the BBC, the ethical minefields of journalism, and the decline of trust in the media, revealing an unsettling picture of the institution he has devoted his career to.
“I’m not a typical BBC representative,” Sackur states, challenging the assumption that he embodies the broadcaster’s liberal or “woke” stance. In a landscape where the BBC is often painted as a bastion of left-wing thinking, Sackur insists on the need to move beyond sweeping generalisations. “I know a lot of people at the BBC—some of whom fit that description, and some who don’t. The BBC is a large organisation, with a variety of output and content, and it’s lazy and simplistic to say otherwise.”
This candid reflection exposes a much deeper tension within the BBC. While many view it as a liberal stronghold, Sackur argues that this perception is unfair. The BBC, in its ambition to reflect all corners of society, is often accused of ideological bias, but Sackur suggests it’s more complex than that. “Rather than take a one-size-fits-all view of the BBC, it’s more sensible to look at its output as it is,” he says. “Judge my show on what we actually did.”
The closure of HARDtalk, Sackur’s flagship program, is more than just a personal loss. It represents a shift in the BBC’s broader strategy. With the rise of online platforms, constant scrutiny of public service broadcasting, and growing political pressures, the BBC is undergoing a transformation that is felt by Sackur deeply. Yet, there’s a sense that HARDtalk was axed not only because of a shifting editorial agenda but due to an ongoing debate about the value of journalistic integrity in today’s world.
Perhaps most controversially, Sackur addresses the BBC’s recent ventures, like BBC Verify, an initiative designed to build trust by fact-checking and verifying content. Sackur, though not dismissing its goal, is unequivocal in his stance on the matter. “I never needed a badge or a label, you know, saying ‘verified’ on any of the journalism I did,” he argues. “From the very beginning of my career, I didn’t go to air with things or even say things unless I could back them up with evidence.” For Sackur, the idea that verification requires an external body rather than relying on the integrity of the journalist feels like an unnecessary dilution of trust.
“I didn’t need a label,” he adds firmly. “Every journalist should do their own fact-checking.” This attitude reflects not just his personal ethos but a broader critique of modern-day journalistic practices, which, according to him, seem increasingly obsessed with external validation rather than trusting in the skills and integrity of seasoned reporters. “Every journalist should do their own fact-checking,” he reiterates, rejecting the notion that internal fact-checking services like BBC Verify are necessary.
This internal tug-of-war over editorial content is evident in how the BBC has allocated its resources. Sackur points to BBC Verify, which he claims has already made significant errors, calling into question its credibility. “It seems ideological,” he says, his disapproval palpable. “It seems like getting way over its skis for something like the BBC. It’s beyond just journalism.” For Sackur, the programme feels like a distraction, veering away from the core values that once made the BBC a symbol of journalistic excellence.
The discussion quickly shifts to the BBC’s role in shaping public discourse. Sackur, who has made a career out of challenging power and authority, emphasises that the BBC should not shy away from controversy. “I want people to judge me on the interviews I conducted, on the substance of what we explored,” he says. However, when asked about the direction in which the BBC is heading, his tone turns more reflective, almost resigned. “If they’re taking money out of things like HARDtalk, where is it going to?” he asks. The implicit question is not only about the show’s closure but also about the BBC’s priorities in an era where trust in journalism is at an all-time low.
Sackur is candid about the decline of public trust in journalism, and the BBC is no exception. “They’ve looked at all of the metrics and data,” he explains. “Public trust in journalism is in decline, and they felt that something like Verify would be a way of addressing that.” However, Sackur remains unconvinced that a fact-checking programme is the solution. The rise of social media, disinformation, and political polarisation has shattered the public’s faith in the media, and Sackur believes that the BBC’s emphasis on verifiable facts might only serve to reinforce a cycle of distrust.
But it’s not all pessimism. Sackur’s legacy is defined by his ability to navigate complex moral and political landscapes. His interviews, which often feature controversial figures, demonstrate an impressive capacity for empathy and insight. When asked about interviews that changed his perspective, Sackur recalls a series of conversations with world leaders, each more complex than the last. One particularly striking example is his interviews with Paul Kagame, the president of Rwanda. “He’s transformed his country in very positive ways,” Sackur notes. “He’s delivered on incredible infrastructure projects, but at the same time, he runs a system which is repressive.”
Kagame is a figure Sackur describes as both a visionary and a tyrant. “He’s one of the African leaders who truly has delivered a cleaner, better, less corrupt form of governance,” Sackur says. “But he also is intolerant of dissent.” The duality in Kagame’s leadership reflects the broader tensions that Sackur faces in his interviews: the balancing act between recognising achievements and acknowledging flaws.
But Sackur’s ability to look beyond black-and-white assessments is one of his most valuable attributes as a journalist. In his interview with Teodoro Obiang, the long-serving dictator of Equatorial Guinea, Sackur’s discomfort with the regime is palpable. “I came away with a feeling this guy’s venal, corrupt and a wrong’un,” he says of Obiang. “The whole atmosphere in one of his many presidential palaces was ringed with sycophants and cabinet ministers.” The juxtaposition of the grand opulence of Obiang’s palace with the grinding poverty of his people left Sackur with a clear moral judgment: “A wrong’un,” he repeats, unambiguously.
Sackur’s ability to discern the moral character of political figures is something he continues to rely on in his analysis. His view of Sergey Lavrov, Russia’s foreign minister, is just as sharp. “Extremely skilled diplomat, incredibly loyal to Putin,” Sackur says, describing Lavrov as someone who is “not interested in the truth” but is loyal to the Kremlin line. Despite this, Sackur admits that Lavrov’s skill in negotiation is undeniable. “He’s a great representative of the Putin regime,” he says. This dissection of Lavrov is more than a critique of an individual; it is an insightful analysis of the larger political machinations in which Lavrov operates.
The conversation then takes an unexpected turn, with Sackur contemplating the shifting dynamics of global diplomacy. “If you put Zelensky and his team against Putin, Lavrov, and their team, who is more skilled?” Sackur muses. He contrasts the intellectual agility of the Ukrainian leadership with the entrenched positions of the Russian side. But rather than offer a simple answer, Sackur notes that “it really depends on who has the leverage, who’s got the cards,” reflecting the cold realities of power politics. The question itself, though, underscores the complexity Sackur navigates in his interviews, where moral clarity often gives way to the harsh realities of geopolitics.
As Sackur’s career comes to a close with HARDtalk, the broader questions about the BBC, journalism, and the role of public service broadcasting in the modern age remain unresolved. For Sackur, however, the focus remains clear: “Judge me on what I’ve done.” His appeal is not just to the audience but to the institution he’s spent a lifetime serving. The BBC’s move away from HARDtalk represents not just the death of a program, but the fading of an era of unflinching, no-holds-barred journalism.
In Sackur’s own words, “I didn’t need a badge.” His legacy will not be defined by any external validation but by the integrity of his work and his unwavering commitment to seeking the truth, no matter how uncomfortable it may be. The BBC may be changing, but Stephen Sackur’s influence on the world of journalism, and on those who watched HARDtalk, is unmistakable.
