Chameleon Magazine

Let’s have a word with the modern reporter who thinks they’re wearing a bulletproof ideology instead of a polyester vest.

You’ve seen them: chest puffed out, microphone in hand, eyes wide with either bravery or delusion. They stand in front of tear gas, crossfire, civil unrest—believing that the word PRESS stitched across their torso grants them not just access, but immunity. As if bullets read. As if chaos checks credentials.

One recently went live on Good Morning Britain and declared, in all seriousness, that American police forces were “targeting him.” Not journalists. Not the press. Him. Personally. Apparently, a badge of journalism now includes clairvoyant victimhood and telepathic ballistics.

Let’s be clear: being a reporter doesn’t mean you’re exempt from danger. It means you’ve chosen to walk into it with a camera instead of a gun. That’s noble. That’s brave. But it doesn’t make you a superhero. Your Kevlar is not ideology. Your notepad is not a shield. And your vest does not repel bullets. It’s there so others might hesitate—not so you can grandstand like you’re invincible.

What we’re witnessing isn’t courage anymore. It’s cosplay journalism. Performance masquerading as presence. Reporters placing themselves in front of conflict like they’re embedded in Call of Duty, forgetting that real life doesn’t come with respawns.

Worse still, they’re rewriting the narrative—positioning themselves as protagonists in a story that isn’t about them. The job is to report the story, not to become the story. That’s what the spotlight is for. Not the field.

So to every reporter who thinks a press vest is a Superman cape: step back. Relearn the difference between bravery and vanity. And maybe—just maybe—stop thinking the bullet owes you professional courtesy.

You’re not invincible. You’re visible. Act like it.

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Chameleon

Insight wrapped in satire, served in a whiskey glass.