Editing the present for the future: Who gets to decide what we remember?

A young South African wakes up in the morning and reaches for their phone before their feet touch the floor. Within minutes, they have watched a video from an American influencer, laughed at a meme created in Nigeria, listened to a podcast produced in London, argued about politics on X, and consumed news summarised by a TikTok creator they have never met. By the time they arrive at work or university, they feel informed, connected and up to date with the world.

But pause for a moment and ask a simple question: Who decided what appeared on that screen?

Most people believe they are choosing what they consume. We choose who to follow, which videos to watch and which stories to read. Yet every choice takes place within a larger process of selection. Some stories rise to the surface. Others disappear. Some voices become part of a national conversation. Others remain unheard despite saying equally important things. We often imagine that information simply arrives before us. In reality, information is constantly being organised, prioritised and filtered long before it reaches our attention.

This is not necessarily sinister. In fact, it is unavoidable.

No society can pay attention to everything at once.

Every day, journalists decide which stories will lead a bulletin. Producers decide which interviews make it to air. Editors decide which headlines deserve prominence. Social media platforms decide which content is recommended to millions of users. Even ordinary people do it when they choose one photograph to post and leave the other hundred in their camera roll. The act of selection is built into communication itself.

Who gets to decide what we remember?

The idea first crystallised for me earlier this year while speaking to students. In February, I addressed students at the Eduvos Bedfordview campus, and in March I had the opportunity to continue the conversation with Media and Communications students at the University of Johannesburg. The discussion centred on a deceptively simple question: Who gets to decide what we remember?

What became clear during those engagements was that memory is often mistaken for an objective record of events. It is not. Memory is selective. Families remember certain stories and forget others. Communities preserve particular moments and allow others to fade. Nations do exactly the same thing. The media, in all its forms, plays a profound role in that process. Every headline, every bulletin, every podcast episode, every documentary and every trending topic contributes to the construction of a public memory that future generations will inherit.

Yet it is precisely because selection is necessary that it becomes powerful.

Take SA in 2026. Much of the national conversation has been shaped by the March and March protests and the fierce debates surrounding immigration, citizenship and belonging. For weeks, images of demonstrations, speeches and public reactions have dominated timelines, talk shows and news bulletins. These events have become part of our collective consciousness because they have captured public attention. Years from now, many South Africans will probably remember that these protests occurred, even if they cannot recall every detail.

At the same time, countless other stories have unfolded beyond the national spotlight. Municipal governance challenges, local development initiatives, community-led interventions, school infrastructure projects and grassroots efforts to improve lives have continued across the country. Many of these stories may have lasting consequences for the people directly affected by them. Yet because they do not command the same level of attention, they risk disappearing from the broader national memory.

The same pattern can be observed in the way South Africans have followed the Madlanga Commission. For months, testimony, allegations and revelations have generated headlines and public debate. The commission has become one of the defining politics and crime stories of the year. Future historians looking back at 2026 will almost certainly encounter its proceedings. However, they will encounter them through selected moments: the testimonies that received coverage, the clips that went viral, the exchanges that captured public imagination. Even our understanding of major events is shaped by the parts of the story that receive the greatest visibility.

Globally, a similar process is unfolding through the conflict involving the United States, Israel and Iran. Millions of people are following developments in real time through television broadcasts, online reporting, podcasts, livestreams and social media platforms. Yet very few are experiencing these events directly. Most of us encounter them through fragments: a headline, a video clip, a photograph, a speech, a reposted analysis or a creator’s interpretation. The event itself and our experience of the event are not always the same thing.

Selection is the reality

This is not a criticism of technology, nor is it a criticism of journalism. In truth, neither could function without making choices. A newsroom cannot report every story. An audience cannot consume every piece of information. An algorithm cannot recommend everything simultaneously. Selection is not the problem. Selection is the reality.

The more important question is whether we remain conscious of it.

In an age where information is abundant, visibility has become one of the most valuable forms of power. The stories that receive attention shape public debate. The stories that shape public debate influence policy discussions. The stories that endure become part of history. This process is not controlled by a single institution or a single actor. It emerges from the combined decisions of journalists, editors, producers, platform designers, content creators and audiences themselves.

The future will never remember everything about our present moment. It never could.

What future generations will inherit is a version of our era assembled from archived broadcasts, newspaper reports, podcasts, documentaries, photographs, social media posts and digital records. The year 2026 will survive not as it happened in its entirety, but as it was recorded, shared, discussed and remembered.

That is why the question matters.

Not because someone is secretly controlling the narrative, but because every society must decide, consciously or unconsciously, which stories it carries forward. Long after the hashtags have stopped trending and the headlines have been replaced, what remains are the stories that survived the competition for attention.

And perhaps that is the defining media question of our time: When history looks back at us, whose stories will it find, and whose stories will it never know existed? DM