By Addy Rossi
Every time a new technological tool appears, journalism receives its death certificate. It happened with radio, with television, with the internet, with social media… Today it’s Artificial Intelligence’s (AI) turn.
AI writes correct texts, summarizes reports, translates technical documents, and processes volumes of information that no human being could handle alone. In agricultural journalism, it can also explain a forage balance, interpret a table of international prices, or transform a scientific paper into a readable article. All of that is real. And useful.
But there is something that AI cannot do. –Several things, actually–. And therein lies the heart of the profession.
AI doesn’t set foot in the fields.
It doesn’t walk across a flooded plot after a late rain, it doesn’t look a farmer in the eye who lost their harvest to frost, it doesn’t perceive the awkward silence before an evasive answer. Agricultural journalism isn’t built on data alone: it’s built on presence. Being there remains irreplaceable.
AI doesn’t understand the human context of agriculture.
It can describe a drought, but it doesn’t grasp what a third consecutive drought means for a rural family. It can explain health regulations, but it can’t anticipate how they will impact a small producer, a cooperative, or a regional economy. Agriculture is not just production: it’s culture, identity, history, and social tension.
AI doesn’t ask uncomfortable questions.
It responds to what it’s told. Journalists, on the other hand, doubt, distrust, and persist. They ask what no one wants to answer and ask again when the answer doesn’t quite add up. Agricultural journalism plays a key role as a critical mediator between the agricultural sector, the government, industry, science, and urban society. That discomfort is part of public service.
AI doesn’t build trust.
In agriculture, a person’s word is their bond. Sources speak because they know the journalist, because they know who they are, how they work, and what they’ll do with the information. That relationship is built over years of consistency, not with algorithms. Without trust, journalism is impossible.
AI assumes no responsibility.
A journalist signs what they publish. They answer for errors, interpret consequences, and measure impacts. AI has no professional ethics, no social responsibility, and no commitment to a productive community. It simply executes.
AI doesn’t tell meaningful stories.
It can organize facts, but it can’t choose which story deserves to be told and why. Agricultural journalism isn’t just about yields, prices, or technologies: it’s about the people who produce food under complex conditions, often invisible to urban society. Giving them a voice is an editorial decision, not a statistical calculation.
Artificial intelligence is here to stay. It will be a formidable tool for agricultural journalism, just as computers, the internet, and cell phones were. But to confuse a tool with a replacement is to misunderstand both the technology and the profession.
In an increasingly automated world, the value of the agricultural journalist doesn’t diminish; it becomes more evident. Because when everything can be generated, what truly matters is interpreting, contextualizing, asking questions, and being present.
And that, for now—and fortunately—remains profoundly human.