From media polarisation and falling subscriptions to fake news and the threat of artificial intelligence, the challenges facing journalism are a familiar topic to anyone who, well, follows the news. Even in Germany, where it is still common practice to flip through a broadsheet every morning, many major newsrooms are going through rounds of layoffs. But the country’s capital is also home to a new bastion of optimism named Publix. Located on Hermannstrasse, a hectic street in the Neukölln neighbourhood of Berlin, this hack’s haven is an institution entirely dedicated to journalists and pro-democracy organisations. 

“This is a kind of editorial utopia,” says Maria Exner, director of Publix, as she greets monocle on a sunny Monday morning. In the glass-walled foyer of the building, which opened last September, a barista is making espressos while tables are occupied by people tapping away on laptops. A wide wooden staircase, which doubles as a stage during panel talks and readings, leads to the upper floors. Here, a badge is needed to enter: the first floor is a co-working space for media professionals, with fees starting at €179 per month, while the four storeys above host permanent offices for organisations including Reporters Without Borders and investigative outlet Correctiv. 

Publix is the initiative of the Lörrach-based Schöpflin Foundation, a low-profile but deep-pocketed philanthropic organisation. Founded by entrepreneur and investor Hans Schöpflin, it has long been a funder of local and start-up journalism in Germany. The idea for a physical space came from seeing how many Berlin-based organisations were struggling in the city’s tight property market. “Many would have to move offices every year, or even several times a year,” says Exner. When a partly disused cemetery on Hermannstrasse chose to sell a part of its land to the non-profit initiative, the idea grew in scope, expanding to co-working spaces and public programming.

“We always said that this is a building without a model,” says Ulrike Dix, a partner at AFF, the architecture practice behind the design. Indeed, there are similar journalists’ houses elsewhere but none have the size or scope of Publix. To figure out the building’s needs, the team set up a panel with its future tenants to steer the planning process. But the board made few design demands, mostly stressing the need for secure computer systems and data storage. “Journalists are used to working anywhere,” says Dix. “They’re not used to thinking of their needs in terms of architecture.” Exner, who was previously editor-in-chief at Zeit Magazin, chimes in. “When we started a podcast [before the Publix outpost was built], we set up our first studio in an old server room,” she says, laughing. 

Despite the relaxed brief, the architects delivered something remarkable. The six-storey building makes the most of its slim site: with a busy street on one side and a lush park on the other. There are floor-to-ceiling windows throughout that bathe the building in light. “We wanted to create a sense of transparency,” says Dix. Tenants have open-plan offices and plenty of meeting rooms – named after activists and journalists such as Alexei Navalny and Letizia Battaglia – all in a simple palette of raw concrete, galvanised steel and Douglas fir. “We didn’t look to co-working spaces that are furnished like a home,” says Dix. “We wanted this to feel like a workshop for journalism.” Naturally, there are audio and film studios that are used by tenants and can be rented. 

The safety demands of the tenants turned out to be no exaggeration. In January 2024, only a few months before moving into their new offices, Correctiv published an exposé of a secret conference in Potsdam that plotted the “remigration” of people with foreign backgrounds. The bombshell report led to both protests in opposition to the rising far right in Germany and a wave of lawsuits and harassment against Correctiv. “There were people standing outside our offices, filming,” says co-editor-in-chief Justus von Daniels. Once they moved into Publix, that became more difficult: the offices are tucked away behind multiple locked doors. “Here, we had the fortune to decide what kind of offices we wanted.” 

Publix has opened to high demand. There are already more than 400 registered tenants, though, according to Exner, “nobody comes in every day”. The journalists have done far-reaching work: editor Tobias Haberkorn got a new magazine, the Berlin Review, off the ground thanks to the support of the Publix fellowship, while the first documentary partly filmed at the building, about the German pension system, aired in January on public-service broadcaster ZDF. Exner is now focused on establishing Publix as an international hub for the future of journalism and public discourse. “My hope is that the organisations inside this building take really novel, experimental approaches to editorial work,” she says. Exner lists AI-generated headlines, low media literacy and the fragmentation of news media as just some of the looming threats to journalism, though Germany has, so far, been less affected by these than other countries. “Luckily, Germany tends to be 10 years behind other countries,” says Exner. With Publix, it is suddenly setting an example.
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