Conservatives Strike Back: NPR Funding Yanked, Free Speech Battle Erupts in Texas

Paul Riverbank, 12/31/2025NPR funding slashed, newsroom drama, and a Texas free speech battle redefine America's public debate lines.

The fund-slashing move didn’t happen in a vacuum. Behind closed doors, Patricia Harrison — who has led CPB for almost two decades — dialed up the pressure on NPR’s then-CEO, Katherine Maher. “You need to resign,” Harrison insisted, according to people familiar with the tense exchanges, hoping Maher’s withdrawal would appease lawmakers fuming over what they branded as NPR’s partisan slant. Maher refused, scorning the whole narrative of bias.

“She turned down the suggestion outright,” one senior NPR figure told me. Maher felt the organization was under siege for defending its journalism, not for any supposed ideological crusade. Instead of backpedaling, she doubled down, brushing off complaints as political theater — a stance that only further angered her critics.

None of this was abstract. Maher’s public record was ammunition for both sides. In one early interview, she called former President Trump “racist” — a remark replayed, with glee or outrage, on conservative talk radio. But Maher didn’t spare the left: She publicly lambasted Hillary Clinton’s 2016 campaign for using gendered language that, she argued, overlooked non-binary Americans.

If that sounds like someone allergic to easy narratives, it played out with consequences. Internal tension spiked last spring when acclaimed NPR journalist Uri Berliner raised red flags about “blind spots” — not just in coverage of COVID’s origins, the Hunter Biden files, and Gaza but in newsroom culture. Berliner discovered the editorial ranks skewed overwhelmingly Democratic — 87 registered Democrats, not one Republican, as he recounted in a 2021 staff meeting. A few months later, after voicing these complaints, Berliner was suspended. He resigned soon after, charging that NPR was “hostile” to dissent within its own office.

By May, the drama had spilled over to Pennsylvania Avenue. Trump put his signature on an executive order halting all federal funding for NPR and PBS. NPR swung back, slapping the White House and even the CPB with a lawsuit. A drawn-out legal brawl ensued, including court scrambles over control of the Public Radio Satellite System, crucial for delivering shows coast-to-coast. The legal wrangling closed with CPB handing back $36 million to NPR. But by then, it wasn’t just bruises — the CPB, dating to 1967 and the recipient of over $500 million annually, is now scheduled to shut its doors in January. That means the local NPR outpost in, say, rural Montana, faces a world where the tap has simply run dry.

Maher, ever the optimist in the face of adversity, stood firm. She talked up “record donor numbers” and reassured nervous affiliates that there would be $22 million in fresh funds for stations next year. But few, either in the boardrooms or newsrooms, believe that philanthropy can neatly replace the hole left by evaporating federal support.

While lawmakers in D.C. waged war over the future of public media, a very different, equally combustible debate played out in Texas — one pivoting on free speech and the ring of courtroom drama. Here, Michelle Evans, the fiery Republican chair of Williamson County, landed in legal crosshairs for doing what millions of users do daily: reposting something on X, formerly Twitter. In her case, it was a photo of a transgender activist washing their hands in a women’s restroom at the Capitol — a snapshot she did not take, but which she shared as commentary on the gender wars playing out in state politics.

Prosecutors in deep-blue Travis County saw things starkly differently. Invoking a state law that prohibits photographing individuals in bathrooms without express consent, they opened a criminal probe. Evans bristled at the accusation, casting herself as a victim of politically motivated lawfare. “A Soros-backed DA is targeting me for speaking out against gender identity ideology,” she charged, with X’s corporate legal team taking up her cause.

The case quickly became a cause célèbre for First Amendment activists and critics of progressive prosecutors alike. X, in official statements, thundered about “dangerous precedent” and called the Fifth Circuit’s decision to greenlight the investigation a direct threat to protected speech. The company urged a larger panel of judges to intervene. “The First Amendment protects Ms. Evans’ speech,” a spokesperson wrote. Attorneys close to the case point out that the Supreme Court has often sided with speech’s broadest possible definition, though each state line brings its peculiar legal twists.

As Evans waits to see if higher courts will take her appeal, the broader contours of the fight draw increasing attention. On one side, supporters say the prosecution risks chilling political speech on social media platforms. On the other, privacy advocates argue that laws barring surreptitious photography in restrooms serve a necessary purpose, regardless of the motive behind the post.

So here we are, ending the year with two parallel struggles — both rooted in deeper anxieties over who controls public conversation and what counts as fair discourse. As Congress dissolves funding for decades-old media institutions, old certainties about nonpartisanship and mission tumble. Down in Texas, meanwhile, the lines between commentary, privacy, and criminality blur in a social-media age, leaving the courts to sort fact from polemic.

One veteran media executive sums up the mood, “It’s not just about funding or one person’s tweet — it’s about who decides the boundaries for public debate. And right now, nobody agrees where those lines should run.” With lawsuits still pending and the ground still shifting, the battle over speech — both online and on-air — looks set to shape American public life for years to come.

This year, public radio found itself in the middle of a storm that nobody in Washington could ignore. Sparks flew as congressional leaders, led by a reinvigorated push from Republicans and, notably, support from President Trump, carved $1.1 billion from the public media purse. The cuts zeroed in on both NPR and the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, threatening the very backbone of national and local broadcasting.The fund-slashing move didn’t happen in a vacuum. Behind closed doors, Patricia Harrison — who has led CPB for almost two decades — dialed up the pressure on NPR’s then-CEO, Katherine Maher. “You need to resign,” Harrison insisted, according to people familiar with the tense exchanges, hoping Maher’s withdrawal would appease lawmakers fuming over what they branded as NPR’s partisan slant. Maher refused, scorning the whole narrative of bias.“She turned down the suggestion outright,” one senior NPR figure told me. Maher felt the organization was under siege for defending its journalism, not for any supposed ideological crusade. Instead of backpedaling, she doubled down, brushing off complaints as political theater — a stance that only further angered her critics.None of this was abstract. Maher’s public record was ammunition for both sides. In one early interview, she called former President Trump “racist” — a remark replayed, with glee or outrage, on conservative talk radio. But Maher didn’t spare the left: She publicly lambasted Hillary Clinton’s 2016 campaign for using gendered language that, she argued, overlooked non-binary Americans.If that sounds like someone allergic to easy narratives, it played out with consequences. Internal tension spiked last spring when acclaimed NPR journalist Uri Berliner raised red flags about “blind spots” — not just in coverage of COVID’s origins, the Hunter Biden files, and Gaza but in newsroom culture. Berliner discovered the editorial ranks skewed overwhelmingly Democratic — 87 registered Democrats, not one Republican, as he recounted in a 2021 staff meeting. A few months later, after voicing these complaints, Berliner was suspended. He resigned soon after, charging that NPR was “hostile” to dissent within its own office.By May, the drama had spilled over to Pennsylvania Avenue. Trump put his signature on an executive order halting all federal funding for NPR and PBS. NPR swung back, slapping the White House and even the CPB with a lawsuit. A drawn-out legal brawl ensued, including court scrambles over control of the Public Radio Satellite System, crucial for delivering shows coast-to-coast. The legal wrangling closed with CPB handing back $36 million to NPR. But by then, it wasn’t just bruises — the CPB, dating to 1967 and the recipient of over $500 million annually, is now scheduled to shut its doors in January. That means the local NPR outpost in, say, rural Montana, faces a world where the tap has simply run dry.Maher, ever the optimist in the face of adversity, stood firm. She talked up “record donor numbers” and reassured nervous affiliates that there would be $22 million in fresh funds for stations next year. But few, either in the boardrooms or newsrooms, believe that philanthropy can neatly replace the hole left by evaporating federal support.While lawmakers in D.C. waged war over the future of public media, a very different, equally combustible debate played out in Texas — one pivoting on free speech and the ring of courtroom drama. Here, Michelle Evans, the fiery Republican chair of Williamson County, landed in legal crosshairs for doing what millions of users do daily: reposting something on X, formerly Twitter. In her case, it was a photo of a transgender activist washing their hands in a women’s restroom at the Capitol — a snapshot she did not take, but which she shared as commentary on the gender wars playing out in state politics.Prosecutors in deep-blue Travis County saw things starkly differently. Invoking a state law that prohibits photographing individuals in bathrooms without express consent, they opened a criminal probe. Evans bristled at the accusation, casting herself as a victim of politically motivated lawfare. “A Soros-backed DA is targeting me for speaking out against gender identity ideology,” she charged, with X’s corporate legal team taking up her cause.The case quickly became a cause célèbre for First Amendment activists and critics of progressive prosecutors alike. X, in official statements, thundered about “dangerous precedent” and called the Fifth Circuit’s decision to greenlight the investigation a direct threat to protected speech. The company urged a larger panel of judges to intervene. “The First Amendment protects Ms. Evans’ speech,” a spokesperson wrote. Attorneys close to the case point out that the Supreme Court has often sided with speech’s broadest possible definition, though each state line brings its peculiar legal twists.As Evans waits to see if higher courts will take her appeal, the broader contours of the fight draw increasing attention. On one side, supporters say the prosecution risks chilling political speech on social media platforms. On the other, privacy advocates argue that laws barring surreptitious photography in restrooms serve a necessary purpose, regardless of the motive behind the post.So here we are, ending the year with two parallel struggles — both rooted in deeper anxieties over who controls public conversation and what counts as fair discourse. As Congress dissolves funding for decades-old media institutions, old certainties about nonpartisanship and mission tumble. Down in Texas, meanwhile, the lines between commentary, privacy, and criminality blur in a social-media age, leaving the courts to sort fact from polemic.One veteran media executive sums up the mood, “It’s not just about funding or one person’s tweet — it’s about who decides the boundaries for public debate. And right now, nobody agrees where those lines should run.” With lawsuits still pending and the ground still shifting, the battle over speech — both online and on-air — looks set to shape American public life for years to come.