“News is something someone wants suppressed. Everything else is just advertising.”
– George Orwell, English journalist and novelist
I often find myself pausing, reflecting on a question that has trailed me for most of my adult life: why am I still in journalism after all these years? At the age of 19, fresh out of college, I walked into a newsroom wide-eyed and eager.
Today, more than four decades later, I remain a journalist, still writing, still editing, still driven by the same burning zeal that first drew me into this profession. They say, “once a journalist, always a journalist”, and I am living proof of that truth.
I owe much of my early journey to a former classmate, colleague, boss and now successful entrepreneur, Tan Sri Clement Hii, who opened doors and helped me find my footing in this demanding profession. But the rest, as they say, was trial by fire.
Journalism has never been an easy calling. It tests one’s endurance, resilience, and mental strength. And yet, despite the odds, I have never regretted taking this path.
If anything, I am amazed that after so many years, the fire in my belly to chase stories, to write, and to speak truth still burns brightly. Passion, determination, and perhaps a streak of stubbornness have carried me through.
But let us be clear: journalism is not for the faint-hearted. It is among the most stressful professions in the world.
Like airline pilots who carry hundreds of lives in their hands, surgeons who operate under pressure, firefighters who run towards flames, teachers who carry the weight of shaping future generations, or soldiers who risk their lives in combat, journalists live with a different but equally crushing burden.
We operate under relentless deadlines, often in hostile environments, and under the constant gaze of both the public and those in power. The truth we write often unsettles, and not everyone wants to hear it.
For journalists, stress takes many forms. There is the stress of deadlines that never stops, the pressure of accuracy, the competition to break news first, the fear of getting a fact wrong, and the financial insecurities that come with working in a profession where job stability is increasingly fragile.
Add to this the weight of political sensitivities and the ire of authority, and you have a recipe for one of the most demanding careers imaginable.
I still recall vividly my own brush with authority as a teenager heading a newspaper desk. It was 1979, during the Sarawak state elections.
As I mentioned earlier, I was only 19 and helming The Sarawak Herald when a political cartoon came into my hands. It depicted a cow eating grass or sipping oil in Sarawak while people in Malaya milked it dry.
It was a biting commentary supplied by the now-defunct political party, Sarawak People’s Organisation (SAPO), led by Raymond Szetu.
The message was clear: Sarawak deserved a greater share of its oil wealth. Szetu himself had won the Lambir parliamentary seat in 1978 against SUPP’s Datuk Chia Chin Shin on precisely this platform.
Young and perhaps too bold for my age, I reproduced that cartoon on the front page. Two days later, the phone rang in the newsroom. On the line was none other than Tun Abdul Rahman Yakub, the Chief Minister of Sarawak. My heart sank.
At 19, still barely out of adolescence, I suddenly found myself face-to-face – metaphorically at least – with the most powerful man in the state.
Tun Rahman, to his credit, did not come down on me with full force. He realised I was just a ‘baby’, as he put it, and let me off with a warning.
But the experience was a jolt, a reminder of the hazards of journalism. At that moment, I could have walked away. But I didn’t. I was already too deeply drawn into the fight for truth.
Such experiences leave scars, but they also forge character. I have been reprimanded, warned, and even threatened over the years, yet never once did I seriously contemplate leaving this profession. Journalism was not just a job. It was, and remains, a calling.
Yet, we must acknowledge that this calling comes at a heavy price. Stress is not an abstract concept in journalism; it is lived reality. It gnaws at the mind, weakens the body, and often shortens lives.
In recent weeks, I was saddened by the passing of a dear colleague and columnist, Valentine Tawie. His death reopened old wounds, reminding me of the many friends and comrades I have lost along the way.
The list is long, and each name carries memories: Mohd Jaya Tan and Andrew Goh from Sarawak Herald; Raymond Adai and Solly Wong (Sarawak Tribune/People’s Mirror); James Ritchie, Tan Ching Siang (New Straits Times); SC Chan (Sarawak Tribune/Malaysiakini); Jimmy Adit (The Borneo Post/The Star/Sarawak Tribune); Dunstan Melling (People’s Mirror); Yii Lee Kong (Sarawak Tribune/The Borneo Post); Ismail Arffin (People’s Mirror); Sim Bui Ngee (See Hua Daily); SK Lau (Sarawak Tribune); George Assim, Hassan Ayub, Suffian Norwawi, Annie Eng, and Clarence Ting (The Borneo Post); Wong Sai Wan (The Star); Valentine Tawie (The Borneo Post/Utusan Borneo/Sarawak Tribune); Florence Yii (International Times); and D. Devanesan (The Star). They are among those who have passed on.
These were not just names on a list. They were colleagues, mentors, competitors, and friends. Some died from illnesses worsened by stress; some, tragically, could not bear the weight of it all. I will not dwell on those who took their own lives, but their absence is a sobering reminder of the darker side of journalism.
If society sees journalists only as bylines or talking heads, they miss the deeper truth. Behind every story is a human being carrying stress, battling deadlines, and struggling with the very hazards of truth-telling.
Journalists cover wars, disasters, crimes, and politics. They witness suffering, expose corruption, and challenge power. And in doing so, they often put their own wellbeing at risk.
Sadly, recognition for such sacrifices remains limited. In Malaysia, journalists are seldom acknowledged as nation-builders, though their role is crucial. Politicians are admired, business leaders rewarded, but journalists, who serve as watchdogs of democracy, are too often dismissed, underpaid, and even vilified.
I appeal to the government to take a serious look at the welfare of journalists. Just as soldiers, teachers, doctors, and civil servants are given recognition, so too should journalists be accorded respect and support.
Whether through healthcare benefits, retirement perks, or formal recognition of long service or state awards, Malaysia and Sarawak, have a duty to honour those who dedicate their lives to this calling. After all, a democracy without free and fearless journalism is like a body without a conscience.
Journalism will always be stressful, hazardous, and demanding. That will never change. But perhaps, if society, especially those in power, chooses to value and protect its journalists, the load will be made a little lighter.
As I look back on nearly half a century in this profession, I realise I have gained much but also lost much. I have lost colleagues, friends, and sometimes my peace of mind. Yet I remain at my desk, pen in hand or rather the MacBook, because I cannot imagine doing anything else. Journalism is not just my career; it is my identity, my passion, my relentless pursuit.
Yes, the stress is real. The hazards are real. But so too is the sense of purpose. And that, perhaps, is why even at 60-plus, I remain what I have always been: a journalist, to the very end.
The views expressed here are those of the columnist and do not necessarily represent the views of Sarawak Tribune. The writer can be reached at rajlira@gmail.com
