Apai’s lens captured more than hostages and fighters — it preserved a story of brotherhood, survival, and the unseen sacrifices of journalists on the frontline. This is the final part of a three-part series on photographer Zulazhar Sheblee’s perilous journey into Abu Sayyaf territory following the 2000 Sipadan kidnappings.
The last survivor in the photograph
In May 2000, two Malaysian journalists embarked on one of the most dangerous assignments of their careers: to cover the Sipadan hostage crisis in Jolo, southern Philippines.
As the only Malaysian newspaper to gain access to the Abu Sayyaf camp atop the mountains of Patikul, some 18 kilometres from Jolo, Utusan Malaysia was venturing where few outsiders dared to tread.
Among them was photographer Zulazhar “Apai” Sheblee, a sharp-eyed Sarawakian lensman — bold yet grounded — tasked not just with capturing images but with surviving in a place ruled by guns, mistrust, and shifting alliances.
For almost a month, he lived among fighters and hostages — sharing food, exchanging wary glances, and documenting what few outsiders had ever seen.
What began as a reporting mission quickly became a test of courage, humility, and survival.
Two decades on, Apai, now in his early 50s, recalls those days with startling clarity.
On his desk in Kuching, he keeps a faded photograph. It is a relic of a story too important to forget — a story of risk, brotherhood, and the unseen weight carried by photographers on the frontline.
Home, but not the same
After 24 days in the Philippines — moving between Zamboanga and the rebel-controlled island of Jolo — Apai and Pok Mei finally returned safely to Kuala Lumpur.
The journey back was a blur of fatigue and disbelief. Boats and vehicles moved in convoy, armed escorts watching every shadow. Silence hung over the men — men who had seen too much.
As their plane touched down, relief washed over them like a tide. No medals, no official accolades awaited them. Only the quiet satisfaction of having done their duty.
What remained was a single photograph, capturing Apai with Pok Mei, Commander Robot, and Commander Mujib — a frozen testament to trust forged in danger, and the thin line between life and death.
Twenty years later, Apai still returns to that picture.
“Al-Fatihah to the three men in that photograph — Pok Mei, Commander Robot, and Commander Mujib. I am the only one still alive from it,” he said softly. The weight of memory lingers in his voice.
For him, the photograph is more than memory; it is proof. Proof that cooperation mattered more than ego, that survival depended on solidarity.
“Cooperation is vital in any assignment. We must endure hardship together and share the good times together,” he reflected today.
Back then, his interview inside the house — conducted at gunpoint, his heart hammering — made the front pages of Utusan Malaysia. Today, he recalls it with a mix of pride and disbelief.
Ironically, the photographs and accounts from outside the house were given more prominence than his own. He felt the sting of being overlooked.
“Too often, when praise comes, only one person is mentioned. Photographers are not second-class. We make the work possible,” he explained, his voice calm but firm.
The reporter received the Kajai Award, but the photographer — first on the scene, capturing images and interviewing the hostages — got nothing, not even a cup of coffee from the prize money. Such was the fate of photographers.
Yet Apai carried no bitterness. Only a quiet determination: to remind the world that photographers risk just as much as reporters, and without them, history would be faceless.
He tells this story for a reason.
“I tell this so that tomorrow, if I am no longer here, people will know the story behind ‘the first Malaysian media to meet the Sipadan hostages’,” he said.
There were no prizes, no titles, no shiny medals at the end of his ordeal. Only that single photograph — himself standing beside men now gone, three of the four faces fated to live only in memory.
And yet, that is enough.
Through the lens of courage
Looking back, Apai knows the story isn’t just about him. It is about the quiet courage of journalists, the risks they take in silence, and the bonds forged under fire.
Each encounter — with friend or stranger, hostage or fighter — shaped the man he became.
His advice to young journalists is simple but unflinching: courage without humility is reckless; humility without courage is useless. Journalism demands both.
“Do not chase glory. Chase truth. Respect your colleagues — writers, photographers, interpreters. In the end, all you bring back is each other. Without cooperation, you will not survive,” he stressed.
He pauses, the weight of memory in his eyes.
“Stories come and go. Headlines fade. But humanity — how you treated people in the worst moments — that is what remains,” he added.
For Apai, it wasn’t just about the images or the scoop. It was about the small, crucial choices: how he approached hostages, how he navigated fighters, and how he preserved trust under impossible pressure.
Every photograph he took carried a fragment of that human story — quiet, unspoken, and enduring.
Even now, I find myself admiring Apai not only for the images he captured but for the way he navigated danger with a steady gaze.
He wasn’t loud. He wasn’t boastful. Yet his presence reminded me what it truly means to be a journalist: to bear witness, even when fear gnaws at your bones.
As I reflect on his journey, Apai’s legacy strikes me as more than images on a page. It is the quiet courage that inspires me — and every journalist who follows — to pursue stories no matter the cost.
Because in the end, we are not merely reporting events. We are carrying the memory of those who dared to stand beside us, long after the echoes of gunfire have faded.
