The Review wasn’t the only magazine that had been shut down. We heard of others; another men’s mag that had written a piece about the corruption that went on during the Commonwealth Games and an art magazine that had pictures of the Jakarta student street protests. It seemed that anything that had anti-government sentiment had been silenced.

We ran Saksi out of Fairman’s apartment in Damansara Heights and the four of us stayed on as stringers. Look, I don’t know how long I can afford to do this, but let’s hope we get some hits, and then maybe we can get some ad money to keep us going.

But Imran suggested that we get our pieces syndicated. Can you imagine if we were picked up?

Fairman laughed. What? By the mighty Guardian?

And why the hell not? We have to try! And who the hell is going to give us ad money? To write this? What, you think we can still rely on the banks? The property market? Fucking Ralph Lauren ads? Get real, Fairman!

Imran was right. No one was going to risk investing in an independent news journal. It was too dangerous, and everyone was being watched. A sniff by the Home Ministry could put you out of business. We were on our own.

Riz, Jin and Jackie had to go, but Rose was there to make us endless cups of tea and coffee. I taught her how to properly brew coffee and tea—the water has to be boiling hot, Rose. We lived on sardine and egg sandwiches.

The New Straits Times and The Star were spouting overt government propaganda so the public was being fed lies. Fairman paid us thirty cents a word, it was the best he could do. We knew he was dipping into his trust fund, and we were grateful.

We wrote features, opinion pieces and posted black-and-white photos. Reportage style. Good ol’ Fairman. He was such a decent bloke with us all—we ate and slept in the living room, surrounded by his mum’s quirky bric-a-brac. She was a real royalist, so the walls featured gold-rimmed Charles and Diana plates, ornamental spoons, brass horseshoes, watercolours of the English countryside and Laura Ashley-style calico curtains.

KL was crawling with journos from all corners of the world. After Jakarta, KL was the next big story, so many just stayed on in the region. AFP, AWSJ, FEER, Reuters, AP, the Post from Jakarta, Bangkok, Hong Kong, Washington and the Beeb.

We’d meet them on the streets, you could spot a foreign journo in two seconds—there was that air of fatigue around them, of blood and bombs—exchange cards, and then invite them over for drinks.