The apartment became quite the hub for late night after-protest, after-court sessions. There was a lot of talk and some pretty serious drinking. I discovered then that most journalists were alcoholics—It just comes with the territory—some of the conversations were harrowing and comical. Old “war” stories would come out—these were after all real journos—and Sumi and I would sit awestruck and listen to their stories, whilst we all got drunker and drunker.

There was Josh who prided himself in banging pussy all the way from Rwanda, the West Bank to Bosnia; Will who had dodged live bullets in Dili and was imprisoned for a day in the most filthy cell ever described; Ken the lanky Canadian rookie who had spent a week in Bangkok before KL; and Langton from Chicago, the veteran, who chain-smoked Marlboro Reds and drank himself into a stupor and growled from time to time, You gotta know when to get in, and when to get out.

There were few female “war” reporters, so to speak, Langton would say that the chicks in the field were only good before they had kids, once they did, they got soft. Lost their edge. Nobody wanted a chick hanging around, they were an easy target. We were the only chicks in the room, so sometimes we got the feeling that we were just meant to be seen and not heard. These guys had been through the mill, had been in the frontlines, had dodged real bullets, seen dead bodies. They were heroes to us. Will had met Xanana Gusmao, the ultimate poster boy for human rights, as I dreamed of a day that I would meet him in person.

Langton had been in South Africa in ‘94 and had been friends with Ken Oosterbroek, Greg Marinovich, Joao Silva and Ken Carter; the four photographers known as the Bang-Bang Club. I was there in Thokoza that day. Oosterbroek was hit. Fuck. Never forget that. All those bodies. Hell. Still get nightmares.

After a while, it was just a party every night, we never knew who was going to show up. KL was crawling with Special Branch officers so we had to make sure that we knew who was coming through the door. My latest feature had generated a lot of interest and Fairman had started getting phone calls late at night. There would be calls, and then you’d hear clicking on the other side. They were spying on us, tapping our phones.

It was basic reportage, I didn’t think that I was capable of presenting dialectic arguments—what was happening was complicated on so many levels of Malaysian society—all I felt I could do was write what I saw and heard.