JULY 10 marked my 31st year in the New Straits Times. Looking back, it did not seem that many moons had passed since I started with the newspaper. One of my earliest memory is the airplane crash on May 17, 1989.
I was at the then Subang International Airport, saying goodbye to a friend who was flying off to some foreign country. It was a tearful send-off, which is perhaps why the memory of what happened on that fateful Wednesday night is still fresh.
As I exited the airport and onto the highway towards Kuala Lumpur in my trusty chariot, there was already a long queue of cars. Oh boy, I remember thinking it would be a long, long night.
Then, I saw a column of smoke some distance ahead. My curiosity piqued. As soon as I spotted a gap in between the cars, I signalled and edged to the left and parked my car. I then trudged ahead, in my baju kurung and pumps.
My jaw literally dropped when I reached the scene of the "crime". A light aircraft had crashed into the rear of a car — I saw one of the victims in the aircraft trying to disentangle himself from his seat belt while the others, still strapped to their seats, were not moving. A rescue was already in progress — policemen and a Fire and Rescue squad had surrounded the propeller-driven Pilatus-Porter aircraft, and there was someone who was trying to help the injured out from the wrecked car (little did I know then that the good Samaritan who helped in the rescue was a sports writer for the Malay Mail, NST's sister newspaper then).
I had stood there, transfixed, until a tap on my shoulder jerked me out of my trance. It was a police officer — he ordered me aside because I was standing too close to the scene. By then a crowd of onlookers had already swarmed in and the police officer barked at them to stand back.
I stepped back a few metres, eyes still glued to the site. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I knew I had to alert the office, but how?
I was miles away from a phone — there were no mobile or smartphones then. The nearest phone booth was at the airport, but that would be a long walk back to my car. I then saw a policeman with the ATUR 450. (The ATUR 450 service was the nation's first cellular network in the mid-1980s, and the phone was a bulky device, shaped like a car battery with a handle for a receiver).
I remember approaching him to ask if I could use it. He stared at me, incredulous-like, and then snapped: "Police use only." I backed off, red-faced. As I stood there, another policeman (I guess he took pity on me) came and said I could ride pillion on his patrol bike to the then Hyatt Saujana (The Saujana Hotel Kuala Lumpur now) and make my call.
And that was how the rest of the NST team came to my "rescue" complete with the ATUR phone, so we could phone in our stories.
Five police officers and a 6-year-old boy (Muhammad Fadzullah Muhammad Noor) died that day. The pilot was trying to make an emergency landing, but lost control of the aircraft and the plane nosedived towards the highway, which ran parallel to the airport runway, and crashed into the car. Four people were in the car, an adult and three children. The crash left an indelible imprint on my mind. It was the first time I witnessed a major accident up close — a gruesome scene of a mangled car and plane with the scent of burnt and bloodied bodies — why, I was not even confirmed as a reporter then.
The interview with the boy's parents the following day in Kampung Baru was most distressing. I felt uncomfortable coaxing the family to talk about the loss of a loved one, someone so young. No parent should ever have to bury a child, I remember thinking as they laid him to rest. What made it heart-wrenching was that the boy was about to celebrate his 7th birthday the following Sunday (May 21, 1989).
Retrospectively, the airplane crash may have set off my journey as a reporter/journalist. I had only reported weddings, minor road accidents, cheque presentations and charity events before. The ensuing years saw me covering, albeit in small roles, other breaking news, but they were not as significant. Nothing, therefore, prepared me for the disaster that befell an Orang Asli settlement — the 1996 Pos Dipang mudslide in Kampar, Perak, that wiped out an entire village.
Dubbed the "deadliest" mudslide in Malaysian history, the incident saw a torrent of mud, water, uprooted trees and other debris descend on the village, sweeping away some 30 houses and scores of villagers. The cascade of mud carried houses as far as 9km away downstream and into Sungai Dipang. The official report said 44 people were killed, but there were others of whom their bodies were never found, as was narrated to me by some village elders whom I met several years later when I visited the new settlement, some 10km away.
The horrific scenes of the tragedy occupied my mind for months. The media team from various newspapers (NST, Berita Harian, Harian Metro, Bernama, The Star and others) had set camp a few metres away from the ravaged settlement to keep up with latest developments. I saw rescue workers retrieving bodies after bodies from the swollen Sungai Dipang. Some were bloated, some were blue. The young and old, a toddler — all were fished out from the river. Reports said some of the bodies were found buried under 1.2m of mud, while others were dug up from beneath heaps of tree trunks and rocks. The search-and-rescue operation went on for several days.
The most disturbing sight was when two bodies, a mother and daughter, arms wrapped around each other, were dragged out of the water. From where I stood, I could see their faces contorted in fear. Cries of anguish were heard from afar and nigh. Suffice to say, I had nightmares for days.
One may wonder how could I stay on being a journalist for 30 years after such grisly and shocking scenes. Was there never happy assignments? Plenty — stories that warmed hearts, brought joy and laughter, inspired hope and lifted spirits. But that would be for a another day. Being a journalist taught me patience and gave me a front seat to witness life in all its glory and gore. Journalism is where the trepidation and excitement never ends. It's not just a career; it's a vocation!
The writer is NST associate editor