I have been trying (note this operative word since I hardly had the time to) to practise with a Canon 5d Mark II because I never felt comfortable with DSLRs. There are too many configurations, too many options. They are too bulky.

The only time I had to use a Canon 450D was in photojournalism class (which I spent learning nothing about photography or journalism but trying to guess the esoteric tastes of the lecturer who have neither professional experience nor academic qualifications for photojournalism. “No face,” he said of the photo below and proceeded to give me a bleak C for my photo essay of a cleaner who was born with deformed arms):

When I made photographs in the past, it was always with a manual SLR, either a Canon AE-1 or Nikon FE2:

Admittedly, I do not have the passion of a photographer. I see myself first a writer, then a photojournalist. I shoot photographs to illustrate my stories. I shoot photographs to compose an alternative photo essay that runs alongside my stories. Photography is a tool I use to tell stories, a necessary evil.

I do not like shooting pictures for fun or for art. I winced when I had to shoot bloody water lilies in Botanic Gardens at 6 am, because my photography teacher in secondary school said it was good practice, and I still do. So I dragged myself to Botanic Gardens a few weeks ago to shoot bloody water lilies.

The camera, I feel, is an obtrusion. And certainly, more than a few photojournalists have said that it acts as a shield, a shield that protects them from the brutality of whatever they are photographing.

And I am not comfortable with that. In order for me to write well, I need to be completely absorbed in my subject, lost in the moment, breathing in the emotions so deep in till my mind suspends reality. Likewise, to make acceptable photographs, I need to achieve that level of focus so that I forget about the nerves that inescapably comes with photography.

In contrast, reporting for writing feels like an anaesthetist’s hypodermic needle. You slip in and you slip out, unnoticed.

You angst in private only when you begin to write.

Among all these letters of well-wishes and congratulations, one letter stood out.

It was written by a young Filipino residing in Singapore and she was angry.

Why did you write such a negative story, she asked. Don’t you know it would affect our tourism? What have you done to improve their lives? What solutions do you recommend?

In her letter lies an implicit thread of thought that I have worsened the situation with my story, that I have exploited the story for my means.

I doubt her position would waver even if she reads my original submission and my entry about why I chose to write that story because they do not address her questions.

Neither do I hold any delusions that she is alone in her thoughts and feelings. I am therefore writing this publicly in hope that those feeling the same may understand some of my thoughts when I wrote that story.

Negativity

I do not write the happiest things. However, I was not given the indulgence of choice when I went to Manila.

Was I to write about the opulent shopping malls in Greenbelt, where washroom attendants wait conscientiously outside your toilet cubicle so that they can clean it immediately when you leave?

Indeed, what is superficially impressive will only serve to widen the dichotomy I witnessed during my short stay.

Was I to write about the success stories of Filipinos making it big on the world stage through Youtube? Perhaps, but I did not have the opportunity to meet such a person and I am not predisposed to mindless fawning.

I can only write what I saw and I saw people trying to live the best they can, impeded sometimes by their circumstances, beliefs, and government.

It is through their actions that they reveal a quality of tenacity and audacious hope that some can only attempt to muster and admire from afar.

Gold is tried by fire, brave men by adversity.

This is how I do my subjects in Manila justice.

Tourism

It is fallacious to believe that my article, or even a series of articles of such nature, will affect tourism. It is likelier for episodes such as the Manila Bus Hostage incident to affect tourism.

Poverty does not drive people away. Poverty attracts people—and this can sometimes be a problem.

For one to consider the implications on tourism betrays the paradigm with which one views the world.

Tourism is the arena of the rich. Only the rich, who can afford to sow these seeds, reaps the profits of tourism. The poor gets poorer.

And this is why they are unconcerned with tourism.

Not one Filipino I met spoke about tourism. Not one Filipino told me what I was doing will hurt tourism.

What have you done to improve their lives? What do you recommend?

I do not know. I do not have grand illusions that my article have made their world a better place. In their eyes, my article is probably inconsequential.

But my job is not to be a social worker or a policy maker or a politician or a philanthropist.

I did what I do best in, and my job as a journalist is to observe and to write.

I write so that people know that such things exist. I write so that I may inspire people to effect change with their own strengths.

I write because it is worse not doing anything.

A Question

Now that I have shared my thoughts, I ask you—anyone who is wondering why I am hurting your country’s image with my writings—what have you done?

If you cannot answer that question satisfactorily, I urge you to gather this anger in you and direct it to something useful, productive, and beneficial.

This is, after all, the very reason I wrote my story.

My introduction in today’s spread was shortened, perhaps for brevity or house style.

This was what I wrote:

When Jeremy Boo, 22, led a journalism trip to the Philippines as part of his Mass Communication course in Ngee Ann Polytechnic, the first thing that struck him was the rigid dichotomy between the rich and the poor—just outside his hotel window in Makati, the country’s Central Business District, the poor and homeless linger opposite Starbucks and beside a strip club.

“People who were there but not there. People who spoke but were not heard, people who existed but were not seen. Invisible men are what Filipinos are in the heart of this country,” wrote Filipino writer Conrado De Quiros about the poor in his book, Tongues On Fire.

It was then he knew that he wanted to write a story about poverty but it was too difficult to explore this dichotomy with the little time he had.

Incidentally, the helper of a local photojournalist, whom was facilitating a journalism session, has a sister who worked in Singapore as a maid. Jeremy seized this opportunity to better understand the Filipino people to find out what are some of their aspirations, their fears, and their motivations. And why are they still trapped in the quandary of poverty? Where is home, when you have spent years working overseas? Where is home, when you live your life moving from street to bridge?

It was difficult to find these answers even as he stayed in slums for three days. Often, he found that these answers sometimes lurk in the subtlest things: a twitch of an eye when memories about family are recalled; that pharmacies sell syringes but not condoms; how drink and fun takes precedence over food; the way youth frequently describe their peers as chismos; the helplessness people feel as their homes are infested by the equally desperate, are demolished by the government, are razed to the ground by electrical fires and, in one instance, buried under an avalanche of sodden, burning garbage.

Poverty is not as simple as it seems. And he wanted people to know this.

Writing this story was nearly as difficult. With only three days to work, he had to quickly gain the trust of the Filipinos.

“Are you Korean? Japanese?” they would inevitably ask.

“No, Singaporean.” “Oh.”

It is a reply that is short but eloquent. Many Filipinos he met perceived Singaporeans to be brash, proud, and arrogant.

He managed to speak to them only after much listening, patience, and sensitivity. It was fortunate that the few locals who trusted him acted as interpreters when they needed to and took care in introducing him to their friends and neighbours.

Still, there was a harrowing experience when loitering strangers repeatedly uncocked and cocked a rifle, which he cannot determine whether it is real, outside the house of a person he was interviewing. He was led out through a different route in the end.

About a year after he returned from the Philippines, Mr Robin Yee, the lecturer who supervised him during the trip, read online about the International Committee of the Red Cross’ (ICRC) Young Reporter Competition and urged him to participate.

Despite being hesitant in the beginning, he took part in the competition because he wanted people to know about what he had seen and heard in the Philippines. Also more persuasive was the opportunity to continue telling stories about people, as ICRC will fly five winners to an area of armed conflict—Georgia, Lebanon, Liberia, Senegal, or the Philippines—on a reportage trip.

By winning this competition, he will travel to Georgia, where simmering tensions boiled over in the 2008 South Ossetia War, in February next year. He expects that the stories he encounters this time will be more challenging as the problems that the Georgians face are more hidden, and hence more difficult to illustrate, than problems like poverty; the problems of displacement and missing family members, for instance.

And even as he attempts to find an undergraduate course that satisfies his curiosities, he intends to work or volunteer, even if it is for a stint, in the frontline of a humanitarian organisation. This way, he will be able to truly empathise and witness the tales he have heard of blood shed and lives torn asunder.

Otherwise his stories will only be, as George Orwell has so clearly expressed in his essay Inside The Whale, “written by a person to whom murder 
is at most a word.”

My story was published in the The Straits Times Saturday Special Report today, with the introduction realigned and certain sections repurposed.

It’s my first time being published in The Straits Times (and with such a lengthy story too), so it was interesting to see the workflows and editing layers in SPH. As I had complete control over my publication when I was editor, I was unaccustomed to the fact that some of these processes, e.g. sub-editing, take place independent of the section editor.

I am a little nervous because I would not personally use certain adjectives or phrases to describe my subjects. They are not unfair or untrue; it’s just not my writing style. Of course, I did think about the implications if this article was more narrative in nature; if every adjective used had an imagery objective, if each punctuation was selected for its participation in repetition and rhythm, if the flow of the story determines the message.

But this story is not a narrative feature so I accept that these changes are the few necessary trade-offs of getting your message published in a mainstream newspaper.

In case you’re interested, you may read my original submission to the ICRC here.

December last year, they  tore down the ugly thing, erected a metal scaffolding, and closed the roads. We are going to celebrate the new year, banners around the estate proclaimed, with artistes and fireworks. The PM is Guest-of-Honour.

Today, nine Cyrtostachys palm trees stood just off-center of the roundabout, in ceramic pots and black transplant bags—while labourers mill beneath their majestic heights, sinking their hoes into the soil and digging deep holes.

After all, it was mainly an entertainment portal; how many readers are actually interested in poverty in Manila?

So I was surprised when people begin to grade my article (still five stars, thankfully), but what astounded me was when a reader wrote to me sharing with me how the article had reminded her of her own experiences with her domestic helper whom she had lost contact with.

It was not a very long letter and my story did not make any earth-shattering changes, but this is one of those little things that remind me that what I have chosen to do is worthwhile.

Some of these people are former and current employees of the International Committee of the Red Cross and Médecins Sans Frontières whom shared with me invaluable pieces of advice.

So, thank you.

I’m not sure how long this will be up but there is an online version you may read in its entirety.

While I am gratified to be written about in The Straits Times, there are three corrections I wish to make:

1. My mother has ALS but she had it for about two years
2. She didn’t exactly ask me to use my voice to tell stories. She did however support my decision to study journalism before she even had ALS. And even now, she still supports my assignments (yes, even if I need to go to an area of armed conflict)
3. I wanted to study Mass Communication in the School of Film & Media Studies at Ngee Ann Polytechnic since I was 14. A friend pointed out that the math does not add up; I was already in Year Two three years ago.

On another note, some of my peers found the headline quite interesting.

You may also want to read another perspective published by the School of Film & Media Studies in their News updates.

I usually work with Xian Jie who takes care of all technical nightmares. Without him, I still expect to make compelling photo stories and perhaps record a few telling videos (definitely with good sound), aside from writing—which I am most comfortable with.

On the contrary, I am not comfortable with putting so much in the hands of technology.

I was frankly quite surprised when the call from Switzerland came to notify me that I won the competition.

After I was told that I was one of 12 shortlisted—and after the long-distance phone interview with a panel of judges which I was convinced I completely mangled, I was torn between hope (that I would actually win), euphoria/confidence (of  winning), and despair (of not daring to expect to win).

I only began to fully appreciate what happened after I saw the ICRC’s press release, official announcement, and Facebook page. The win was in a peculiar state of suspended reality especially since there was an press embargo between the phone call and the official announcement, so I could not share the news with too many people or discuss it freely.

Someone asked me how did I get interested in reporting about humanitarian issues.

I realised I needed to tell stories the day I realised that very few people understand suffering, poverty, strife, and discrimination. Apathy set in and spreads like dry rot. They watch it on televisions and read it on newspapers like a form of entertainment. They study these in books but they cannot imagine that such situations in the world actually exist.

And many of those who have seen such situations with their very own eyes believe in simplistic solutions, turning good intentions into a twisted form of poverty tourism.

I believe that it is when people are able to experience emotionally the lives of others, will they then be able to empathise and truly help in their own capacities.

I find strength in what I do because I have seen how people find courage in the most difficult times.

And that keeps me going.