#mpifellowship

For more than a month, the journalists will all live together in a not-too shabby hotel in Kuala Lumpur, and at times, be whisked off in various parts of Malaysia on assignments. They’ll be immersed under the tutelage of the finest journalists the region can offer, amassing new ethical practices and technical skills in the process, while debating about where the industry is heading and where it went wrong in the past. On the side, they get to experience the intricacies of the Malaysian culture.

  In the past, they had folks coming in from the Philippines, Sri Lanka, Zimbabwe, Vietnam, Uzbekistan, Indonesia, Bahrain along with the local journalists from various parts of Malaysia. 

  When I got the call that I was going to be part of it, two things came to mind.

  Two rather huge, shiny, impressive things. Adjectives that can also properly describe sexual organs. But no, that’s not what I’m talking about, you dirty, dirty perv.

  I’m talking about the Petronas Towers.

  I’ve seen it in a couple of movies — all towering and grand-like, stealing scenes even as a backdrop. So the fellowship was a chance to see those towers in person — one off my bucket list, I thought. Which was more than enough for me to say yes to the program.

  It was a shameful, shallow reason, yes. But a reason nonetheless. 

  I didn’t know what would happen in the fellowship or what sort of journalists I’d meet in the process. Did they have the same practice in their respective countries? How do they report on religion and conflict? How restricted are they in covering their respective governments? Is corruption as institutionalised in their industry as it is in ours? How much are they getting paid in their countries for this job? Are there differences in the way they build their newscasts? Is policy over police, or the other way around? Will we get into arguments over what’s ethical and what’s not in their brand of coverage? Am I gonna make friends? Will the program give us free meals? And is it spicy? 

  A myriad of questions and questionably-sized luggage in tow, I arrived in Kuala Lumpur in the wee hours of August 31. 

  It was a long way to the apartment-style hotel near the school in Jalan Bukit Ledang, a residential area just outside of the capital city. The driver of the airport taxi I hired kept complaining how difficult it was to get to the area because apparently, if you miss that one junction in the highway that directly leads to the hotel, it’ll take you another 20 minutes just to turn on the next roundabout. He missed the junction twice. On a side: I was given a quick lesson on traffic vernacular in KL — junction and roundabout. I could hear myself thinking: “Back in my hood, we call them exits and circles. Philippines, reprezant!”. Also, I don’t know why that voice in my head sounded ghetto. 

  My flight must have arrived rather late because when I got to the hotel, there wasn’t anyone there to hold up streamers and hand out pamphlets to welcome me to the program. Instead, I get the receptionist — a woman so tiny she can literally fit in my pocket, who eerily looked like Malaysian action star Michelle Yeoh (now you see how limited my Malaysian knowledge really is) — who handed me a card key. She told me that all the rest of the fellows have been checked in and I was the last one.

  She gave me a quick run-down of house rules. No drinking, smoking can be done in the balconies, no losing of key cards, free breakfast is served at six o’ clock. Each room comes fully-equipped with a kitchen, a bathroom and two beds — slightly separated by a glass division to feign privacy. 

  When I get to my room, one of the beds was already in disarray. There were a couple of bags stowed away in the corner, and a row of polo shirts neatly hanging in the closet. No one was there. But it meant one thing: someone already called dibs on the best bed in the room — one that had a television on the left, and a panoramic view of the city to the right. I get the bed enclosed in a glass panel right next to the bathroom. Awesome.

  I dropped my luggage in the corner, and grabbed the small pack of Boy Bawang I hurriedly stashed in the front pocket while I was still at the airport. Because Boy Bawang is how I roll. And I also realised that it was already 2 o’clock in the morning and I’ve yet to eat dinner. I started to unpack when the door opened. First thing that sprung to mind was that it was my new roommate. Or a serial killer. Or both. A roommate who is secretly kills people while they sleep, through asphyxiation, and then turns them into a taxidermic project in his basement where all the other doll victims are displayed for his pleasure. If you’ve had as much roommate horror stories as I’ve had back in college, this is how your mind works. 

  “Hi, I’m Danny.”

  Danny greeted me with a such a welcoming smile — the one where’d you feel like he’s known you for a long time and that this was a reunion and not an awkward introductory chat. He was tall, framed like someone who’d be into sports, with a face of an actor you’d see in a Stephen Chow movie. He told me that he worked for a Chinese newspaper in Kuala Lumpur and that he’s usually assigned stories from the general assignments desk. He too was worried about the program. Like me, he wasn’t sure of what to expect.

  But most importantly, he did not exhibit serial killer tendencies.

  I slept soundly that night.

  I woke up with the buzzing sound of the alarm clock. Danny was already dressed and getting ready for the first day of the fellowship.

  “Bangun!”

  I was jolted from my stupor. Why is Danny talking in Filipino? How is that possible? Am I still sleeping? Is this still a dream? Or a dream within a dream wherein any minute, Ellen Page and Leonardo DiCaprio will bust open the front door?

   “Bangun lah!”

  Turns out, the word for “get up” is the same in Tagalog and Malay. This is how Danny would wake me up for the rest of the month. 

  When we got down to the lobby, all the rest of the fellows were there. You could feel the first-day-of-school-type excitement in the air. Everyone was chatty, introducing themselves United Nations-style: “My name is (insert name) from (country of origin). I’m a reporter for (insert media organisation). Stay away from the chicken sausages!” That sort of thing.

  As I sat there, listening to everyone tell their stories, all my apprehensions about the program were gone. We were all in the same boat. All journalists, all young, all slightly damaged from the work that we do. But there’s certain glee shared by everyone — we’re here to learn, and we’re here to be better. It was a comforting feeling of community.

    From the hotel, it was a 15-minute walk uphill to the school. It was tough climb, especially for those not used to, well, walking. The environment was very green, one where’d you stop after being startles by monkeys crossing the street or jumping out of trees. While walking, we continued talking about our lives back home. Where I come from, there were no monkeys in the urban areas.

  When we got to the school, a small, gated establishment with the letters “MPI” greeted us at the front. There were two buildings — one for the administrative work, and the other, a classroom. There we would meet Maimunah Abdrashi. 

  “You all can call me Kak Mai. Because I’ll be your mother for the next month.”

  Kak Mai was the program director. She wore a veil, slightly covering a beautiful face that wore age and experience well over the years. She evoked a sense of order and discipline, coupled with that heartwarming care only mothers can pull off. Kak Mai told us all about the program — about how we would hold lectures and seminars in that classroom on some days, while on others, we’d travel to others parts of Malaysia to immerse ourselves in the culture and in field work. It was going to be laborious — and she’ll be there every step of the way to make sure that we do it. One way or another.

  From there, the rest of the month went by rather fast. 

  During the weekdays, we would attend seminars from lecturers recruited from various parts of the region to teach us (and remind us) about elevating our writing, tips in interviewing, editing audio and video, best practices in multimedia reporting and harnessing our ethical judgment. We’d often get into heated arguments about our industry’s best practices — that’s what you get with 18 different perspectives and worldviews. We’d always end up agreeing to disagree.

  We visited Putrajaya to learn more about Malaysian politics and policies. We visited the TV3 studios where we got a glimpse of how TV news operates in the country.

  During weeknights, the local fellows would bring us foreigners around Kuala Lumpur — in the best restaurants, in night-time tours of old, colonial structure, in temples both Buddhist and Hindu, in the most delicately-constructured and intricately-designed mosques — to learn more about the melting pot that is their city. 

  We were whisked off to Langkawi on a multimedia reporting assignment — where we got to spend time at the beach to do our stories. Sleepless nights also ran abound as we helped each other create and edit our projects. We were brought to the historical city of Malacca — where we bargained in the haphazard markets during the day and then sang our hearts out in dingy videoke establishments at night.

  Weekends, we’d travel to the usual tourists locations — yes, Petronas Towers included. 

  The best stories are all always about people. And this one is no different.

  The MPI was filled with friends and fellows that I’d never forget.

  There’s roommate Danny, who was always sleepy in class but would wake everyone up with wittiest zingers and punchlines. There’s Arashy, a TV reporter from Kuala Lumpur, who would teach me how to speak Malay while we’d edit through heaps of material for video presentations. When there’s a prank abound, it’s usually the handiwork of Arashy. There’s Lloyd, a political journalist from Zimbabwe, who taught us a lot about life in Africa beyond his newsroom. There’s Eri, a radio reporter from Sarawak, who was the best person to talk to about anything under the sun and over bottles of beer. There’s Vi from Vietnam, who was has the best taste in food — primarily because we both steer clear from the spicy dishes. We also share a deep regret over concerts we might have missed while in KL. There’s Prema, the group’s big sister —strong-willed and kind-hearted — who can’t ice skate to save her life. There’s Zetty, a veteran crime reporter based in Kuala Lumpur, who would take time off just to make sure that the international fellows would have great time touring the city. There’s Didi and Farol who would often fill the room with such joy and laughter.

  Today, we’re all still in contact — keeping tabs on work and in life. It’s proof that you bring together different people from different counties and you could still have world peace. 

  I write this now because I just recently found out that we would be the last batch of the MPI international fellowship. Which is a shame, really. 

  More than anything, the MPI was that rare opportunity wherein young journalists on the verge of an angst-ridden career are given a much-needed pause. A moment to reflect on what they’ve done, and decide on what they plan to do after as pursuers of truth. It’s a welcome respite in an industry filled with unrealistic deadlines and extraordinary stress, where one goes from one assignment to another to a point where it all blurs together. 

  When I think of Malaysia now, two things still come to mind.

  It’s not the Petronas Towers anymore. But it’s as complex, beautiful and strong: the MPI and the great memories that go with it.