20-07-2025
#NST180years: From Jalan Riong and beyond
THE semester break of 1977 was unlike any other for me and three other journalism undergraduates from the then Institut Teknologi Mara (ITM).
We stepped nervously into the building on Jalan Riong — Balai Berita — ready to begin our internship at the New Straits Times.
It was a mixed bag of nerves and excitement. At last, we were about to put into practice the Five Ws and One H we'd drilled into our heads during our journalism class.
Even more thrilling was the chance to meet the people behind the bylines whom we used to admire in the broadsheet editions of the NST — copies of which I used to fight over with my late father at breakfast.
Each morning began at the desk of the late Pak Cik Dahari Ali, a stalwart figure whose big assignment book dictated the order of the day.
If you were lucky, you'd be sent out with a photographer to cover a press conference or a human interest story. On slower days, you'd stay behind chasing follow-ups on the phone — or scour for "fillers", those small but vital stories that filled the blank corners of the newspaper.
This was the pre-Google, pre-artificial intelligence. Before any assignment, for research, we had to sift through thick files bulging with newspaper clippings we had to pre-order from the library.
The newsroom had its own pulse. Deadlines loomed large — stories had to be filed by 4pm as the subs prepared to "put the paper to bed." Around this hour, the atmosphere on the third floor often turned electric, sometimes even tense enough to make the air turn blue.
One afternoon, returning from an assignment, I searched for a typewriter — a rare commodity in a newsroom teeming with deadlines. I spotted one and was midway through pounding out my intro when a booming voice shouted across the room:
"So you're the one who &^! my typewriter!"
That was the voice of Allington Kennard, one of the last of the English senior writers at the NST. It was both terrifying and hilarious in hindsight — a true newsroom baptism.
That internship would become a rite of passage. By the time I did my second practical stint, I was relieved to find that NST had acquired new high-tech terminals called Atex — a forerunner to the laptops we now take for granted.
Stories typed on Atex were sent directly to editors, sparing us the red-pencil fury of Pak Cik Dahari — or worse, the indignity of having your story skewered on the metal spike atop his desk.
It's worth remembering that NST was a pioneer in newsroom technology. In fact, it was among the first media organisations in the region to implement Atex, and even The Telegraph in the United Kingdom reportedly requested to learn from its newsroom systems. That, undoubtedly, was a feather in NST's cap.
A byline was a badge of honour. And true to NST tradition, when a reporter earned their first byline, the entire editorial floor had to be treated to a round of teh tarik.
Mine was a shared byline — with the late Ishak Nengah and Kek Soo Beng — but it was a proud moment all the same.
After graduation, we returned to NST, this time as full-time staffers. I was posted to the Penang bureau, located in a small, charming building along Light Street.
Thanks to the strong ties between NST and the School of Mass Communications at ITM, many of us were fortunate to secure positions immediately after completing our studies.
We had been well-prepared by an impressive roster of guest lecturers: NST's Chief Sub Editor Chandra Putra Laxsana taught us Layout and Design; Saad Hashim from Berita Harian trained us in Translation in Journalism; and Wan Hamid from the photo department guided us through the principles of photojournalism.
Sadly, we missed out on sessions by the late Tan Sri Samad Ismail, who taught our seniors before his arrest under the Internal Security Act.
The Penang bureau was a world of its own. In that tiny office, we'd queue behind the teleprinter, waiting for our turn for the operator, Cheng Kui, to punch in stories destined for the printing press.
It was there I first encountered the word "flong" — the moulds used in printing — which were flown by Cessna across the channel to the factory in Seberang Prai. If one was lucky, there'd be a seat on the Cessna on its flight back to Kuala Lumpur.
Court reporting in Penang was among the most exhilarating parts of the job. The courthouse was just a stone's throw away, and it had some of the most interesting cases mostly involving drug trafficking and murder.
The court was considered the best training ground for any journalist. You had to capture every word, every nuance, without the help of a tape recorder. All you had were your ears, your shorthand and instincts. And if you are lucky, the court clerk would lend you the fact sheets.
I usually looked forward to courtroom showdowns whenever deputy public prosecutor Muhammad Shafee Abdullah (now Tan Sri) and the late Karpal Singh made their appearance — their wit and sharp legal minds often lit up the proceedings. Their verbal sparring was riveting, sometimes bordering on theatrical.
Those early court assignments in Penang proved invaluable training for trials far beyond Malaysian shores. Years later, I found myself reporting on high-profile cases such as the match fixing case in Stratford, a gruesome murder case in London's Old Bailey and Southwark Crown Court, and even further ashore from a court in Stockholm.
My move to London happened during the NST's heyday — not as a journalist initially, but as the wife of a journalist. My husband, Wan Ahmad Hulaimi, had been tasked with opening the NST's London bureau. I was on no-pay leave, but journalism wasn't about to let me go that easily.
This was another milestone for the NST — the opening of the London bureau marked a final separation from the Singapore Straits Times. The two media offices, under the same roof, was managed by Harry Miller until 1979.
It was for 11 years that I was with the BBC Malay Service of the World Service, broadcasting live via shortwave to Malaysia until the service was eventually shut down. While radio brought its own thrill, my heart remained with print.
Eventually, I joined the small but close-knit Malaysian press corps in London during the 1990s, a time when most major Malaysian media had correspondents based there. I returned to my first love, contributing regularly to the NST and was especially proud to be entrusted with columns like London Buzz, I Am Every Woman, and Postcard from Zaharah — each with a different lens into life abroad and life as a woman in journalism.
As a correspondent, the job took me across the UK and beyond — not only covering official visits by ministers and royalty, but also pursuing deeply human stories: the aftermath of the MH17 tragedy, the achievements of Malaysians abroad and the shifting pulse of our diaspora.
The NST had always given me that opportunity to seek out stories and share.
But challenges abound. Working to tight deadlines — especially with the time difference — was just one. The digital revolution brought new tools, but also new pressures. As social media surged and ministers began tweeting their own stories, the role of the foreign correspondent changed dramatically.
Journalism became a race against algorithms. The industry that had once relied on trust and legwork now demanded speed and virality. Post-Covid 19, financial constraints added another hurdle. For someone who'd spent nearly five decades in the profession, fighting to stay relevant became harder.
All in all, from the days of cradling a phone between my shoulder and ear while pounding away at a clunky Remington taking stories from stringers, to filing stories on a smartphone still destined for the newsroom at Jalan Riong, it has been quite a journey worth cherishing.
