Why arent PNG Journalists confrontational?

Why aren’t Journalists in PNG confrontational? I am affirming that ‘confrontational’ here means to ‘stand up’ or ‘speak out’ and ask the hard questions to those who are responsible for the masses in terms of health, education, welfare, ICT etc.  While there may be a variety of reasons and some people will have even more stronger, valid points than I may make here, in my opinion, I believe that the ability of a journalist to be ‘confrontational’ is hampered by news media organizations in the country who employ journalists.

1. Lack of support by news organisations -  I am of the belief that we as journalists in PNG have very little to be confrontational about since we have not shown that we are prepared for hard work. When was the last time, a news organisation put effort, resources and sought professional and technical advice to investigate a story? When have we seen a step by step investigative story uncovering facts and intelligent writing? The story of budget cuts and not enough resources have been excuses that impede us as journalist to take longer, deeper meaningful research into an issue. Entertainment news has taken over the issue based news because it is easier to write and takes much less time to produce. How often do we see a follow up of a story six months after an event happened? We never got to hear what happened to the outbreak of Cholera in remote area of Morobe Province six months later after everyone closed up and went away. Then we had a similar outbreak in NCD some months later. Which news organisation wants to send a reporter to visit this remote part of Morobe, then ask the hard questions to WHO, Morobe Provincial Government and minister for Health, study the epidemiology of Cholera, trace the origins of Cholera in PNG, find the associations between susceptibility and transmission? All this finding and exploring takes time and financial resources – something news organisations profess not to have. Iam of the opinion that if news organisations or journalists are to be foundations of the fourth estate, then time and financial resources must be devoted to investigate stories and seek to uncover facts and figures that influence issues. News organisations must be prepared to fund journalists to travel, do research and help write intelligently and produce news stories.

2. Keeping journalists in news media. - Iam also of the belief that journalists who possess the passion and the drive to take on investigative journalism, are not being rewarded or justifiably commensurated financially by news organisations. This, I believe is not only found in PNG but evident throughout the Pacific.  Many who start off in the field of journalism as general news reporters, who then take specialist fields such as business, HIV/AIDS, politics, agriculture, mining, carbon fuels, information technology, sports etc don’t usually stay in that news area for long. This is because as they become more experienced, more knowledgeable of the subject area and write accurately, they are more often than not, subject to be coaxed into leaving the news organizations for ‘greener pastures’. This mostly include higher salary, housing, travel, allowances and better working hours, all of which better than those provided by media organizations. They then become public relations officers, community media officers or even journalists in that organisation. Thus, this migration leaves a gap in news organisations that cannot be easily filled. Gone are the person’s valuable experiences, advisory roles, leadership, news values, contacts, etc, things which cannot be easily replaced.  How is that related to a journalist be confrontational? For a journalist to be confrontational, he/she needs good advisors to guide the research, people who can be mentors, people who have experiences over decades, people who can sniff out a rat or see a problem a mile away - the kind of skills are not easily given but gained over the years.  As they leave, they also take their reputation, skills and credibility and leave the news organisation having very little to write or produce investigative stories. It is about time news media organisations pay journalists what they deserve and keep them on the job for longer periods.

Em tasol!

Message in a bottle: From the Bismarck Sea to the Solomon Sea!

Around this time sometime in December 2004, I had boarded a Lutheran Shipping vessel from Lae and travelled to Manus. Iam not sure which ship is was but it definately was either MV Manemba or MV Umboi which Iam sure many people who travel by ship know. From Lae it takes one full day and two nights on the open sea before we land in Loregnau town. As is the custom when travelling on long trip over the sea, we have lots of fresh fruits, home cooked meals and lots of water to keep stay on these cargo ships as homely as possible.

Anyway, we left the Lae port at around 5pm and began the journey. By 10pm people like myself were already sound asleep. I woke up at 5pm to the sound of the sailors pulling in yellow fin tuna and mackeral. During the day I had nothing to do but play cards and tell stories with however i met on the ship. Besides, the majority on the ship were Manusians so it wasnt hard finding people who told stories..lol

At around midday, we were heading full steam ahead, the sea was calm, the wind was slight and as far as the eye could see, there was no sign of land in all directions. After I had eaten salty biscuits and drunk a 500ml coca cola, I decided to try sending a letter in a bottle. I think i was inspired by a story that in the 1700s, a Japanese crew of 44, were shipwrecked and marooned on a small Island in the South Pacific. The captain scratched details of their story and fate onto chips of wood and put them into a bottle. The bottle was found 150 years later on the shoreline of Japan, reportedly, close to where the sailors had grew up.

Well i wrote i my name and postal address on the white inside part of the cocacola label and said that whoever found it should write to me. In the middle of the Bismarck Sea, I threw the bottle

I went home for the holidays then came back to Lae. It was the year 2005 now. I was working away when early in March that year, I received a letter. Here is the letter below:

And here is the exact letter that was written....

The coke plastic bottle with my note inside had reached Poroporo village at the tip of the Choiseul Province in the Solomon Islands. It had gone international! WOW!!!!

It was picked up by a Mr. Andrew Silukana of poroporo village just across the Papua New Guinea border! It had taken almost two months from when I first threw the bottle in the middle of the Bismarck to when Andrew picked it up in his village. I dont know how it travelled there but my assumption is that it must have travelled past the gap between Manus and New Ireland and then the strong tides of the Pacific Ocean travelling south must have pushed it down past Bouganville right through to the tip of Choiseul province where Poroporo village is.
On that same day I quickly wrote a letter back to him on the address he had provided. But sadly, to this day I havent received a reply. If anyone in Solomon Islands knows Andrew Silukana, please let me know!

A night at the labour ward

Its late at night.

The place is quiet as if only ghosts walk the dimly lit corridors. The tiled floor smells of disinfectant, the ceiling fan spins lazily and the mothers are sleeping on the green leather covered beds. The bleached white bed sheets and pillow cases have blue letters – MGH - written on them. It is late at night at the Modilon General Hospital’s labour ward. Close to 30 mothers are in the labour ward, some having already given birth and sleeping next to their babies while others are just entering the labour process.

I sit on a wooden bench next to the nursing sisters table. I am waiting.

The nurses talk in hush tones and scurry along the corridors to expectant mothers. There are a couple of women who walk past me with their bellies protruding infront of them, their hands at their backs and the pain is written all over their faces. The pain is so unbearable, so relentless, so sharp, so unjustified! They hang onto posts and bed frames begging for the pain to stop. The nurses tell them to keep on walking. I am surprised at how the women in the labour ward don’t scream when they have birth pains. It’s as if there is silent understanding that you do not scream until you are on the delivery bed or maybe the women are afraid the nurses might scold them.

However, inside the delivery room, I hear women shouting from pain and agony. My partner is in there too behind the closed doors. I can only look down the corridor and imagine what they are going through. My mother has been with my partner throughout the afternoon and now it is night and i can see that her eyes are bloodshot and tired from the lack of sleep. I sit still. Worried, tired, apprehensive, and biting my finger nails for the umpteenth time today. My mother comes down the corridor and signals me to follow her. She pulls me closer and says that my partner wants me to go to her. I walk past her to the delivery room.

As soon as I enter, I feel the air is cool. The air conditioner is running in the background. There are four beds and one other one for the intermediate is on the opposite side of the room. The first bed is occupied by a woman who is sleeping in the foetal position. Only her feet are visible under the hospital issued blanket. They are as pale as a bed sheet. I only later on learn that she came close to dying because of the lack of blood. I turn to the last of the four beds and see my partner on one of the bed. She lies on her side. She is the only one from the group of mother who came today, that has not given birth yet. I can see that she is in pain. She opens her mouth and screams. I have known this woman for seven years now and never heard her scream and shout like this. Tonight, these terrible and agonising screams I hear carry a terrible pain and rock me to the core. She cries out but the nurses tell her not to but to breathe and exhale when the contractions come. I hold her hand and don’t say anything. What could I say. I didn’t know what to say. She had been in terrible pain for the past 20 hours. I rub her back with a wet cloth and hold her quietly. I read in the papers that 2 babies had died in this very ward last weekend and I witnessed two more die this weekend. To further compound my uneasiness, I have heard that nine mothers have already died from child birth complications this year in this very ward.

The nurse comes in for the umpteenth time today and checks to see if the baby’s head is ready to come. This time she finally nods and says ‘its time’. They instruct her take a deep breath and to push when the contractions arrive. She does so but the baby doesn’t come. She does the same thing for almost 20 minutes. The nurses wait on her and keep instructing her on how to push. She feels weak from each push. I see the blood from her hand go back up the water drip. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that the nurses are eye signalling each other and at the clock. Earlier one the nurses had told me that if the labour prolonged from up to 24 hours, they would induce the birth or use the vacuum the baby out, both methods not without their risks. After a few minutes, they look at me as if to gauge my approval for the use of the other methods. I quickly turn away and look at my partner. I think she quickly catches on and asks us to wait for the next contraction to come. I know that in the next few minutes could be very crucial to both the mother and baby.

She waits and then when the next contraction arrives, and through the urgings of three nurses and one to-be father, she gives a mighty push and my daughter arrives. The nurse clips the cord and cuts it and gives the baby to the mother. I am left stunned. I mean this is another human being that is removed from the body of another human and is a person of its own. She is complete in every way yet she is so fragile. She is beautiful in every way possible and her spirit is impossible to numerate in words. One look at her face is enough to light my whole week. She has my cheeks, my nose, my lips and, I dare say, my eyes too! She is perfect! They quickly take her to a machine and quickly drain the mucous from her nose, mouth and eye. I hear her cry and then a few seconds later, my mother comes in, holding her in a warm blanket and she is silent as the rising sun.

My life has surely turned for the better. If there is anything with which I was ever proud of, this would be it. The moment my daughter was born beat my every other achievement in life by a mile. This is surely what life is all about.