Ink in my veins: Growing up with the NST

New Straits Times

2 days ago

"WHO wants to be a journalist?"
I was 11 — and the only one who raised a hand.
We were on a school trip to the New Straits Times building in Jalan Riong, Bangsar. For most, it was just a break from class. But for me, it felt like a pilgrimage. I still remember the guide's question that day — casual, perhaps rhetorical.
My hand shot up anyway.
What stayed with me wasn't the bus ride from Methodist Girls' School in Klang — it was the roar of the printing press, the clanging metal, the rhythmic hum of stories being born. I remember the warm sheets of newsprint and the sharp, inky scent in the air. That was the day I realised: stories weren't just told — they were made.
The NST broadsheet had long been a fixture in our home. Delivered faithfully each morning by Uncle Mano — who, remarkably, still delivers the paper to our doorstep to this day — it would sit folded neatly on the dining table, often before any of us were awake.
My late father would read the paper from cover to cover with his kopi O in hand, chuckling or snorting whenever something struck him as amusing, outrageous or wise. I'd sit beside him, tracing the headlines with my fingers, pretending to understand the grown-up words. In time, I did — and once I started, I never stopped reading.
THE GOLDEN PENS
In those formative years, the writers I admired were bylines I followed faithfully. Chief among them was Adibah Amin, whose Sri Delima column felt like a conversation with a witty, wise aunt.
In one piece, she wrote: "We (Malaysians) have become hypersensitive... losing the ability to laugh at ourselves."
It was a gentle reminder to develop thicker skins and softer hearts.
If Adibah was the quiet voice of reason, Rehman Rashid was the thunderclap — brilliant, biting and unflinchingly honest. His Scorpion Tales were packed with sharp insight and rhetorical force.
When I got to know him later, his encouragement to write gave my childhood dream renewed purpose. He was as formidable in person as on the page — but always generous with his words.
These writers didn't just fill space in a newspaper. They filled a void in me — one that yearned for eloquence, for stories that mattered, for words that cut through the fog.
NST AS CLASSROOM
Beyond columnists, the NST had a stable of journalists who seemed to me like literary gladiators. I remember reading about the Jean Sinappa murder trial in the 1980s — how the paper's coverage was breathless and gripping, detailing courtroom drama and public opinion in equal measure. I didn't know it then, but I was getting my first taste of investigative reporting.
In the NST's long and storied newsroom, there were figures whose leadership and voices shaped not just the paper, but the journalistic ideals we aspired to.
K.P. Waran, who rose from war reporting to executive editor, embodied calm authority and generosity. Kadir Jasin led the paper through a politically charged era with sharp editorial judgment. Johan Jaaffar brought a literary depth to journalism, while Farrah Naz Karim, bold and fearless, champions accountability through her reporting and leadership.
I didn't know most of them personally, but I studied them like teachers. Their writing taught me precision, integrity and the value of asking the questions others wouldn't.
The NST was once more than a newspaper — it was an educational tool. Through School Times, NiE pullouts and youth features, it shaped classroom discussions and helped students, myself included, to sharpen our English and connect with the world.
Today, the NST has embraced the digital age — delivering news via mobile alerts, long-form digital features and podcasts like Beyond the Headlines and Sunday Vibes@NST.
These new platforms continue its legacy of storytelling in ways that are accessible, immediate and engaging — proof that tradition can evolve without losing its voice.
Now, the NST is entering a new era — one where print and digital blend more seamlessly than ever. With QR codes embedded into its pages and stories now read aloud through smart devices, the paper is not just being read — it's being heard.
This shift honours the spirit of storytelling while embracing how people consume news today. Students can now listen to articles, learn correct pronunciation, and engage with the language in ways that go beyond the printed word.
For a publication steeped in tradition, it's a bold step into the future — one that ensures the NST remains accessible, relevant and resonant with new generations of readers.
And for those of us who grew up clutching the broadsheet at the breakfast table, it's a thrill to see the same paper we loved reimagining itself — once again, telling stories that matter in ways that speak to the times.
THE PAPER TRAIL OF DREAMS
When I eventually became a journalist, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. I didn't "decide" to be one — I had become one over time, like a pot left to simmer slowly until the flavours seeped into every fibre. It was a calling planted in me that day at Jalan Riong when I stood before the printing press in my school pinafore.
To say the New Straits Times was my gateway to journalism is only part of the story. It was also a chronicle of Malaysia's growing pains — recording Merdeka, May 13, reformasi, royal weddings, floods, elections, scandals and the haze. It documented the ache of farewells, the pulse of everyday life and the rare euphoria of sporting triumphs.
Even as formats evolved — from broadsheet to compact, from print to digital — the NST remained a thread linking my personal history to the nation's. It taught me to love language, to cherish nuance and to value truth — even when truth was uncomfortable.
Years later, I'd step into the hallowed halls of Balai Berita as a journalist — starting out on the very same second floor where the printing press once roared and where, all those years ago, my dream of becoming a writer had quietly taken root.
Thank you for the years — all 180 of them.
Ink may fade, paper may yellow — but the stories endure.
And so does the dream.