Damir's blog

Lahore, Pakistan

A man wearing traditional white Pakistani clothes disappeared from the window back into the burning building. A minute later, a different man wearing black emerged from inside but it looked like someone was holding his lifeless body. The body was slowly pushed over the edge of the window and then released. Twenty seconds later the man in white came out again. He sat calmly for a few seconds in the open window with his back turned outwards and then just fell.

And that was it; both men were dead in less than a minute. After several long hours of fighting a raging fire (or were they short hours? Time gets twisted in extreme situations like this), this part of the story ended in the way I had feared from the beginning – the worst possible way. I shot pictures of people falling from the building to their deaths, of others crying on the ground, of desperate and helpless rescue workers.

It was supposed to be an easy pre-election day in Lahore. We did expect some heat as the campaign of the two main candidates was coming to an end but what happened that Thursday still haunts me without any signs of easing. What started as an easy day for me and poor government workers in their modern office building in Punjab’s capital ended with more deaths than in election violence across the country over the next few days.

Earlier in the day, just after arriving in Lahore I received a short text message saying that a fire had broke out on the seventh floor of a government building and that there could be some people trapped inside. I was on my way to the hospital where Imran Khan, the former Pakistani cricket player and rising star in politics, was recovering from an injury. He was big in the news and there was a possibility for journalists to see him but a building on fire, with people trapped inside, is always the priority. I put Imran aside for a while and headed toward the LDA Plaza.

As expected, the scene around the building was as chaotic and mad as in your darkest nightmares. The “do not cross” yellow line served only to make our pictures more dramatic. Hundreds of onlookers around the building stood in the way of already confused rescue teams showing no signs of fear or respect for the situation. Later, the rumor spread that the building had cracked and it may collapse – nobody either cared nor moved back an inch.

Inside the building, the situation was much worse. Above the seventh floor where the fire originally broke out, there were scores of people trapped. Obviously, they couldn’t make their way out of the building and had to be evacuated. It was not such a high building – only nine floors – and was accessible from three sides so one would think there must have be a way for all of the government employees to be rescued.

Unfortunately, that’s not what we witnessed over the next several dramatic hours.

Those who made it to the roof – some of them climbing ropes and cables up the facade of the building – were saved by helicopters. The aircraft hovered low above the burning building making the fire go wilder and launching a dangerous storm of debris that flew into people’s eyes and our cameras. But, for the people on the roof that was a salvation – one by one they were taken to safety. I could read the relief in their body language, no matter how small they looked through my lens as the helicopters flew away.

For others who were not lucky enough to make it to the roof, what seemed like a manageable fire soon turned into an inferno. At some point, more based on what I saw around me on the ground, I realized there was a minimal chance for these poor people to be saved. I’m not an expert in rescue procedures but this operation didn’t look very promising from the very beginning.

I focused my mind and cameras on two men, both sitting on the windows of the seventh floor, their legs hanging outside and faces wrapped in scarves to block the heat and the black smoke – one on the east and the other one on the south side of the building. For hours they both frantically gestured towards firefighters who could not do much except spray the building and cool victims with water from afar. Time was running out and the gestures of people trapped became weaker and weaker.

I quietly told a friend of mine, another journalist at the scene, afraid to hear it myself “they will jump”. He just closed his eyes; we both knew it will happen.

What happened later I had to carefully reconstruct – frame by frame in my head and pixel by pixel in my pictures. The final image was mind-blowing and very disturbing. But, it’s not really important what I say here – did they really jump to their deaths or just fall? For two men from the south side of the building the raging and approaching fire was too much – they could not stand the heat and smoke anymore. The man from the east side was still hanging onto the window for a long time but his movements were weaker and weaker. At some point he stopped showing signs of life.

In total, 25 people died in the terrible accidental fire at LDA Plaza in central Lahore on that day, local media reported later. The elections that brought me to Pakistan were relatively quiet and Imran Khan was still in the hospital.

For more pictures please visit the gallery here.

Just before the Buddhist year ends in Thailand and the new one begins in craziness of the water festival (we will report on that one, too), a lottery that no one wants to win is organized across the country.

For ten days in April, thousands of Thai boys face the possibility that one of their worst nightmares comes through – they can be drafted into the army and possibly sent to the deep south of the country where security forces fight the bloody conflict.

The draft itself is a typical Thai event – crowded, colorful and noisy. And bit crazy, too. After visiting few schools in which the draft was happening in the city centre, last Saturday I end up in Klong Toey, a notorious slum of Bangkok to witness the real drama.

Hundreds of boys, including some transgenders called katoeys or ladyboys here, showed up followed by great number of friends or relatives who will support their luck. It is a long event – it lasted the whole hot April day – and they do need support.

An entertaining Thai army captain grabbed the microphone early in the morning and did not leave it for a minute until the last of the boys knew his destiny. Loud instructions were combined with jokes and dramatic pauses just before the decision is told.

The decision is made in a lottery – every conscript, unless, for whatever strange reason, he volunteers or is capable enough to avoid the draft completely pulls out a ticket from the plastic bucket. If it’s black, he is free to go. But, if the ticket is red, the young man will be assigned to the army or navy unit and serve up to two years.

So, you can imagine the drama of the moment and disappointment/happiness after the ticked is pulled out. Hundreds of people is cheering and screaming “dam, dam!” (black in Thai language) as the young man pulls his ticked. The officer has to be even more loud to read it.

Little less drama but also with some nervous moments happens before the lottery when all the boys, ladyboys included, are put through basic medical examination. Everyone is carrying some sort of medical files, often with x-ray images of an old injury under their tattooed skins hoping that would be enough to avoid the draft.

Very few are put aside and later sent home for medical reasons. In the other corner, on a separate bench with some young Buddhist monks, ladywoys waited.

Thai transgenders are not allowed to change their gender on their national identification cards and, for an unlucky few, their barely noticeable physical changes means they are sometimes conscripted for military service and often subject to abuse.

On this Saturday, all the transgenders went home happy – no one ended up drafted for the army. But, hundreds were not that lucky and will spend long time serving the powerful Thai military. Others are already buying different weapons – plastic water guns ready to celebrate the Water festival and Thai New Year.

Here you can see more pictures and here our Reuters report on this largerly unpopular event.

Few weeks ago, my Reuters colleague Andrew Marshall and me went for another multimedia reporting trip to a destination that we both love and hate – to Thailand’s deep south. Underreported and difficult to sell/tell story somehow bleeds for years under the radar of big media with only occasional flashes and it is a challenge to do.

This time, the report focuses on Mahrosu Jantarawadee, a Thai Muslim militant that was killed with 15 others while attacking a military base in Narathiwat province. “Martyr to some, murderer to others”, Mahrosu’s story perfectly symbolizes the divide between Muslims and Buddhists in the southern Thailand.

Here is the report with pictures and here the “witness” video I recorded with Andrew in the troubled south.

A siren rips apart the silence at the tsunami memorial in Aceh. A short announcement follows, after a greeting in Arabic and blessing from God – everyone is to leave the site immediately. It is time for prayers and the memorial built around a huge ship stranded miles inland during the 2004 tsunami will soon close its gates. Visitors are leaving the site, expected to go to nearby mosque and pray.

I’ve been watching different groups silently walking through the gates – students, business-like people, families and tourists – few went praying. Others were more interested in small shops selling souvenirs and in their pictures being taken. Some stood behind the memorial’s fence, smoked a cigarette and then just boarded their buses.

Aside from some smaller districts in Indonesia that have sharia-inspired bylaws, Aceh is the only province in Indonesia, the country with the world’s largest Muslim population, where such laws are implemented. This is something that occurred for complicated reasons some of which go well beyond the religion itself and have more to do with Achenese tradition, the long struggle for the independence and conflict with outside forces, Jakarta included.

Indeed Aceh is where Islam, spreading from the Middle East, landed first in the archipelago (the province is often called “the verandah of Mecca”, something that is mandatory for every reporter coming from Aceh to mention) but it was only at the beginning of the 21st century when sharia was announced by the government in an attempt to finally end a rebellion that had lasted for decades.

The first punishments came after the law entered into force, in what locals say was something of a “pilot project”. It took few years to organise how the laws would be seriously implemented. A sharia police force was formed, courts were established, but it was the tsunami in 2004 and the following peace deal that marked the start of more ambitious implementation of several sharia laws passed by local authorities.

There is a strong connection between the devastating tsunami that killed 170,000 people in Aceh and the implementation of Sharia law.

A message in thick red letters handwritten on a wooden board is placed at a spot where it cannot be missed on a popular beach in Banda Aceh, the province’s capital. The warning to those who might be violating one of the Islamic law says: “Be aware! Being a couple dating alone at the beach in our village is your own responsibility”.

The other one, just down the road warns: “dating is extremely forbidden”. Beside the sign, a happy couple sits fully dressed in ankle deep water playing with their kid, offering an idealistic picture of a Muslims enjoying their time.

Dariani Binti Ali Basyah, a 46-year-old shop owner near the beach and a widow who lost her husband and three sons in the tsunami explains to me “I believe the tsunami was the punishment from the God. It was not just a natural catastrophe, it was the punishment. Since long time ago ulama was warning about the punishment that will be sent when we are not ready. Even last night at zikr (a collective prayer) they were talking about the punishment, the warning from the God”.

Now, villagers put up signs warning people from outside to obey the rules. “I’m worried it will happen again,” Binti continues. “There could be another disaster, not only tsunami. It can also be individual punishment”.

I look at the strong woman with a lot of respect for her struggle to rebuild her devastated life and stay safe. But, that does not make complete sense, many of my questions have no answers – why here, why innocent, why…?

I understand that according to Herr Marx religion can be the “opium of the people”, and that such a belief serves as the anaesthetic after the big tragedy, like an airbag that absorbs the impact of mighty calamity. I didn’t say any of that to the woman who didn’t expect any words from me anyway. I just lifted my camera, focused on her face with no visible emotion and then moved a lens to the right, snapping an unnecessary picture of a bloody sunset descending over Aceh.

Who am I to judge? I’m just a stranger who parachutes into other people’s lives and only hopes to understand. I read post-tsunami poems in the book I bought at the airport, one of them saying “I believe that this is a sign of His love/For us/An eternal love wrapped in secrets, which can never/Be grasped”.

These beliefs are not only found here near the sea and among the survivors; some people
across the province also think the tsunami was a message from God and some even take actions beyond writing warning messages. Recently, shops offering snacks and soft drinks to young people gathering nearby were set on fire, just to make sure young and unmarried couples would not sit too close to each other in isolated places, angering the God.

Other places, more isolated and far from villages, offer a different picture. On Lam Puuk beach, just outside Banda Aceh, hundreds of youngsters, boys and girls together, play volleyball, bury each other in the sand or just swim. No bikinis here, but people are certainly not fully dressed as sharia instructs – I see some headscarves and long robes, but people mostly wear loose t-shirts and shorts. It seems to be a lot of fun here, as it should be on a beautiful and sunny afternoon.

A group of teenage girls burry a boy in sand and insist I shoot a happy picture of them before they all run into the water. It gives me the feeling I’m in Lebanon or Jordan, but not Iran or Saudi Arabia. “Sharia lite”, a friend of mine suggests.

Who is going to make sure Sharia laws are implemented here, far from scared villagers and among just the ghosts of empty houses built for tsunami survivors in the wrong place? Sharia police perhaps, on their rare visits to such places.

Formed to implement Sharia law, Wilayatul Hisbah (WH), which is the official name for the sharia police, is spread across the province working in small units, patrolling and conducting occasional raids. The units are made up of different kinds of people – some of them claim to be on a mission, others just needed a job. There is no more obvious move for a journalist than to join the sharia police force patrolling streets and “isolated places”.

Facing strong competition from many of the so-called embeds I have done with different forces around the world, I must say that my time spent with WH was probably the most boring one. With only occasional moments worth documenting, most of the time
on patrol is spent praying or on coffee breaks. It was boring but interesting, a friend of mine would say, for such an important story that offers more downtime than excitement.

It all starts with in the morning with a military-style set up – men to the left,
ladies to the right – listening to the commander’s routine short speech. The force that looks more like a veteran boy-scout unit mixed with militant housewives will soon be deployed on pick-up trucks to the streets of Banda Aceh.

No weapons are carried, if you don’t count several Rambo knives hanging from the belts of “wehas”.

Their vehicle, clearly marked as WH, drives slowly until someone calls warning of a possible violation. On my first day with the force, I made friends with Iwan who joined the sharia police only a year ago. He seems to be more eager for action than others and I keep an eye on
him, looking for the picture that would tell the story.

After making several rounds, the pick-up leaves the city centre and goes into the labyrinth of a neighbourhood built unsystematically for the survivors of the tsunami – the patrol is obviously looking for someone who has broken the rules. This time, contrary to a reporter’s wish to witness something more exciting, the targets are three teenage boys who escaped school and are now smoking cigarettes in the shade of a big tree. The boys, naturally, jump and start running away the moment they see the patrol arriving. Iwan is the one who chases them but even his enthusiasm, which I suspect has something to do with my presence, fades as soon as the speedy violators disappear behind a fence into a bush.

Their school backpacks are searched and the proof of their anti-Islamic activity is found – a set of dominos that suggest possible gambling. The boys are too far away now and our patrol abandons the chase to go praying. The dominos are theatrically thrown into the mud.

After the mid-day prayer, more exciting law enforcement takes place – another schoolboy is captured, this time in an online game centre! Iwan keeps his big hands down but leans forward getting into the boy’s face to give him a moral lecture. His facial muscles dance, his
shoulders jump while bursts of words are fired at the kid. The boy remains very cool just like other young gamers in a dim room more excited about their scores of terminated cyber enemies and playing their fantasy football games. (As more bags are searched, a playstation wizard in the far corner seems to be unbeatable, with Messi, Ronaldo and Ibrahimovic in the same team).

Day after day, I witness more patrols all much alike. Only on Fridays, the routine changes. It is a Muslim holy day and men are supposed to go to the mosque for prayers. This
time, to ensure sharia is not violated, only an all-female unit is deployed to the city, armed with determination and a pair of loudspeakers mounted on their trucks. The message broadcast is simple and loud – all the business are to stop their activities, all shops to close and Muslim men are to go to the nearest mosques. Indeed, as the prayer time gets closer, more and more curtains are placed over the shop windows and the streets are almost deserted by men.

The patrol vehicle spots a small restaurant still open minutes before prayers start, and it pulls over, with a warning blasting from it speakers. A policewoman gets out of the truck and walks towards a man whose meal has just been served. A piece of chicken in his hand, he faces a lecture. In a movie-like scene, they look into each other’s eyes for few long seconds
and the man gives-up. It might be because a journalist is present but he gets up and leaves his lunch for prayer.

Back at the station, our mutual addiction to black coffee brings an Achenese and a Bosnian closer, and I use the downtime to talk to Iwan. The interview turns into a monologue as soon as the first question is asked, when Iwan gives me a theological explanation of a variety of issues. I write down the main points: he is on a mission spreading love among Muslims, he confirms that the tsunami was the punishment from the God, there should be more sharia police and implementation should be stricter… As far as possible human rights violations go, he laughs and says there are none and that everything is matter of perception.

However, human right activists warn that the implementation of Sharia actually does violate some human rights that are guaranteed by Indonesia’s laws and international conventions. Evi Zian, a prominent human rights activist from Banda Aceh explains that the rights of most vulnerable groups are indeed violated. “Implementation of sharia law actually brought human rights violations. Implementation itself using discrimination and also not following the law that had been ratified by Indonesian government. The vulnerable groups who had been getting
lots of discrimination are women, young people, minorities and, of course, the poorest.”

In the days that followed I visited those from vulnerable groups, carrying my camera and sound recorder with me. In a coffee shop called Black Jack, members of a punk band known best for an episode in which they were publicly punished and had their hair shaved, perform a song about equality for me on improvised instruments. (There is no boss, no subordinate/One goal, one hope/Live free, no occupation).

A few of the province’s remaining homosexuals and transsexuals complain that Aceh is probably one of the worst places for them to live but “it’s still okay”. A rather large group of protestant Christians who gathered for an early Christmas celebration in their church seem to be happy people, but also point out some difficulties.

Despite Sharia law, all of them say they are at home for good and, if the rules are followed, everything will be okay. At the same time, they do complain about sometimes un-professional and partial implementation of laws, mostly blaming it on the police and individuals who sometimes take things in their own hands.

“I don’t like the Sharia police, they disturb me” says one rebellious boy enjoying the nice afternoon at the beach. He confirms what many others are saying – for them, the problem is not the laws and Sharia itself, the real problem is implementation.

Human right activists indeed say that implementation is not what it should be – the police themselves sometimes violate laws and the rich and powerful get away without punishment
while the poor are regularly targeted. For some, such punishment is more than enough. Humiliated, they leave their villages or in the worst-case scenario – like the case of a teenage girl recently accused of adultery – they kill themselves.

Outside the capital Banda Aceh, the image changes slightly. There are more violations closer to the border with other provinces, while strong self- rule prevails in remote areas.

However, the main thing remains the same – there is a law, a force to implement it and politics above everything. It all makes one big power game in which the poor and the weak seem to suffer the most.

Seen from abroad, the issues surrounding sharia seem more serious and dramatic, partly due to sensationalist reporting and all the fuss about Islam in the world. You would see pictures on TV or in the paper of violators being publicly punished, but the number of such cases and the reality is different. Very few punishments actually happen under sharia, and most of them are not meant to physically hurt but just to give a moral lecture.

However, the set of laws in force in Aceh is just a smaller part of what would be full Sharia implementation, covering all levels of society. At present, the sharia package in Aceh targets only those violating the Muslim dress code, illicit behaviour, drinking and gambling.

Some more serious laws with punishments that would include stoning to death are in procedure but not implemented yet. Many of those I spoke to – regular folks with ordinary lives, predict that will never happen.

I spent my last few days in Aceh documenting daily life in the province devastated by long decades of conflict and by a tsunami which left scars difficult to heal. For two boys wearing football jerseys (one Rooney and one Suarez) in an Islamic boarding school for orphans, I’m just another foreigner who has come only to leave a few days later. They ignore me, as they should.

For patients in a mental hospital whose number rose after the tsunami, I’m just someone who has cigarettes. For Winda and Yasir Saputra, a couple who met over Facebook (which is incredibly popular because of the restrictions imposed on young people) and whose wedding I photographed, I’m just another guy with the camera who promises pictures…

As I leave through the gates of a new, mosque-like airport building, another post-tsunami poem comes to my mind “To be born in Aceh is a disaster/To be born in Aceh is a curse/But the Achanese people are mighty proud and die here/God is Great/By God, the Achanese people are used to tests”.

The plane takes off and the Bosnian in me finally feels he understands at least a part of the complicated story – the part about the curse and the part about pride.

You can see some more pictures here.