The year that was: Looking back at stories that affected us in 2018

We bring you some of our landmark stories of 2018.

A reporter, they say, is only as good as her or his last byline. Generally, yes. But then there are few stories that a journalist will stumble upon in their lifetime that will redefine them in ways they couldn't have imagined. 2018 was a year of many such stories for Team KT. Stories that enhance our understanding of humanity. Stories that have the power to shift our perspective. Stories that can make us understand nuances of events (death of a film star) and movements (like #MeToo). This year, KT reporters did some exceptional on-ground reportage: elections in Pakistan, floods in Kerala, war in Yemen, Amnesty in UAE. We met some extraordinary people: a child soldier who watched his family get killed, an expat granddad who was going home empty-handed after 20 years in the UAE. We witnessed philanthropy, trends, and stories of hope. 
What I learnt in the week that we covered Sridevi's death

 
Dhanusha Gokulan
When the Bollywood comedy-drama English Vinglish released in 2012, my parents were probably one of the first few residents from Sharjah to rush to the cinema nearest to our home. The movie starred Sridevi Kapoor, an actor who was one of India's greatest and most versatile. With English Vinglish, she returned to film acting.
That night my dad had said, "It's Sridevi's comeback movie. I'm sure it's going to be really good." And with that, he dragged the entire family to the theatre.
I ended up watching the film six more times. Even after the long hiatus from acting, the actor had lost none of her charm.
During a career spanning five decades, Sridevi was a huge box office success who captivated India and I had seen most of her movies. From Sadma to Mr. India, and numerous Tamil films. All her films had in some way left a lasting impression on me.
So on the late night of Saturday, February 24, when I saw a tweet that said she was no more, I felt shock. I was overcome by the feeling that I'd lost one of my own. A part of my childhood was gone. I alerted my colleagues that she had died in Dubai. It wasn't easy to fall asleep that night. I kept thinking of the movies she'd acted in and what they meant to me.
The next morning, I woke up to my phone ringing. It was 7.30 am, and I already had six missed calls from my editor, two missed calls from my colleagues, and five other calls from other journalists in the UAE. I was flooded with messages as well.
"Is it true Sridevi died here in Dubai? Which hospital is her body in?"
The actor was in the UAE to attend her nephew Mohit Marwah's wedding. After the wedding celebrations in RAK, the actor came to Dubai.
After it was certain she had passed away - in the bathtub - I knew I had to get to work instantly. Reporters from my team were desperately trying to find where her body could be. We were also pursuing leads with the Dubai Police.
Without a moment to waste, I called a source at the Indian diplomatic mission (Consulate General of India) in Dubai, and he confirmed what the media was saying. However, he added, "She was found dead in a bathroom at the Jumeirah Emirates Towers Hotel and her body was moved to Rashid Hospital in Dubai."
Khaleej Times was the first to report this particular piece of information regarding her death, and though we'd updated this report online, I realised that the story was far from over.
We broke the story on Sunday morning, and what ensued was four nail-biting days of trying to find out more details of her death, and waiting for her body to be repatriated back home to India.
This was one of the most high-profile deaths to have taken place in Dubai in recent times. As journalists, we took it upon ourselves to cover it honestly and accurately, leaving nothing to speculation or rumour mongering. The process was played out on all KT channels - print, web, and social media.
By Sunday afternoon (Feb 25), we learnt that her body was moved to the Forensics Department.
After that was a long wait. We constantly hounded the police and forensic department officials for comments about the cause of death and the circumstances surrounding it.
We broadcast hourly updates via Facebook. Those were watched locally and internationally, including by our media counterparts in India, who were broadcasting it on their channels. That week, Khaleej Times broadcast 30 videos on Sridevi including 25 FB lives for a total viewership of over two million.
On the second day, we did live web blogs. A core team was formed, consisting of two reporters, our principal correspondent for Dubai Police Amira Agarib and myself, our video team editor Abhishek Sengupta, video journalist Rahul Gajjar, and two interns. We became a tight unit and kept a close eye on developments.
On the afternoon of Monday, February 26, an autopsy report was released and the cause of death was confirmed: 'death by accidental drowning'.
We had camped outside the Forensic Department, and every morning from 8am to 11pm, we waited to provide information to our readers. We spoke to fans who waited outside to pay their respects to the late star, we made connections with forensic department staff.
Police officials told us that protocol was being followed. It wasn't that they were delaying the process but the long wait led to speculation about the circumstances surrounding her death.
Finally on Tuesday afternoon, the Dubai Media Office revealed in a tweet that the 'case is closed'.
A public prosecution source told Khaleej Times: "The forensic report showed her death was an accident and foul play has been ruled out so the case has been closed". Her body was going back home to Mumbai, India, for a state funeral.
As much as Sridevi's death broke my heart, covering it was something that we, as UAE journalists, took as a challenge. The accurate reportage pushed the boundaries of what was acceptable in the UAE media and what was not.
dhanusha@khaleejtimes.com
When she's not running after her dog, Dhanusha sings and writes songs

Ibrahim came home to family after 3 years in a refugee camp

Sarwat Nasir
When I was asked to write "my best news story" from 2018, my first few thoughts were the countless space-related stories I have covered - all the way from stories on UAE's first astronaut to interviewing the pilot who flew Virgin Galactic's spacecraft to space for the first time.
Space was a hot topic in the UAE this year and will pick up in coming years. Many of my space-related stories made it to the front page of Khaleej Times. But a different story made 2018 special for me as a reporter.
Since 2016, I had been chasing a story about an 11-year-old Syrian boy who was separated from his family. Ibrahim was sent to live in a refugee camp in Hamburg, Germany. For two years, I filed several stories that highlighted him and his family's plight, all in the hope that maybe a kind-hearted family or a government entity would help reunite Ibrahim Hassan Hamad with his loved ones in Ajman.
I was confident that a positive change was meant for the Hassan family and this belief stemmed from the kindness the people of the UAE had shown to Syrian residents in the country.
In 2016, Ibrahim's two siblings, who live in Ajman, were offered free education until graduation by the Safa Community School and Safa British School in Dubai after I had highlighted their struggles in a news story.
And the help wasn't limited to just the Hassan family, another Syrian family with four children have also been granted free education by the same two schools.
My inbox was flooded with touching emails from residents offering assistance to Syrian families who couldn't afford an education for their children in the UAE. Some wanted to give books. Others were offering free home tuition to them.
Even though this was a life-changing event for the families, I couldn't stop thinking about how Ibrahim must have felt, being alone in that refugee camp in Hamburg. He may have read the good news about his siblings' free education, but his own lonely struggle couldn't be ignored.
I visited Ibrahim's family home in Ajman several times over the past two years. I've seen his brothers and sister grow in confidence and develop important skills, all thanks to the education they are receiving. I remember seeing them at Sharjah airport when they arrived in the country from Turkey (where they first arrived after fleeing Syria). They were quiet, afraid and lacking hope. Today, I have full conversations with them in English and they shine with a healthy self-confidence.
One wish, however, they continued to have for a long while was to see their brother again.
More than 200,000 Syrians reside in the UAE. Some moved here much before the conflict, many who fled the war. For the Hassan family, it was the latter.
The UAE had announced in 2016 that it will welcome 15,000 Syrian refugees into the country. This piece of news was published shortly after I had reported Ibrahim's plight - it gave us hope.
But, it wasn't until the generous amnesty scheme in 2018 was announced when that hope turned into reality. The scheme included giving a temporary one-year residence visa to Syrian refugees to help them get their lives back on track. Luckily, Ibrahim was one of the recipients and so were many others, whose stories I covered.
When I had called Ibrahim's father to inform him about the amnesty, he was overjoyed, to say the least. A few weeks later, I received a WhatsApp message from him, where he had sent me an image of a legal document - a piece of paper that was going to change their lives for the better. Ibrahim's UAE visa had arrived.
I immediately called him after seeing the message. "I bet your wife is shedding happy tears right now," I had said to him.
"I'm going to go home and surprise her with the visa papers. I want to see her reaction," he replied.
UAE amnesty changed the lives of other Syrian families as well. A young girl was reunited with her family in Ajman. Two elderly parents were able to stay with their daughter in Sharjah.
On September 18, I was able to write a story I was waiting to write for so long. 'Boy who spent 3 years at German refugee camp reunites with family in UAE' - the headline in Khaleej Times read. It is easily my best news story from 2018.
Ibrahim was offered free education from the Safa schools as well after he arrived.
When I visited their home after his arrival, the family members were all smiles, but most important of all - they were complete and all together. They were a family again, with another sibling on the way.
Loss, separation and pain described the Hassan family's story best many months ago. Now, their story is a perfect example of resilience, strength and hope.
sarwat@khaleejtimes.com
When not reporting or playing the piano, Sarwat's at karaoke

How a bottle of water started a conversation I won't forget

Angel Tesorero
It was the first day of the UAE amnesty program. As expected, thousands of overstaying expats trooped in to the GDRFA (General Directorate of Residency and Foreigners Affairs) office in Al Aweer on August 1.
It was also the middle of summer. There were two huge tents that could accommodate up to 3,000 men and women (in separate tents), but people were also waiting outside, with papers under their arms, wiping sweat with handkerchiefs or towels.
That's how I met Francisco Pacheco. He approached me asking for directions. I forgot my reply but I was holding a bottle of water and I offered it to him.
Francisco was shy. He took the bottle of water and thanked me. I knew there had to a story behind this guy in a cap, wearing a black shirt and jeans, carrying a backpack and a transparent envelope that held an obviously worn-out passport.
I asked him about his case. His reply was curt. I only learned that he was 58 years old and came to Dubai in 1991.
He finished the water. It was just a small bottle so I told him to come inside the tent where there were several fridges filled with bottles of water. He took another bottle and we sat down.
I earned his trust and that's when he told me his story. His troubles began when the company he worked for in Jebel Ali closed down in 2010. Instead of going back to the Philippines, he went on a visa run to Kish Island in Iran and returned to Dubai on a visit visa to search for jobs. No one hired him. But he was still supporting his children who were in college, so he had no choice but to stay in Dubai and find a job.
Our conversation lasted for more than an hour and he shared how he missed his family who he hadn't seen for more than a decade. When he left the Philippines, he had three kids and now he already had five grandchildren.
Francisco was just one of the many people I spoke to. I interviewed several people that day, overwhelmed by their stories. Many I met have overstayed because they were not able to pay their debts, some lost jobs, others absconded after suffering abuse from their employers. In all these cases, instead of going back home, people opted to stay in the UAE because they felt that back home they may not be able to find suitable work.
I was also waiting for statistics - how many applied for amnesty on the first day, how much fines were waived by the authorities, how many would be repatriated, etc.
But news is not just about the who, what, where, when or how. It is also about telling stories and guiding the readers to connect with your stories.
I called Francisco the following day. He had got his repatriation papers and was finishing packing his things. And after 27 years of living and working in Dubai, he was taking back only clothes and a few belongings, everything that weighed a little over 30kg - that's like accumulating only 1kg of possessions each year!
He had only a couple of dirhams in his wallet and a small bag of dates and chocolates for his apo (grand kids). He had reconciled to going home broke. But that did not dampen his spirits as he marked the calendar on his wall and encircled August 11 - his date of travel back home to the Philippines to be with his family.
His story got published before he left Dubai. Some readers emailed me and asked for his contact details. One Filipina met him and gave him Dh1,000; one British expat also gave him cash. Staff at a Dubai-based company pooled their money and gave it to him.
Francsico did not go home empty-handed after all, and there was joy in his heart when he called me from the airport the day he left Dubai. I was also happy because I wrote a story that had impact. It had emotion because I lent my ear and allowed room for honesty and vulnerability in my story.
It was not over the top dramatic. Readers were able to connect emotionally. It moved them enough that they generously gifted him cash and other presents.
I reported how the amnesty program benefited thousands of people but I was happy that I did not just state the facts and figures. I focused on a specific person to tell a story and it all began with a small conversation after handing out a bottle of water.
angel@khaleejtimes.com
Angel doesn't let things get to him. His BP is the stuff of dreams

Before Kerala floods, a week with UAE troops in Yemen

Anjana Sankar
The war in Yemen is dubbed the 'forgotten war.' An under-reported tragedy in the Middle East that was overshadowed by another protracted conflict in Syria.
A trip to Yemen was a reporting assignment I had been looking forward to in 2018.
It did not land that easily. The volatile security situation meant months of waiting and several last-minute call offs. Finally, I got the green signal in August to fly to the country currently marked as the most dangerous destination in the world.
It was a week-long military embed with the UAE army, which is fighting the Iran-backed Al Houthi rebels in the North and the Al Qaeda in the South. A military briefing with a top commander and a UAE minister followed by a security briefing preluded the trip. The instructions were simple - lie low, switch off location service on mobile phones, and no social media postings that could compromise our safety.
As soon as I boarded the military aircraft and joined around 60 Emirati soldiers on board, one thing was clear: I was stepping into a singularly masculine terrain. From open toilets to all-male accommodations, it was a man's world, which I had to breach along with the one other female journalist from the UK. The other two journalists in our four-member team were men.
The military embed meant we were living and moving with the coalition forces under tight security throughout the trip. My stay in the coalition army base, though comfortable with all basic amenities and surprisingly delectable food, had an eerie feel to it.
The isolation inside the camp was not what is ideally desirable to a nosy journalist, but unavoidable in a war zone. I figured we were in the section of the camp meant for officers and pilots. They did not look like the typical battle-hardened men in uniform; their relaxed demeanor never betrayed the dangerous and important job they do.
It was the walls that fortified the compound and the monster military vehicles parked inside that were intimidating.
We travelled in bullet proof vehicles with a heavily-armed military convoy that escorted us at all times. Jeeps carrying Kalashnikov-totting Yemeni soldiers with bullet belts wrapped around their chests crawled along or would whizz past our vehicle as we were driven around. When we flew to Edan on a Black Hawk, apache helicopters escorted us. The UAE army did not want to take any chances with security.
It was an eye-opening experience to travel through the erstwhile Al Qaeda territory in Mukalla and the port city of Aden, once a coveted British colony and a bustling modern Arab capital city, which came under Houthi attack.
The horrors of the war and its aftermath loomed closer as we visited hospitals and land mine sites. Ruins from the bombings were visible everywhere. Buildings marked with bullet holes and burnt skeletons of cars lined the streets.
I met people who were piecing together their lives after living under the repressive yoke of AQAP (Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula). I spoke to mothers who have no choice but helplessly watch their babies starve and shrink.
I met children as young as five years of age who had become amputees. They were too young and carefree even to understand what had happened to them. It was distressing to encounter such suffering.
One thing I learned from my trip to Yemen is that a journalist in a conflict zone is no hero. It is just a job that needs to be done and someone needs the pluck and professionalism to be on the frontlines. It is indeed risky, as you need to be constantly on guard. It takes a second for the situation to turn hostile.
Heroism is actually working in a war or a disaster zone discarding one's own safety to help the suffering millions, living constantly in fear of losing your life.
My trip in Yemen had the most unexpected end when a natural calamity struck Kerala, my home state. Sitting in the coalition army base, I watched with disbelief as deadly floods raged across the South Indian state. It was almost unreal to me, that while in a war zone, I was caught up in another tragedy happening thousands of miles away. As soon as I landed back in Abu Dhabi, I was off to Kerala to report on the floods, its aftermath and for another tryst with tragedy.
anjana@khaleejtimes.com
Anjana is a humanist. Her cluttered desk is not indicative of her state of mind

The fun of being Laila Blue, a virtual influencer in the UAE

Janice Rodrigues
While scrolling idly through Instagram sometime last year, I stumbled across the profile of Lil Miquela, an online star with a unique selling point - she wasn't real. Sure, she had more than a million followers, supported real movements, wore real brands and had even released a song on Spotify - but that didn't stop the fact that she was completely CGI.
Everything about her was carefully crafted, and audiences were hooked. After all, she challenged the status quo by proving that you don't need to be rich or famous or good looking. or even real to be famous. The more I contemplated it, the more I was hooked too.
So, when the UAE got its own 'virtual influencer' in the form of Laila Blue earlier this year, I was excited. and a tad nervous. You see, anything - even a positive trend - created for the wrong reasons, diminishes the value of the trend as a whole. And I had interacted with a fair number of bloggers and influencers to know that some do not ruminate over their online actions.
Tentatively, I reached out to this virtual person. Is an interview possible? Yes, turned out it was. Even better, Laila Blue's founder (called A as he/ she wishes to remain anonymous) had thought things through, down to the very last detail.
"Why Laila Blue?" I asked "Does the name stand for anything?"
"She's half-French so Blue is an old nickname that came from Allez Les Bleus. She can be quite patriotic," A answered.
"What did you keep in mind when developing her personality?" I asked next.
"She's designed to make people question the reality of the virtual world and to spread positive, meaningful messages. The irony of people hating her because she's different has not escaped her," A replied.
What is it that draws us to like and follow non-existent celebrities? "The absurdity of them," says A. "They make people feel childlike in some ways - interacting with them and getting a response makes it fun."
When filing this story, an editor focused on that part. "Who hates Laila?" she asked me. "How can you hate someone who isn't even real?" The answer to that showed up almost as soon as the article was published. Many of the comments that poured in - ironically, online - were negative.
"This is the last thing the world needs"
"Why give influencers so much credit?"
"There are starving children across the world, and this is what you want to focus on?"
I understand the pushback. We've all done it - rolled our eyes when we heard the word 'influencer'. Something about the concept is irksome. Who are these people? What gives them the right to 'influence' us? Do they think their lives are better than ours? Wait, are their lives actually better than ours?
Scrolling through their social media platforms, it certainly seems to. They're young and fit, snacking on delicious food (which is presumably free) and wearing the latest brands (also presumably free). They're lounging on sunny beaches, with fruity drinks in hand, while we're toiling away under the fluorescent lightbulbs of office, watching their videos and living vicariously through them. What gives?
As A put it, "It's a fascinating time for the concept of influence as whole. Influencers are equally lauded and loathed." But, in my book, that only makes Laila Blue, and other virtual influencers, all the more fascinating.
In a world of filters and Facetune, she is built to be a commentary on society, while retaining the fun quotient. She doesn't consider herself an influencer and isn't trying to influence anyone (something she specifies in the original article). Instead, she's getting us to think, and that's what the best thing influencers can do.
Today, it's easy to hate influencers. After all, we've all heard the stories of the odd social media star charging exorbitant amounts of money to promote products they don't like or using bots to increase their number of followers. But while these bad apples are out there, there are others - like Laila - who are trying to post original content and be true to their followers. Perhaps, it's up to us to decide who deserve our attention and our 'likes'. In the meantime, here's hoping that 2019 will be the year we see more depth from the people we consider influencers.
After all, fame is a powerful took and can be used to help a local business that deserves it, shed light on important causes and even raise money for charities. If you are an influencer, I hope you can be known for more than the food you eat and the brands you wear.
Until then, as Laila says, let's focus on the love and lolz.
janice@khaleejtimes.com
Janice is a millennial who dislikes selfies and likes breaking stereotypes