As of the date that I am writing this, the Center to Protect Journalists (CPJ) has reported that there have been 48 journalism deaths in 2016. As alarming as that number might be, it’s far from a comprehensive—just off the top of my head there are three people missing from that list that I met earlier in the year before their tragic deaths.
Thigh-deep in orange mud, I looked to my right and saw Ja San Gawlu, my fixer for the week, in the same situation- both of us with our bodies being devoured by mercury-contaminated remnants of a gold mine that had been shut down by the government earlier that week. As I looked over Ja San’s eyes met mine, and she began to smile, letting out an amused laugh that pierced the rainy sky between us. It was just one of many moments that week that I felt forever grateful for her and every other fixer I have worked with.
Since diving head-first into the world of journalism, I’ve spent countless hours reading books, articles and reports about sexism in the industry. There’s no denying it: statistically, women are at a disadvantage to their male counterparts.
On a dry, hot afternoon I found myself walking through the streets of downtown Yangon, unwinding after a particularly emotional interview with a woman who had given herself an abortion just three months before, her face grave and unmoving as she told me her story.
After the interview, I knew I needed to collect my thoughts so I went to a bookstore, looking for something to occupy my mind. Moving through the shelves, picking up anything I could find in English, I came across a magazine: Frontier Myanmar. Upon opening its pages I was greeted with two-page spreads of color photos, well-designed infographics and news. Picture after picture pulled me in, almost all of them having the same credit line: Ann Wang.
