There’s nothing new about events that seem extraordinary to eyewitnesses appearing mundane in newsrooms. Various permutations of ‘no death, no story’ are used to summarily kill pieces by reporters covering non-fatal catastrophes. Such stories are further condemned by a shortage of casualties.
In such circumstances, the recent Thamel fire, which counted more businesses than people among its victims, was never going to be front-page news. Among the decimated were the Om Handicrafts shop, the recently inaugurated Faces Lounge, Shisha Bar, and the flagship branch of Thamel stalwart, Pilgrims Book House.[break]
Pilgrims, whose concerned patrons have been understandably waxing lyrical about it since the incident, had arguably the most to lose. The store is gutted, and a carpet of blackened books awaits those who will carry out the clean up. To make matters worse, the store’s owners had let their insurance policy lapse, and now face some tough choices over what to do with their much-celebrated 25-year-old business.
The fire started late one Thursday evening. It was approaching closing time for many of the district’s eat-and-drinkeries. Meanwhile, at the offices of the country’s leading daily newspapers, this was rush hour. Reporters and editors alike were busy filing and finishing stories, ready for press. But it’s inconceivable that chatter from their phones, Facebook and Twitter, did not penetrate the low hum of newsroom production.
Yet, upon opening the following morning’s papers, I was surprised to find the event uncovered. Hours later, articles started to surface on their websites, but again, I found myself questioning how it was that, more than 15 hours after the fire had started, I still knew more about the incidents than these apparently hurried reports could tell me. I saw little evidence of on-the-ground reportage, further highlighted by the conspicuous absence of photographic evidence. One site’s story even carried a stock image of some fire. Not the fire. Just some fire.
Like anyone who feels the morning after that they have lost something from the night before, I began to retrace my steps. A friend had texted me at around 10pm, having just concluded dinner in a Thamel restaurant. Her group had descended onto the street to find gas cylinders being carried out of buildings by worried-looking waiting staff. Tourists and tat-wallahs were beginning to gather. The air was hot, and the first of the seven fire trucks servicing the incident was arriving on the scene.
I took to Twitter, where the story was only just beginning to break. One on-the-ball freelancer had already contacted the Police Department hotline, who had claimed the fire was “under control”, although the barrage of tweets and Facebook statuses posted into the early hours suggested otherwise. In fact, the fire raged on indiscriminately throughout the night, and was only completely extinguished some time the following morning.
There is nothing unusual about a story breaking via social media before more conventional or traditional sources arrive on the scene. Similarly, the reliability of some of the information appearing in tweets and statuses is often highly questionable. This phenomenon, if that’s what it is, has well and truly arrived on the streets of Kathmandu, but with one rather depressing modification. The production of more rigorous coverage by bona fide journalists is conspicuous in its absence for much longer than elsewhere, and is incomplete even on arrival.
Just as online reports the following morning—and printed stories the following day—left us wanting more, the approach to coverage of the Thamel fire left me with more questions than answers.
Colin Cooper
Why weren’t reporters dispatched when news of the fire first broke? Why did online editions carry summary details gleaned from a police press conference, with little or no attempt made to consult eyewitnesses and those affected? Why were Nepal’s majority offline audience denied this information until 36 hours after the destruction started? What does it say about Nepal’s news media if, when a public interest story such as this breaks, reporters and editors simply shrug their shoulders and send their papers to print regardless? More broadly, what does this attitude say about democracy, and the responsibility the media has to keep the public informed? Should it matter that the event happened late, or that nobody died?
And so on. Perhaps you’ll think I’m exaggerating, but I do believe that it is in the minutiae of such incidents that broader realities can be exposed.
Nevertheless, a friend mused—with equal parts banality and accuracy— that it “could have been much worse.” With only two reported casualties among the several hundred placed at risk, this is undoubtedly true. But another, equally accurate (and less cliché) observation would be: it should have been much worse. Also, it will be much worse. The sooner we accept the reality of this first amendment, and the certainty of the prophecy in the second, the better.
Thamel is a tinderbox. The area packs in thousands of restaurants, guesthouses, bars, shops and travel agents, and it is no small wonder that incidents like this one haven’t happened more frequently. As with businesses in the rest of the country, their survival often depends on a range of highly flammable or combustible objects: gas cylinders, generators and dodgy wiring all lie in wait, and can be prodded into self-destruction by even the slightest carelessness.
Restaurateur and former Kathmandu-dweller, Thomas Kilroy—founder of both Kilroy’s and K-Too’s in the district, told me the day after the fire that his staff have been briefed on health and safety regulations and fire drills “since day one”. But with scant legislation and even less enforcement in these areas, how many more of Thamel’s handshaking buildings contain anyone with sufficient procedural knowledge on what to do when the worst happens?
And what about when the worst does happen? Nepal’s awareness of disaster risk reduction is increasing, but is still not taken seriously even by those with the most to lose. What happened to Pilgrims et al could happen to any of us, at any time. When it does, it seems likely that the best reporting will be done not by our news media, but by any citizen in possession of a smartphone. But that alone will be of little consolation in the face of the potential for loss of life and livelihood for so many. In Thamel as elsewhere, it’s time to wake up.
Pilgrims Book House’s other Kathmandu branch, located on J.P. Road opposite Helena’s restaurant, remains open for business.
The author is a journalist from the UK, based in Kathmandu
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