Politics and the Press in Thailand: Media Machinations (Routledge Research in South East Asia)

Politics and the Press in Thailand

An important element in the Thai success story during the boom years of the late 1980s and early 1990s was the flourishing and politically interventionist print media. Politics and the Press in Thailand is the first book in English to examine the tangled web of relationships linking newspaper owners, editors, columnists and reporters, with leading politicians and power-holders. Duncan McCargo was granted unique access to the editorial meetings and newsrooms of Thailand’s leading newspapers. Drawing on numerous interviews and extensive observation, this book unpacks the contradictions and dichotomies that underlie political coverage in the Thai language press. This highly original book discusses in detail: • • • • • •

the historical and conceptual background of the press in Thailand the process of political news-gathering the work of parliamentary reporters the internal politics of a newsroom the influential role of political columnists the impact of the 1997 economic crisis on the Thai press.

McCargo argues that Thai definitions of ‘news’ and ‘comment’ lead to a passive attitude to news-gathering and questionable reporting practices based on reproducing the opinions of politicians and other senior figures. It is suggested that only a systematic reform of the news-gathering and news-production processes will lead to a substantive change in the way ‘news’ is presented to the Thai people. Duncan McCargo is a senior lecturer in politics at the University of Leeds. His other books include: Chamlong Srimuang and the New Thai Politics (Hurst, 1997), Media and Politics in Pacific Asia (Routledge, 2001) and Reforming Thai Politics (edited, NIAS, 2001).

Rethinking Southeast Asia Edited by Duncan McCargo, University of Leeds, UK

Southeast Asia is a dynamic and rapidly changing region which continues to defy predictions and challenge formulaic understandings. This series will publish cutting-edge work on the region, providing a venue for books that are readable, topical, interdisciplinary and critical of conventional views. It aims to communicate the energy, contestations and ambiguities that make Southeast Asia both consistently fascinating and sometimes potentially disturbing. This series comprises two strands: Rethinking Southeast Asia aims to address the needs of students and teachers, and the titles will be published in both hardback and paperback. Routledge Research on Southeast Asia is a forum for innovative new research intended for a high-level specialist readership, and the titles will be available in hardback only. Titles include: Politics and the Press in Thailand Media machinations Duncan McCargo

Politics and the Press in Thailand Media machinations Duncan McCargo

London and New York

First published 2000 by Routledge 11 New Fetter Lane, London EC4P 4EE Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 29 West 35th Street, New York, NY 10001 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2005. “To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.” © 2000 Duncan McCargo All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data McCargo, Duncan. Politics and the press in Thailand: media machinations/Duncan McCargo. Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. Press and politics – Thailand. I. Title. II. Series. PN4751 .M38 079'.593–dc21

2000 00-057637

ISBN 0-203-99599-6 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN 0–415–23376–3 (Print Edition)

Contents

Acknowledgements 1 Introduction: politics and the media in Thailand

vi 1

2 Political news-gathering in Thai language newspapers

31

3 The role of political reporters

51

4 Inside a political daily: editorial politics at Matichon

82

5 Investigative reporting? The strange case of ‘Dr S’

107

6 The power of the political columnist

136

7 Conclusion

166

Appendix Notes Select bibliography Index

177 178 194 198

Acknowledgements

This book would not have been written without David Beetham, who urged me to apply for the Economic and Social Research Council Research Fellowship which funded my work. I can only hope that the outcome justifies the faith he placed in me. The book is one major ‘output’ from my 1994–9 ESRC project H52427002694, ‘The politics of the media in Thailand and Pacific Asia’. I gratefully acknowledge funding for my year’s fieldwork in Bangkok (1995–6) from the ESRC, the British Academy Committee for SouthEast Asian Studies, and the Department of Politics, University of Leeds. I am greatly indebted to David S. Bell, my former Head of Department, for all his practical support. In Thailand, I owe so many debts that I can never begin to repay them. I should like particularly to thank the editorial staff and reporters of the following publications: Athit (especially Chatcharin Chaiyawttn), Thai Rath (especially Pramote Fai-uppara), Matichon (especially Sommai Paritchart), Phujatkan Daily (especially Khamnoon Sitthisamarn), and Siam Post (especially Roj Ngamman), as well as all the parliamentary reporters I encountered (especially Charin Chamsakorn and Sirikan Onpheng) and the many other media staff with whom I came into contact during my research. I would especially like to thank all those who granted me interviews. Some of my sources have preferred to remain anonymous. I am also very grateful to the following for their invaluable help and encouragement: Abhisit Vejjajiva, William A. Callahan, Chavarong Limpattamapanee, Matthew Copeland, Gordon Fairclough, Paul Handley, Kevin Hewison, Chalinee Hirano, Jane Vejjajiva, Korakot Surakul, Nattaya Chetchotiros, Nopporn Wong-Anan, Parichart Chotiya, Surasavadee Hunpayon, Walailak Piriyasurawong, Wilasinee Phiphitkul, and Wiraphan Tomibun. The National Research Council of Thailand kindly provided me with research permission for the study. My local mentor, Sombat Chantornvong, not only sponsored my NRCT application but has also been a constant source of advice and ideas for the past decade. While Sombat is Thailand’s most distinguished political scientist, Ubonrat Siriyuvasak is the most outstanding Thai scholar of media. I have learned an enormous amount from them both.

Acknowledgements

vii

I am also extremely grateful to Kevin Hewison, Kittipong Soonprasert, Nantiya Tangwisutijit, Naruemon Thabchumpon and Savitri Gadavanij, who kindly gave me useful comments and answered questions on draft chapters. Kanokrat Lertchoosakul helped me with additional research assistance in April and May 2000. The remaining mistakes and misinterpretations are all mine. Duncan McCargo Leeds June 2000

1

Introduction Politics and the media in Thailand

The media in Thailand is one of the principal sites of political contestation. Although the electronic media remains subject to considerable state control, the print media has carved out a great deal of political space for itself. Few countries in the world have a print media as vibrant and energetic as Thailand’s. Newspapers report freely and comment critically on all aspects of politics. The press is one of the most dynamic elements in Thai civil society, constantly monitoring and checking the power of both elected politicians and unelected bureaucrats. The Thai press proved its mettle in the political crisis of May 1992, when strong pressure from the print media was an important factor in driving the unpopular Suchinda government from office. The Thai press is an island of outspokenness in a tight-lipped ocean. No other ASEAN country apart from the Philippines permitted the existence of such a lively, critical, and highly independent press.1 The press in Vietnam and Burma was controlled by authoritarian regimes; in Malaysia and Singapore, formal and informal mechanisms of censorship abounded, while in Indonesia, until the fall of Suharto in 1998, self-censorship was widespread and publications were under constant threat of closure by the authorities. Unlike its counterparts in most of Southeast Asia, the Thai press has largely secured the right to say what it likes. Whereas in most other Southeast Asian countries the media is largely subordinate to state power, in Thailand relationships between the media and power-holders are vastly more ambiguous, and the issues involved more complex and subtle. This book sets out to explore those ambiguous relationships and complex issues, looking in some detail at the character of political coverage in the Thai press.

Background: the workings of the Thai press This book is concerned primarily with the Thai language press. The overwhelming majority of newspaper readers read Thai language newspapers: at the time of fieldwork, the two major English language dailies (Bangkok Post and The Nation) had circulations of only around 60,000 each.2 By contrast, the best-selling Thai language daily Thai Rath sold around 700,000 (over a million on the twicemonthly lottery days); its rivals Daily News and Khao Sot sold in the region of

2

Politics and the media in Thailand

400,000 and 160,000 respectively, whilst Matichon (a more serious newspaper) sold around 120,000. Other politically important newspapers at the time of fieldwork in 1995 included Phujatkan (70,000) and Siam Post (60,000). The majority of Thai politicians and political journalists are unable to read English well, and obtain the bulk of their news from Thai language sources. Thai language newspapers exist in a parallel world to that of Thai politicians and political parties. Not for nothing is the best-selling Thai Rath sometimes referred to as a ‘second government’. There are close connections between politicians and those who write about politics in Thai language newspapers. These are mutually beneficial arrangements. Both worlds are rich in rumour and gossip, characterised by constant power-play and intrigues. Most of the research for this book was carried out during a year of fieldwork in Bangkok, from February 1995 to February 1996. I engaged in several spells of participant–observation research, lasting anything from three weeks to two months, at the following locations: the editorial office of Athit Weekly (March 1995); the political desk of Thai Rath newspaper (April 1995); the reporters’ room at the Thai parliament (May 1995); the executive editor’s office, Matichon newspaper (July–August 1995); the culture desk, Phujatkan Daily newspaper (October–November 1995); and the front-page desk, Siam Post (November 1995 to January 1996). Fieldwork typically involved working closely with newspaper staff, attending daily news meetings and other editorial meetings, accompanying reporters to events, and conducting both formal and informal interviews. The primary focus of my research was the methods and approaches of media practitioners to the coverage of political news; I was only secondarily interested in the political issues that the press was engaged in covering. This book argues that, for all its vitality, strengths and remarkable achievements, the Thai press remains constrained by a number of factors from acting as a fully effective force for political change. Successful though they may often be in applying decisive pressure at times of political crisis, Thai newspapers are at the same time failing their readers and their society in numerous respects. In part, these shortcomings reflect structural problems within Thailand’s state and society, and have important historical explanations. But another set of shortcomings reflect failures on the part of newspaper owners, editors, columnists and reporters to adapt to changing political conditions, and to change and improve their news-gathering methods and working practices over time. A fundamental argument of this book is that political news-gathering in Thailand remains locked in a kind of time warp. One striking feature of political coverage in the Thai language press (discussed in detail in the news-gathering chapter) was the preoccupation with the gathering of quotations from ‘big shots’ in public life and the political world. The bulk of political news actually comprised a series of such quotations, without any real analysis, explanation or background. News had a different character and meaning from ‘news’ as understood in most other countries, even other countries in the same region. This was not a problem created by individual reporters but was inherent in the news-gathering system, which saw ‘collections

Politics and the media in Thailand

3

of opinion’ as equivalent to news. Whereas in most countries a news story had to have a clear point and was always summarised or set in context, in the world of Thai political news these principles were anathema. The contrast could not have been more explicit with a western publication such as The Economist, which had a policy of only using direct quotations from news sources where there was an important reason for doing so, and would rarely use more than a couple of sentences of direct speech. Accounting for this style of political news involves examining the Thai cultural and political context. Thai newspapers maintained a strict distinction between two kinds of political material: news (consisting of the opinions of important figures in the wider world) and comment (consisting of the opinions of important figures inside the newspaper). In this status-based order, mere reporters had limited powers; they were not entitled to analyse or explain anything.3 Analysis was the sole responsibility of columnists, who were already senior figures. But in practice, their ‘analysis’ was largely a matter of their personal opinion.4 What was largely absent was the sense of a duty on the part of newspapers to inform and explain political developments to readers who were not ‘in the know’, who needed concise and accessible information. Columnists often preferred to write in an opaque fashion, demonstrating their own inside knowledge; in this way they tried to show their seniority and importance, their power over others. Information (especially politically sensitive information) cannot necessarily be readily obtained in Thailand, even by those with good research skills. Because in Thai society access to information – like access to wealth and to power – derives mainly from inside connections, who you know largely determines what you know. Those who write for Thai newspapers and who wish to obtain exclusive stories need to establish ‘special relationships’ with news sources. Unfortunately, forming such a special relationship often involves compromising journalistic integrity. In some cases, ‘special relationships’, for example between columnists and politicians, involve newspaper staff in receiving material benefits. For the most part, however, the political coverage of Thai newspapers more reflects a very high degree of bureaucratisation and routinisation. Reporters operate as channels for the pronouncements of ‘big shots’, both senior bureaucrats and party politicians. Reporters typically have a very limited range of news sources, and lay themselves open to performing a public relations role for vested interests: to a large extent, they ‘wait for news’ rather than ‘look for news’. The apparatus of political news-gathering, focused as it is on key institutions such as Government House, parliament and the major ministries, reflects a highly conservative agenda which serves the interests of the state.5 Another feature of the Thai news media is its Bangkok focus. The extent to which Bangkok Thais are Bangkok-centric in their perception of Thailand is difficult to exaggerate; to the non-Thai, it can appear difficult to credit. The division of editorial departments into desks is revealing: typically, Thai newspapers have desks for types of news such as crime, politics, business, foreign news, sport, women, environment and entertainment. In addition to these, they have a separate desk for ‘provincial’ news. Any news story which breaks outside

4

Politics and the media in Thailand

Bangkok is first and foremost a provincial story; only in a secondary sense will it be considered a crime story, a political story, or whatever. Thai newspapers do not, as a general rule, maintain proper news bureaux staffed by career reporters in provincial areas.6 Instead, provincial news is the domain of ‘stringers’, who are paid largely by the story. Many stringers work for several different newspapers. Their status as local people in their districts and provinces makes it difficult for them to report objectively on many of the events which take place, since they work of necessity in close proximity with the very same government officials and businesspeople who are often most implicated in any illegal or semi-legal dealings. Provincial news is generally relegated to special pages designated for such news, most of which is extremely routine in nature. Most Bangkok-based reporters are uncomfortable travelling to provincial areas (other than areas with which they have some personal or family connections), and experience difficulty in obtaining news stories there. For them, important events are those which occur in the capital, or at least those involving nationallevel political figures. Beyond Bangkok is a kind of hinterland, where nothing of much significance is deemed to occur. Thus a typical political desk of a Thai newspaper might have twelve to fifteen reporters, none of whom ever venture outside Bangkok, except either to accompany a politician (such as the prime minister) on a provincial visit or to cover an election. The broad gamut of political activities which take place outside the capital, ranging from party meetings to farmers’ protests, are dealt with mainly on inside pages, in short and dismissive stories. The weakness of the system of provincial stringers was clearly illustrated during the run-up to the May 1995 no-confidence debate, when the Chuan Leekpai government was under attack over its handling of a land reform programme. Controversial former Deputy Agriculture Minister Suthep Theuksuban, the figure at the centre of the scandal, made a fiery and entirely unrepentant speech in his southern constituency of Surat Thani on 18 April. He called upon his supporters to march on Bangkok in their hundreds of thousands, to back up his stance on land reform. Local stringers in the province filed reports on the rally for all the main Bangkok dailies, but took the precaution of omitting Suthep’s rabble-rousing call for a march on Bangkok. The only newspaper to get the story was Siam Post, which had flown one of its Bangkok-based political reporters down to Surat to listen to Suthep’s speech. Once the story had appeared all over the front page of Siam Post, it was quickly picked up by other national newspapers and became a major issue, further undermining the credibility of the Democrats.7 Yet the fact that an important development could be missed by all but one of the national papers because of self-censorship on the part of their stringers illustrated the weakness of the stringer system, and begged the question: how many significant issues and developments (especially ‘upcountry’) were missed by the national press simply because of structural problems in their news-gathering operations? It is often argued that the transformation of the news media from relatively small-scale operations to the industrial character which it enjoyed in the 1990s

Politics and the media in Thailand

5

has led to an increasingly commercialised and business-oriented news media in Thailand. It is certainly the case that some Thai newspapers now form part of large business groups: these include Thai Rath, Matichon, The Nation and Phujatkan. Nevertheless, it is also the case that very few Thai newspapers are published solely for business reasons. Perhaps the single outstanding example of a profitoriented major newspaper is Daily News, the second best-selling Thai language newspaper, produced by a family company which has never sought to involve itself greatly in political activities. Most other newspapers in Thailand are preoccupied not simply with increasing sales or advertising revenues, but also with exerting various forms of political and economic power and influence. Only a handful of newspapers (Thai Rath, Daily News, Matichon, Khao Sot, The Nation, Krungthep Thurakit, Bangkok Post) have turned in regular and consistent profits. Most others are essentially loss-leaders, fronts for advancing the views and interests of their owners. This has long been the tradition of the Thai press; newspapers have been vehicles for political lobbying, backstabbing and rabblerousing, used by all manner of groups ranging from disgruntled foreigners to rightist vigilantes, from the military to communist insurgents, from party politicians to besieged monarchs. The purpose of owning a newspaper has been to advance your views, to get your voice heard, to talk up the prices of shares in companies you own, to discredit your enemies, to promote the interests of a friendly politician. Nor have these activities been confined to the formal owners of the newspaper, but they have also been available to those who could obtain access to its pages. The distinction between news and comment in the Thai context has the effect of creating a class of columnists with considerable licence to voice their personal views. Because columnists are sometimes locked into mutually beneficial relationships with politicians, the net result is a kind of diversification of newspaper ownership. Each newspaper has an owner (sometimes formally constituted as a company, but generally with one individual in a commanding role), but those to whom newspaper space has been allocated (columnists, especially senior columnists who enjoy a kind of territorial right to a given number of regular column inches) are in turn able effectively to sub-lease this space to interested parties. Columnists sell their services to politicians on a longterm basis, working on behalf of particular partisan interests. For a newspaper to adopt strong political stances which antagonised important power-holders was always risky. Politicians and other influential figures had numerous tactics at their disposal for toning down press criticism, ranging from co-optation to coercion. Any newspaper which sought to take on a powerful individual or group needed strong backing.8 As Girling noted, ‘with powerful protectors behind them, newspapers may also denounce or libel adversaries to a remarkable degree’.9 For example, when Chatichai Choonavan was ousted by the National Peace-Keeping Council (NPKC) in the 1991 military coup, Sondhi Limthongkul, the owner of the Phujatkan group, used his newspapers to attack and undermine the NPKC’s credibility. He did so with the tacit backing of Chatichai, and with the active support of a group of people who had been close

6

Politics and the media in Thailand

to the Chatichai government, including: Pansak Vinyaratn, former head of Chatichai’s advisory team; Kraisak Choonavan, son of Chatichai and one of his advisors; Chai-Anan Samudavanija, Chulalongkorn University political science professor and one of the brains behind the advisory team; Chalerm Yubamrung, one of Chatichai’s ex-ministers and sidekicks; and Manoon Roopkachorn, former ‘Young Turk’ military officer and coup-maker. Sondhi made his newspapers the focus of opposition to the NPKC, backed up by those who had lost out as a result of the coup.10 When the NPKC was ousted from power after the bloody events of May 1992, Sondhi publicly called for Chatichai to be given a chance to return to the premiership, illustrating the extent to which he was allied with the ex-prime minister. Similarly, Thai Rath, with formidable contacts in the political world and even within sections of the palace, was well placed to challenge power-holders. Yet the preferred style of Thai Rath was to achieve a modus vivendi with the government of the day. It would typically do this by first criticising and attacking a new administration, until the administration granted it respect and privileges in terms of access to information (not to mention business privileges). Generally, successive prime ministers would conclude that it was in their interests to kowtow to Thai Rath. General Prem Tinsulanond (1980–88), for example, who was always anxious that the press should not scrutinise his private life, cultivated excellent relations with Thai Rath’s owner, Kamphol Wacharapon. It is no coincidence that Prem was able to serve a remarkable eight years in office. Newspapers such as Thai Rath, and to a lesser extent Matichon, were able to cooperate pragmatically with governments of different varieties. Both welcomed the February 1991 coup and befriended the NPKC, but both were ready to denounce the coup-makers in May 1992 when they lost power. Individual newspapers were rarely in a position to act alone. More often, their political interventions had the character of mutually beneficial collaborative ventures, or barter trade. During the May 1992 events, anti-NPKC publications, led by The Nation, Phujatkan Daily and Naeo Na, formed a broad front against the military. In 1995, Thai Rath was engaged in a circulation war with Khao Sot, a newspaper owned by the Matichon group. The result was that when Thai Rath led a campaign against the Chuan government based on the issue of a land reform scandal within the Democrat Party, Matichon and Khao Sot initially lent support to the Democrats in order to check Thai Rath’s political power. Only as weeks passed by and the evidence of wrongdoing by the Chuan administration mounted did other newspapers begin to emulate the stance of Thai Rath; until eventually even Matichon and Khao Sot began explicitly to oppose Chuan. The land reform scandal was partly Thai Rath’s revenge for a previous story, a sex scandal involving prominent ‘superstar’ monk Phra Yantra. Beginning in 1994, Khao Sot had run allegations that Yantra had been engaged in sexual relationships with a number of women. Unwilling to support any story spearheaded by circulation rival Khao Sot, Thai Rath had trumpeted Yantra’s innocence until the evidence against Yantra became overwhelming. Only then did Thai Rath switch tack and condemn Yantra, whereupon Yantra was

Politics and the media in Thailand

7

drummed out of the monkhood early in 1995. Meanwhile, however, Thai Rath had lost out heavily in terms of both sales and credibility. Land reform offered Thai Rath the chance to turn the tables on Khao Sot, demonstrating that while Khao Sot might be able to lead the campaign to oust an errant monk, only Thai Rath could lead a campaign to remove an entire government.

The history of the Thai press Understanding the distinctive features of the contemporary Thai press involves a degree of familiarity with its history and origins. Significantly, the first Thai newspaper was founded by an American, Dr Dan Bradley, in 1844. Bradley set out to use newspapers as a means of influencing the then monarch, King Mongkut, and so having a broader political impact on the country. Boonrak describes the birth of the Thai press as ‘an indirect product of western expansionism’.11 Copeland notes that Bradley’s efforts were opposed by the court, and failed within a year.12 The Siamese monarchy responded to attempts by foreign missionaries to establish newspapers by countering with its own publications. The first of these was King Mongkut’s own Royal Gazette, launched in 1858. When the Royal Gazette failed, Mongkut sought to curtail journalistic activity in Siam. King Chulalongkorn reissued the Royal Gazette and also supported a number of ‘semi-official’ broadsheets.13 He also provided subsidies to the foreign language press in order to patronise and control it, a policy which was not entirely successful. His successor, King Vajiravudh (Rama VI), sought ‘to make use of the government-subsidised press as a vehicle for presenting his ideas to the broader public’.14 Vajiravudh published his own newspaper columns under pseudonyms, thereby engaging directly in the politics of disputation beyond the walls of the palace and making newspapers ‘an obscurely influential social institution’.15 Subsidies were provided by the government to several Thai and English language newspapers and one Chinese language paper.16 Newspapers in the period from 1912 onwards – a time of fevered controversy within the ruling elite as to the most appropriate form of political institutions to be adopted – featured numerous allegorical diatribes containing thinly disguised, but nevertheless vitriolic, criticisms of the monarchy and its hangers-on. Copeland argues that the King had ‘erroneously anticipated that few would dare to openly challenge his views’;17 the press turned out be a difficult medium to manage and to regulate. Attempts by the court to dominate political discourse were strongly countered by sections of the press which referred to themselves as ‘political newspapers’ (nangsuephim kanmuang),18 adopting a critical, oppositional stance. This stance was epitomised by the newspaper Sayam Samai, which published a single issue in 1917 before being closed down by order of the government. During the 1920s a large number of newspapers were started which adopted critical stances towards the Sixth Reign.19 These developments reflected the declining popularity of the monarch and a growing newspaper market resulting from the emergence of a new class of educated, literate and under-employed Bangkokians.

8

Politics and the media in Thailand

The origins of the Thai press, then, lay in the efforts of competing elite interest groups both inside and outside the charmed circles of power to advance their own positions and to undermine the standing of others. The press was partisan to the core, each publication dedicated to cheering its friends and discrediting its enemies. The press was also underhand, secretive and cryptic: the identity of columnists was disguised, and the meaning of their articles concealed by the use of analogies and allusions. Newspapers were thus ‘obscurely influential’, influencing only those sufficiently ‘in the know’ to be able to decipher the hidden meanings, to get the jokes, to grasp the point. This was a press created in a world of absolute monarchy, where political openness could only exist under severe limits. At the same time, the very existence of the press had the effect of expanding the size of the political public,20 with political consequences which were not entirely predictable. What began as an elite medium nevertheless had the effect of breaking down barriers, increasing the size of the politically engaged and informed class. After the end of the absolute monarchy in 1932, the tradition of a partisan press continued. Both of the leading figures of the post-1932 period, Pridi Banomyong and Field Marshal Phibunsongkhram, were associated with particular newspapers which sought to advance their political causes. The Thai press entered a period of severe restriction and control during the tenure of Prime Minister Sarit Thanarat (1959–63), whose ‘Announcement 17’ obliged all newspapers to be licensed. Licences could be withdrawn for publishing ‘statements of a certain character’, which included pro-communist statements, statements which offended the King, and, most ominously, statements which ‘discredit the government’.21 The result was a repressive climate for the press. At the same time, newspaper licences became a valuable commodity; speculators purchased them at very high prices, then rented them to would-be newspaper publishers. The resulting newspapers were often sensational and full of inaccuracies, which Boonrak attributes to a combination of the desire to avoid problems with the authorities, and a sleazy tradition of ‘journalisme à la siamoise’.22 Ironically, the press itself bore some responsibility for the emergence of the Sarit regime, having lambasted the Phibun regime and praised Sarit in 1957.23 This was not the last time that the Thai press would act in a shortsighted fashion, hounding out one flawed government only to see it replaced by another, arguably worse. The sole exception to the general run of newspapers was Siam Rath, founded and owned by the writer, scholar and later prime minister MR Kukrit Pramoj. Siam Rath developed its own style of serious journalism which was essentially conservative and pro-royalist. While the Thanom regime (1963–73) was initially less repressive in its handling of the press, Thai newspapers continued to be characterised by sex and sensationalism at the expense of political issues, and were considered among the least serious in Asia.24 At the same time, improved production methods meant that popular newspapers could compete aggressively for increased circulation. Newspapers were content to follow, rather than to lead, public opinion; according to Boonrak:

Politics and the media in Thailand

9

The decay of political morality resulted in unimaginative journalism which tamely conformed to the political whims of the military men in power. Businessmen who invested in newspaper enterprises in this political setting seemed to seek merely commercial ends from newspaper publishing. Thus, the main tendency of newspapers in this period was to imitate all popular features adorned by the mass mind. Thai Rath, the pro-Sarit newspaper founded in 1958, served as an ideal model since it had been the giant of the popular press in terms of circulation.25 Towards the end of the Thanom regime, however, there were also signs of the emergence of a more incisive and critical press. In 1971, a new Thai-owned English language newspaper called The Nation was established, which sought to practise ‘objective’ journalism to international standards (similar to that of the foreign-owned Bangkok Post). Early in 1973, a team of young journalists took over the Thai language daily Prachathippatai, turning it into a serious newspaper which took a more progressive stance than Siam Rath. Writing in the 1970s, Boonrak argued that the electronic media and print media offered conflicting sources of information: On the one hand, there has been a communication network directly controlled by a number of public agencies and, on the other hand, there has been a print medium, obscurely controlled by the powerful figures in the political arena. By Western standards, the notion of objectivity, except in special circumstances, has been almost foreign to the Thai mass media in general. In the context of information flow, the press has been the primary source to reflect and ‘lead’ some public opinion.26 The year 1973 saw the gradual rise of the student movement, as public resentment against the Thanom regime increased. The press was an important element in the rising tide of anti-Thanom feeling; while the way was led by quality newspapers such as The Nation, Siam Rath and Prachathippatai. By the time of the showdown between student and military forces on 14 October 1973, even popular newspapers such as Thai Rath and Daily News had joined the antiThanom bandwagon, to the extent that on 13 and 14 October the regime sent troops to their offices to try and censor them. Some have argued that the student uprising of October 1973 would not have succeeded without supportive press coverage.27 Nevertheless, one study has argued that the media was not involved in initiating popular pressure for constitutional and political change in 1973, but took up these issues only after they had first been raised by the student movement.28 Indeed, the popular press only began reporting the student movement in detail following the controversial arrests of thirteen student activists on 6 October 1973. The interim government of Sanya Thammasak swept away long-standing restrictions on press freedom, allowing new publications to obtain licences easily: in 1974 alone, 177 licences were issued for new daily newspapers. At the same

10 Politics and the media in Thailand time, this liberalisation coincided with a growing realisation that military governments were not the only enemies of a free press in Thailand. Corrupt practices by newspaper owners, columnists and reporters grew increasingly rife, and most of the newspapers published during this period were ‘more than willing to do service for politicians and businessmen, who had always played dirty games for the sake of their own personal interests’.29 At the same time, the thriving decadence of old-style Thai journalism was challenged by a ‘new journalism’ which advocated objective news reporting and responsible comment, led by The Nation, Prachacha, Prachathippatai, Siangmai and Athipat. Newspapers such as The Nation and Prachacha advocated a democratic political order, but also national sovereignty and economic independence. The Thai press as a whole was not consistently supportive of the student movement throughout the ‘democracy period’ of 1973–6; from late 1974 onwards, there was an increasing tendency to criticise the movement.30 Anut argues that the Thai press during this period should be divided into three groups: right wing (such as the rabid Dao Sayam), centrist, and left wing (led by the student newspaper Athipat).31 The electronic media, notably the army-controlled Free Radio Broadcasting Network, were allied with conservative and rightist forces that sought to undermine the student movement, employing the nationalist rhetoric of ‘nation, religion and monarchy’. These same forces sought to exert influence over the print media, using economic pressures to bring leftist publications into line. One example was the left-wing newspaper Prachathippatai, which moderated its political stance in late 1975 and subsequently fired thirtynine ‘leftist’ reporters and their sympathisers.32 Increasingly, the media was becoming the tool of other power-holders and interest groups, ranging from students to the military, rather than an independent actor or commentator. When Kukrit Pramoj became prime minister in March 1975, Thailand was led by a distinguished journalist and newspaper editor. Nevertheless, Kukrit enjoyed an ambivalent relationship with the press during his time as prime minister, and sought to establish a press council which would serve to regulate the print media and be responsible for the issuing of newspaper licences. However, these minor skirmishes were nothing compared with what followed. One of the most controversial episodes in the history of the Thai press was the publication of a photograph in Dao Sayam and the Bangkok Post on 5 October 1976, which purported to show a mock-hanging of the Crown Prince. A student apparently resembling the Crown Prince had taken part in a re-enactment of the brutal murder of two labour activists. Many analysts believed that the published photograph had actually been retouched by rightists to inflame popular opinion against the students. The photograph was an important factor in unleashing the rightist assault on Thammasat University which took place early in the morning of 6 October, and the subsequent massacre of student activists at the campus.33 The bloody crackdown on the student movement, and an accompanying military coup, brought the ‘democracy period’ to an abrupt end. In an unprecedented move, all newspapers were banned by the new rightist Thanin government, though over the next few days most were allowed to resume

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publication, beginning with the more moderate and conservative newspapers. Nevertheless, the government only permitted newspapers to reopen if they fired certain ‘undesirable’ journalists and barred others from writing. This stipulation affected the reporting staff of almost every newspaper.34 The Thanin government also published its own ‘model’ newspaper, Chao Phraya, which was both a commercial and a journalistic failure. The press was extremely dissatisfied with the Thanin government, which was not only authoritarian and unresponsive to public opinion but also consistently hostile to press freedom: some twenty newspapers were closed down during the government’s one year in office, and all journalists were forced to apply for work permits from the Ministry of Interior.35 Some columnists and newspaper owners were arrested in connection with the attempted coup of 26 March 1977; in October 1977, a second coup attempt successfully ousted Thanin, ushering in the more moderate Kriangsak administration and resulting in a gradual return to business as usual for the Thai print media. From 1977, there was a renewed flowering of the Thai press. The selfproclaimed ‘quality’ newspaper Matichon was founded by a group of progressive writers and journalists in January 1978; a number of weekly publications were also established which sought to continue the best elements of the politically engaged journalism of the 1973–6 period. The Kriangsak period was not entirely a happy one for the press, however; despite initial pledges to support more openness, Kriangsak did order the closure of a number of publications, and withdrew more than fifty inactive licences36 which publishers had kept in reserve in case of closures, thereby enhancing the government’s bargaining power. The 1981–8 Prem administration continued Kriangsak’s policy of an uneasy truce with the press, maintaining friendly relations but taking no steps to abolish legislation which undermined press freedom, and making use of arbitrary powers to punish or threaten errant publications from time to time. Not all pressure on the media came from the government itself; in 1985, army commander-in-chief General Arthit Kamlang-ek sued Matichon for libel over a gossip-column item concerning his love life, and Matichon owner Khanchai Boonpan went abroad for several weeks after his safety was threatened.37 The Chatichai administration of 1988–91 saw an elected politician become prime minister for the first time since 1976. Chatichai sought to establish good relations with the media, hosting parties for them and allegedly planning a special budget to buy gifts for prominent columnists, a plan which was severely criticised and so never implemented. Nevertheless, early on in the Chatichai period ‘reports of corruption disappeared from the pages of the press’,38 apparently as a result of the systematic bribery of reporters, columnists and editors by certain cabinet ministers, coupled with a selective policy of intimidation – partly through threats to investigate the tax affairs of hostile columnists. Rumours typically linked cash-dispensing allegations to Industry Minister (later Interior Minister) Banharn Silpa-archa, and intimidation allegations to Prime Minister’s Office Minister Chalerm Yubamrung. In 1989, Chalerm accused Thai Rath, Matichon and Naeo Na of trying to overthrow the government,39 claiming

12 Politics and the media in Thailand that they were allied with ‘the old power group’ which was trying to return to office. Chalerm’s aggressive stance led to hostile relations between press and government. At one point, Thai Rath’s owner allegedly barred three of his most well-known columnists from writing, because of the newspaper’s reluctance to provoke scrutiny of its tax affairs. In a no-confidence debate in July 1989, Chalerm called upon the Ministry of Interior to close down Thai Rath, a request which was quietly shelved.40 In February 1990, Decree 42 – a piece of legislation enacted by the Thanin government which had made it an easy matter for the government to close newspapers – was invoked against the daily newspaper Naeo Na. Following the short-lived banning of Naeo Na over its coverage of the deaths of three Saudi diplomats, the newspaper world united around demands for the law’s abolition. They were resisted by then Interior Minister Banharn Silpa-archa, who tried to push through a new and potentially draconian press law. Banharn was for a time ‘boycotted’ by reporters over his stance on press freedom; ironically, he declared that he was not afraid of the boycott as he had his own newspaper, Ban Muang.41 The media and its supporters initiated a vigorous campaign against Decree 42, using the symbol of three monkeys (representing leading Chart Thai figures Chatichai, Banharn and Sanoh Thienthong), and the slogan ‘Hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil’ (in Thai, literally ‘Close your ears, close your mouth, close your eyes’).42 Under strong pressure from the media, the Chatichai government eventually repealed Decree 42 in early 1991. The abolition of Decree 42 seemed to symbolise the end of heavy-handed state intervention in the print media. However, barely a month after the repeal of the decree, a military coup by a junta calling itself the National Peace-Keeping Council led to a fundamental realignment of the political landscape.

The Thai press and the two Mays One of the first actions of the NPKC was to announce that all newspapers would be censored before publication; within days, these stipulations were lifted, partly because the idea was virtually unworkable, and partly because many Thai language newspapers gave such positive coverage of the coup that censorship seemed unnecessary.43 This honeymoon period was a relatively short-lived one, however, and by mid-1991 the press was becoming increasingly critical of the coup group. Boonrak and Wasant have examined the political role of the media in the 1970s with reference to two pivotal events separated by a three-year period: the 14 October 1973 uprising and the 6 October 1976 coup. Whilst the 14 October events illustrated the potential of the media to help bring about progressive change, the 6 October showed how the media could become a tool used in an ultra-conservative backlash. To understand the political role of the media in the 1990s, it is useful to compare the behaviour of the media in two events also separated by three years: the May 1992 protests which led to the collapse of the military-backed Suchinda Kraprayoon government, and the May 1995

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parliamentary no-confidence debate which culminated in the demise of the Chuan Leekpai administration. Many writers have portrayed May 1992 as the Thai print media’s finest hour.44 Faced with a government which controlled parliament, the military, the bureaucracy and the electronic media, the press joined forces with opposition parties and protest groups to bring down Suchinda. As the protests against Suchinda intensified, the gap between reporting and reality strained viewers’ credulity beyond breaking-point. On 4 May, one of Thailand’s most popular politicians, Palang Dharma party leader Major-General Chamlong Srimuang, made the dramatic announcement that he would fast unto death unless General Suchinda resigned from office.45 This major story, which made the headlines in every newspaper the following day, went entirely unreported on the evening television news bulletins. For the next two and a half weeks, no politically conscious Bangkokians paid any serious attention to the news on their television screens.46 The crowds of protestors in Bangkok were not simply opposed to Suchinda Kraprayoon’s becoming premier; they were objecting to a political order in which the military and the bureaucracy exerted tremendous influence. At the heart of this struggle, between entrenched state power on the one hand and the collective popular will in a rapidly changing urban society on the other, was a battle for the control of information. The achievement of the press was examined in a commemorative book published by the Reporters’ Association of Thailand, which highlighted injuries sustained by reporters during the protests (thirty-three reporters were hurt), intimidation of press personnel and attempts by the Suchinda government to silence the critical voices of the newspapers.47 Without the courage and determination of Thai journalists to inform the public about the unfolding political situation, it is questionable how successful the antiSuchinda protests would have been. This image of the Thai press as the courageous guardian of liberty and democracy contains a great deal of truth. At the same time, a complete understanding of the role of the press in the May events requires a more nuanced analysis. Ubonrat notes that ‘For the first time in history, the majority of the press united against state suppression of freedom of expression. Professionalism and press autonomy prevailed over any political patronage.’48 The key word here is ‘majority’; some elements of the press were not wholeheartedly behind the anti-Suchinda campaign, and others were downright sympathetic towards Suchinda. Political patronage may not have prevailed in the May crisis, but it was still an important issue. The anti-Suchinda role of the Reporters’ Association of Thailand during the May events represented the stance of one particular group.49 Then RAT President Banyat was known to sympathise with the anti-Suchinda protests. Certain newspapers, notably The Nation, Phujatkan and Naeo Na, took the lead in resisting Suchinda. Phujatkan was closely allied with the political enemies of the NPKC, whilst Naeo Na enjoyed strong personal ties with the opposition New Aspiration and Palang Dharma parties. The Nation stood out as the leading anti-Suchinda newspaper, adopting a clear liberal stance largely

14 Politics and the media in Thailand on the basis of ideological and principled opposition, rather than personal connections. This stance was recognised by the international Committee to Protect Journalists, which presented then Nation editor Thepchai Yong with an award in recognition of the newspaper’s ‘courageous and straightforward’ stand in reporting the May events.50 The stance of other major newspapers was much more ambivalent. Matichon had close links with the NPKC, and its owner was a personal friend of Suchinda’s. Although Matichon staff insisted that they were on the ‘right’ side in May 1992, a widespread perception of the newspaper was that it could not be trusted in this particular crisis.51 Much the same applied to the top-selling newspaper Thai Rath. A master’s thesis by a Chulalongkorn University student demonstrated that Thai Rath was broadly supportive of the Suchinda premiership, only changing sides when the anti-Suchinda protests built up an irresistible momentum.52 In other words, the stance of the press during the May events was largely a function of the personal alliances of key columnists, editors and owners. The press was far from monolithic. Whilst the print media was infinitely more oppositional than the captive electronic media, the quality of critical coverage in the press varied significantly from one publication to another. A similar picture emerges from the events of May 1995. The Chuan government was ousted after an intensive campaign against it, led by Thai Rath in conjunction with opposition politicians. Pasuk and Baker noted that the press became stronger and more sophisticated as a result of its successful role in challenging the military during the May 1992 protests; they also declared baldly that ‘The Chuan government (1992–95) was brought down after a campaign by Thai Rath to expose abuses of a land distribution scheme in Phuket’.53 Thitinan agreed that it was ‘not the opposition’s efforts, but unrelenting press inquisitions’ which led to Chuan’s downfall.54 These assertions raise two important questions: how justified was Thai Rath in pursuing the land reform issue as it did, and how far could press coverage have been responsible for the demise of Chuan? The cynical answer to the first question is that Thai Rath’s campaign against the Chuan government can be related to personal conflicts between the newspaper’s owner and the prime minister. When a new government led by Chart Thai party leader Banharn Silpa-archa took over from that of Democrat leader Chuan Leekpai in July 1995, many Thai journalists felt that their lives were about to become more difficult. Banharn and Chart Thai were not felt to have a sympathetic attitude towards an independent-minded press. However, one senior figure in the Thai newspaper world, Matichon executive director Pongsak Payakvichien, argued that the opposite was true.55 The raison d’être of the Thai press was to oppose governments. This had been extremely difficult during the Chuan period, since the government had been a good one with which most journalists sympathised. Most of the issues on which the government could be criticised were too technical to make good headline material and hard-hitting copy. With the return of a ‘bad’ government populated by machine politicians of questionable integrity, the press was back in business. The job of exposing the shortcomings of ministers would be a very easy one.

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From the perspective of Thai Rath, however, the position was rather different. In contrast with most other newspapers, the best-selling popular daily had been opposed to Chuan virtually from the outset. The anti-Democrat stance of Thai Rath had to be seen in the context of the position adopted by the newspaper during the April–May 1992 government of Suchinda Kraprayoon. As army commander-in-chief, Suchinda was one of the leaders of the 23 February 1991 military coup. Following a general election in March 1992 which was supposed to usher in democratic ‘normalisation’, non-MP Suchinda was selected as prime minister by civilian politicians from political parties with strong personal and financial ties to the military. Most of the Thai press had opposed Suchinda’s premiership, giving sympathetic coverage to protest movements initiated by various groups, and involving hunger strikes by activist Chalard Vorachat and former Bangkok governor Chamlong Srimuang. But for Thai Rath, which enjoyed close ties with many of the leading figures in the Suchinda government, backing the opposition movement was difficult. Thai Rath had initially been very sympathetic to Suchinda, although it had changed its position incrementally as the crisis unfolded. When Suchinda fell from power, following huge demonstrations in central Bangkok on 17 and 18 May – which culminated in at least fifty unarmed civilians losing their lives when the army opened fire – fresh elections were called. The new Democrat-led government was composed mainly of parties which had opposed Suchinda. Thai Rath’s best connections were now with opposition parties such as Chart Thai and Chart Pattana. Yet the core issue in determining the newspaper’s relations with the Democrats was not these personal ties so much as the attitude which new Prime Minister Chuan Leekpai adopted towards Thai Rath. Partly as a function of his combination of lowly origins and immense wealth, Kamphol expected the great and the good of Thai society to appear at his birthday party on 27 December each year. The party, held in a banqueting hall at his home, was usually attended by several hundred guests. No invitations, however, were issued. Instead, those whose presence was expected at the party were informed by the relevant Thai Rath reporter. Senior politicians, including the prime minister of the day, would always be expected by Kamphol to attend. Their attendance was an indication of their willingness to suhok Kamphol, to pay their respects to him and acknowledge his importance. To fail to attend would be to snub Kamphol, and thus to invite his wrath. As Abhisit Vejjajiva – who served as government spokesman under Chuan from September 1992 to December 1994 – explained: Thai Rath has been a very, very influential force in politics, and you just have to witness this birthday party with all the biggies, from every circle, not just political, who have to pay respects to him. Chuan is not that kind of man … he doesn’t think it’s necessary for him to do that, and he thinks that he has to do things in a straightforward way; if they didn’t like it they would criticise

16 Politics and the media in Thailand him, and if they stepped over the line he’d take them to court, and that’s what happened.56 Anand Panyarachun had also refused to attend Kamphol’s parties, but Anand (who served two short terms as prime minister in 1991 and 1992) was an unelected appointee who did not have to contend with party political opposition. Despite three requests to attend Kamphol’s birthday party in 1992, Chuan failed to show up, preferring to keep another engagement in the south. A similar pattern followed in 1993 and 1994. Thus, from early on in Chuan’s premiership, he found himself at loggerheads with Thai Rath. This conflict was also symbolised in his decision to sue Thai Rath columnist Santi Viriyarangsarit (known as ‘Typhoon’) for suggesting in his 11 May 1993 column that Chuan was dictatorial and implying that he had ordered violent action to be taken against farmers protesting in Kamphaeng Phet province.57 It was unusual for a serving prime minister to sue a newspaper, especially such a powerful one as Thai Rath, and Chuan’s decision amounted to a declaration of hostilities. From early 1993 onwards, Thai Rath was looking for an issue which it could use to mount a major campaign against the Democrats. When that issue presented itself in the form of the So Po Ko land reform scandal, Thai Rath did not hesitate to put the boot in, ‘locking’ the story on to its front page for six months. As Abhisit put it: By the time of the land reform issue, anybody who follows politics could expect to see what they saw in Thai Rath. Of course they would do that because they don’t like the Democrats. So in a way by sort of declaring an open war, Thai Rath didn’t have the status of being a neutral and straightforward newspaper, and so people who had read Thai Rath would have that in mind. It is impossible to prove that the presence of several former close associates of Chart Thai party leader Banharn Silpa-archa among the senior editorial team of Thai Rath had anything to do with the ‘open war’ declared by the paper on the Democrat administration. The picture was complicated by the fact that important figures at the newspaper, including political editor Pramote Faiuppara, retained close personal ties with the Democrats. Indeed, at a private party for the Thai Rath political team on the night of 22 April 1995, Democrat party secretary-general and Interior Minister Sanan Kachornprasat was the guest of honour – one of the only outsiders present.58 The Thai Rath campaign against the Democrats over the land reform scandal was then at its height. Sanan gave a speech in which he promised to protect the newspaper from its enemies,59 and described how torn he felt between his attachment to the Democrat Party and his deep affection for Thai Rath. Senior members of the political team gave replies, speaking of their admiration for the Democrats, Sanan himself, and Prime Minister Chuan Leekpai.

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Nevertheless, the onslaught against the Democrats mounted by Thai Rath over the land reform issue was a formidable one. Coverage of the story, which began on 23 November 1994, was locked on to the front page and carried in immense detail. The November and December coverage of the story alone – as pasted up, bound and submitted for the Reporters’ Association prize for best environmental story of 1994 – came to several hundred A4 pages.60 Chuan resisted calls by some elements in the Democrat Party to sue Thai Rath over its hostile coverage of the issue.61 When the Chuan government collapsed on 19 May 1995, Palang Dharma party leader Chamlong Srimuang remarked in a radio interview that any story which ran on the front page of the newspapers every day for six months had to have some basis to it.62 Other newspapers, such as Matichon, were much less forceful in their criticisms of the Democrats over the land reform scandal, in part because of their good relations with Chuan and other senior Democrat leaders. At the same time, some commentators defended Thai Rath’s decision to declare open season on Chuan over land reform. Chatcharin Chaiyawttn argued that this was a really substantive political issue, which other newspapers failed at first to pursue because of their partiality for the Democrats.63 Many parliamentary reporters agreed that the land scandal was a real issue, not simply one manufactured by Thai Rath. The press derived much of its information from the ‘Group of 16’ MPs (most of whom were members of Chart Thai), a group of young, aggressive and highly ambitious political tough guys led by Newin Chidchob. Some of the information was leaked by officials from the government land reform agency, who were appalled by the abuses which were taking place. Many academics, intellectuals and NGO activists (notably the Confederation of Democracy, a key group in the May 1992 events) were intensely critical of the Chuan government over the land reform case, and their views were widely reported and echoed in many sections of the media. As to whether Thai Rath itself was really instrumental in ousting the Chuan government, as implied by Pasuk and Baker, Chatcharin strongly disagreed. He argued that the demise of the Chuan government resulted from simple parliamentary arithmetic: once Palang Dharma pulled out, Chuan did not have enough seats and could not persuade any other party to join him. At the same time, the reasons for Palang Dharma’s withdrawal and the reluctance of other parties to join Chuan were undoubtedly related to the popular mood of opposition to the Democrats generated partly by the press campaign. Technically, Chatcharin was right to argue that Chuan was defeated by the collapse of his coalition, but the press (led by Thai Rath) undoubtedly assisted in bringing about that collapse. Given that the Chuan administration was replaced by a less progressive, more corrupt, less competent and generally far more distasteful government (the Banharn government of July 1995 to November 1996),64 the wisdom of the press in helping hound the Democrats from office may be questioned.

18 Politics and the media in Thailand

Conceptualising the role of the Thai media How can the political role of the media be understood in comparative, conceptual terms? There are a number of dominant paradigms in the literature on politics and media. Much of the literature on media in developing countries emphasises the dominance or ‘hegemony’ of state power, the way in which media has been used as a tool of state propaganda. In the Thai case, the focus is often upon the use of electronic media by the military and other state actors. Media is seen as a pawn of state power, a servant of the state.65 Annette Hamilton, for example, has argued that video censorship in Thailand ‘is but one fragment of an on-going struggle between citizen and state in Asia’.66 This emphasis on censorship and government control, whilst appropriate to an understanding of how aspects of the Thai media have functioned at particular junctures, also tends to be unduly state-centric, overlooking the plural and diverse character of media in Thailand, and especially the inventiveness with which the print media has covered political issues. Another common notion of the media is as a ‘watchdog’, a guardian of the public interest. Suthichai Yoon, founder-editor of The Nation, published a collection of his Thai language newspaper columns entitled Ma fao ban (Watchdog),67 and consistently sought to advocate the idea of public interest oriented journalism. Thitinan Pongsudhirak has argued that the Thai press has made a gradual transition from ‘servant’ to ‘watchdog’.68 One version of the watchdog theory sees the press as a surrogate opposition, helping to compensate for the deficiencies and shortcomings of political parties and other civil society groups. The press may not simply be a barking watchdog, but also on occasion a biting watchdog, acting forcefully to challenge abuses and promote the public interest. By extension, the media may become a leading (even the leading) force for progressive political change or ‘democratisation’. Nevertheless, there are both inherent theoretical problems with the ‘watchdog’ analogy, and specific practical objections to its application in the Thai case. On a theoretical level, the watchdog analogy begs the simple question: ‘But who owns the dog?’ A watchdog belongs to the owner of a house, and is loyal to the hand which feeds it. The interests of the dog and interests of the dog’s owner are therefore closely intertwined. In the case of a newspaper, the interests of the owner are not synonymous with the public interest. Newspapers are businesses which owe their primary loyalty to owners and shareholders, and secondary loyalties to ‘customers’, in the form of advertisers and readers. Although it is possible to argue that readers are members of the public, and that a newspaper therefore serves the interests of the public, in practice these interests are compromised and modified by the competing interests of shareholders and advertisers. These theoretical objections to the watchdog model are abundantly borne out by an empirical scrutiny of the Thai press, where it is clear that personal ties between newspaper people and politicians constitute a further layer of competing interests. Indeed, the practice among Thai columnists of accepting favours, gifts or even salaries from influential figures constitutes a form of franchising of newspaper ownership. A politician may have no formal stake in a

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newspaper company, but may have bought (or, more accurately, leased) space in a newspaper through clandestine payments to a columnist or editor. Support for the ‘watchdog’ model by prominent journalists such as Suthichai Yoon needs to be seen not just as a depiction or analysis of the reality of the Thai press, but also as an attempt to advocate and promote an alternative reality. By proclaiming themselves ‘watchdogs’ or claiming that their newspapers are ‘quality’ publications,69 Thai journalists are staking a claim for themselves, seeking to upgrade their own professional standing and credibility. The reality, however, is that even ‘quality’ newspapers such as Matichon and The Nation are not invulnerable to external pressures from politicians or other important figures. They may sometimes function as watchdogs of the public interest, but they remain inherently partisan. Boonrak summarises the position of the political role of the Thai press as follows: The political status quo in this country, at a given time, has generally thought of the newspapers as its opposition. The notion of the press as a watchdog of government has rarely been accepted, not to mention respected, by the political establishment. The power brokers since the ‘revolution’ of 1932 have, more often than not, expanded a tradition established in the Thai press in the age of absolute monarchy to manipulate and abuse newspapers to suit their own political whims.70 The dramatic developments of October 1973 ushered in a twofold pattern of changes in the Thai journalistic order: the swift occurrence of a political vacuum since ‘The Ten Days’ has persuaded the old guards of ‘journalisme à la siamoise’ to be exceedingly partisan in their political viewpoints on the one hand and, on the other hand, has allowed the new generation of journalists to launch their journalistic endeavours in a fashion that claims to be the extreme opposite of ‘journalisme à la siamoise’.71 Twenty years after Boonrak wrote this description, it is possible to see the same competing forms of journalism continuing to thrive in the Thai press. A central question is the extent to which the ‘new journalism’ of the 1970s has earned its spurs as an authentic watchdog of the public interest, and the extent to which it has reverted to being a guard-dog of its own interests, or other vested interests. A third model of the media’s political function represents the media as a ‘mirror’ of society, a mere by-stander or spectator. The function of the media is to represent society as it is. According to this model, the media is entirely neutral72 in its presentation of information, passively reflecting information to the public and leaving readers to draw their own conclusions. The idea of the media as a ‘neutral’ force is often invoked in defence of practices such as highly

20 Politics and the media in Thailand literal news presentation, consisting mainly of quotations. Given its historically partisan nature, the idea of the Thai press as neutral is – to put it mildly – a farfetched description of reality. A more vexed question is whether a neutral press would be a desirable alternative reality – whether newspapers ought to strive simply to reflect what goes on, rather than to engage with, and participate in, political developments. Some commentators, such as Chatcharin Chaiyawttn, have argued that the idea of the press as neutral is a non sequitur, a nonsense. It is certainly difficult to envisage the press in Thailand operating as a simple mirror of society. A more plausible view of the political role of the media presents it as an ‘agenda-setter’. The role of the media is to raise issues, and place them on the agenda for public debate and discussion.73 The model of an ‘agenda-setting’ media, often linked by implication to the ‘watchdog’ analogy, is often construed and presented in a highly positive light. The media is assumed to be engaged in a process of ferreting out scandals and controversies, highlighting flaws in legislation or weaknesses in public policy, and so exerting a benevolent influence upon the political process. The assumption is that ‘agenda-setting’ is itself a neutral, agenda-free process, or else that the process of agenda-setting is driven simply by ‘watchdog’ considerations of public interest. Such uncritically positive representations of the ‘agenda-setting’ process overlook the crucial question ‘Who sets the media’s agenda?’ If the media itself (or elements within it, such as influential columnists and editors) has a partisan agenda which is driven by personal connections with politicians, godfathers or military officers, then the ‘agenda-setting’ of the media may amount to little more than a form of elite power-play. In Thailand, political stories typically find their way into newspapers for political reasons: they represent attempts to attack opponents or rivals, or attempts to fend off such attacks. News sources ‘leak’ stories and information selectively, and newspapers, hungry for salacious gossip and eager to break new stories, become willing partners in political machinations of all description. While it is possible to describe the role of the press as ‘agenda-setting’, the term serves to dignify what is actually often a pretty grubby business. Like the idea of the watchdog or the mirror, the idea of the agenda-setter is an argument advanced by media practitioners or academic media studies specialists who are pursuing an agenda of their own: lending credibility, legitimacy and respectability to the power of the press. Wasant argues that the Thai media has demonstrated its political role on several occasions. These include the events of October 1973, when the press played a key supporting role in the successful ousting of the military regime; the role of the media (especially the electronic media) in creating a climate of antistudent feeling in October 1976; and the parallels between the reasons advanced by the NPKC for the February 1991 coup, and press coverage of corruption and other related stories in the preceding weeks and months, suggesting an ‘agendasetting’ role for the media. Nevertheless, Wasant’s use of the concept of media as agenda-setter is a somewhat more nuanced one, allowing for the possibility that media could set agendas which were inimical to the public interest.

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To the student of politics who comes fresh to the discipline of communications studies, defining the political role of the press in a country such as Thailand seems relatively straightforward. The largely self-serving rhetoric of watchdogs, mirrors and agenda-setters may be set aside, and the press viewed on the same basis as any other political actor. Newspapers (and, for that matter, their reporters, columnists and editors) are clearly partisan political actors who participate actively in the political arena, driven primarily by the pursuit of their own interests. One interesting attempt to theorise concepts of the media’s political role is a chapter by Japan specialist Susan Pharr, who argues that there are four broad competing views: media may be seen variously as spectator, watchdog, servant or trickster. She favours the view of media as trickster,74 a coinage of her own. While arguing that the trickster is an active participant in the political process, she sees the main effect of the trickster’s role as building communitas; the ‘trickster’ label turns out to be yet another positive, benevolent construct of media behaviour. This book will argue that the behaviour of media is frequently ambiguous, hypocritical and inconsistent – in short, tricky. But this trickery, though sometimes positive in its results, can also be destructive and dangerous. Whereas Pharr argues that the trickster media serves the interests of no particular group, this book will argue that the Thai media is frequently the captive of various interests. Its trickiness derives not from its lack of loyalties, but from its multiple loyalties, the plurality of its obligations and the diversity of its stakeholders. It is precisely the multiplicity of stakeholders in the Thai media which gives it both strength and weakness. Western analysts of the media have tended to see ‘partisanship’ in terms of the formal and informal links between media organisations and political parties.75 In the Thai context, such a definition is woefully inadequate; partisanship must be understood as a whole range of connections between practitioners in the parallel worlds of media and politics. The events of the two Mays – May 1992 and May 1995 – illustrate the ways in which the press functioned as a partisan political actor. Whilst in May 1992 the majority of newspapers sided with ‘progressive’ forces aligned against Suchinda, others did not. In May 1995, the majority of newspapers joined Thai Rath in campaigning against the Chuan administration, in events which culminated in the demise of one of Thailand’s relatively competent elected governments. In doing so, elements of the press behaved in a highly partisan fashion, citing public interest considerations, but in fact pursuing agendas of their own which were in some respects inimical to the public interest.

Structure of the media in Thailand In 1992 there were more than a dozen Thai language dailies, ranging from the mass-circulation Thai Rath and Daily News to the established ‘quality’ papers Siam Rath and Matichon. In addition, there were six Chinese language76 and two English language dailies, not to mention ten or so weekly Thai language magazines, which functioned as clearing-houses for political gossip. In the media boom which followed the events of May 1992, the number of daily newspapers

22 Politics and the media in Thailand increased; many of the new publications were business-focused dailies. Since Thai newspapers were notoriously unwilling to submit to independent auditing, accurate circulation figures were impossible to obtain, but several larger daily newspapers sold upwards of 100,000 copies. By contrast, many of the smaller dailies were essentially ‘vanity’ publications with negligible sales. Some politicians had direct financial stakes in particular newspapers, such as senior Chart Thai party figure Banharn Silpa-archa, who owned Ban Muang, and elder statesman MR Kukrit Pramoj, owner of Siam Rath. Ockey notes that Siam Rath covered Kukrit’s every activity, ‘contributing greatly to his status as the elder statesman of Thai politics’.77 Others wrote regular columns: Samak Sundaravej in the Daily Mirror, Chamlong Srimuang in the Sunday editions of Daily News. At one point, members of Suchinda’s Royal Military Academy Class 5 owned as many as twothirds of the shares in Matichon.78 Indirect connections between newspapers and politicians were widespread: both Prem Tinsulanond and Chatichai Choonavan appointed Thai Rath owner Kamphol Wacharapon to the Senate during their periods as prime minister, and Prem was even known to visit the offices of Thai Rath for private meetings with its owner.79 Circulation was not the only criterion for judging the business success of media publications in Thailand. During the late 1980s and early 1990s, the Thai stock market rose sharply. Newspaper groups which floated shares on the stock exchange – such as Matichon and Phujatkan – saw their share values rise at a phenomenal rate, transforming newspaper owners (holding controlling interests) into multi-millionaires, and greatly boosting the personal finances of reporters and other staff members who had received shares as part of their benefits packages.80 In some cases, the vast profits from share flotations were based upon the questionable practice of ‘chain-listing’,81 apparently engaged in by Phujatkan and other media groups. Small businesses suddenly became big businesses, and hard-up reporters suddenly became high-income earners with greatly enhanced social standing. The business success of certain newspapers brought with it greater status and a greater sense of self-importance. At the same time, newspaper companies were much more vulnerable than before: if a hostile government should close down a newspaper, huge revenues would be lost and all shares would become worthless. This partly accounts for the strength of pressure to abolish Decree 42, and the sympathetic line taken by most newspapers towards the 1991 coup group: the press had a great deal to lose if the government turned against them. Broadly speaking, there were four kinds of Thai language newspaper: masscirculation papers emphasising crime stories and sensationalism (led by Thai Rath, Daily News and, later, Khao Sot), ‘quality’ papers which placed primary emphasis on politics and economics (Matichon, Siam Rath and, for a while, Siam Post), business newspapers (led by Phujatkan Daily and Krungthep Thurakit), and vanity papers run as pet projects, usually by wealthy individuals with political interests (such as the Daily Mirror, Dao Sayam and Ban Muang). Some newspapers did not fit neatly into these categories: Phujatkan Daily, for example, was divided into sections, and its main section was essentially a ‘quality’ political newspaper

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rather than a business newspaper; Naeo Na was a sensationalist newspaper which emphasised politics and yet had the finances of a vanity publication. Chatcharin82 suggested another way of classifying newspapers, which focused on internal organisation more than content: he saw publications such as Phujatkan and The Nation as more professional than Thai Rath and Matichon. Thai Rath and Matichon he regarded as personalised organisations led by jao pho (godfather-style) owners working through patronage and bonds of loyalty, whereas Phujatkan and The Nation used more modern management methods, operating essentially as business corporations. Chatcharin noted that most successful Thai newspapers to date used a ‘Thai-style’ personalised management system, though he believed that, as Thai society developed, personal loyalties would decline and the more professional, corporate cultures would win out. In practice, however, this distinction between personalised and corporate management styles was little more clear-cut than the questionable distinction between ‘popular’ and ‘quality’ newspapers.83 The electronic media was another matter entirely. Bangkok had five television channels. Of these, two were owned by the army: Channel 5, operated by Pacific Intercommunications, and Channel 7, operated by Bangkok Broadcasting and TV, which had close military connections. Channels 3 and 9 belonged to the Mass Communications Organisation of Thailand (MCOT), a state enterprise under the control of the Prime Minister’s Office; Channel 3 was run by a franchise company, Bangkok Entertainment (in which Bangkok Bank held a major stake). The minority ‘educational’ Channel 11 was operated by the Public Relations Department, part of the Prime Minister’s Office. Directly or indirectly, all Thai television channels came under the jurisdiction of state agencies. The consequence was a well-established tradition of bland news reporting: exhaustive coverage of the activities of the revered royal family, but little attention paid to controversial issues which might present either the government or the military in an unfavourable light. The situation changed somewhat with the launch of the ‘independent’ 24-hour news-based television channel ITV in 1997. The Nation group played a leading role in establishing the channel, which quickly set new standards in more outspoken and critical television news coverage. The strength of the electronic media lay in its national reach; while daily newspapers could not be obtained in every village in Thailand and were often a day late when they reached the provinces, radio and television stations were a truly national media. In 1988, there were 306 radio stations in Thailand, more than 60 per cent of them under the control of the military.84 The news content of most radio stations was relayed from the government-controlled Radio Thailand, part of the Mass Communications Organisation of Thailand.85 In addition, army-controlled Channel 5 television was the most widely available station across the country. There was a well-established tradition of state interference in the electronic media, especially as regards politically sensitive news coverage. The print media was largely Bangkok-centric; outside the capital, only Chiang Mai had its own daily newspaper. There were more than 200 local

24 Politics and the media in Thailand newspapers,86 but they were mostly low-quality affairs, usually produced twice monthly (to coincide with the release of the state lottery results), weekly, or sometimes five days per week. Most local newspapers were concerned almost entirely with local news, especially crime news and gossip columns. Few local newspapers sold more than 500 copies. Many were owned by local politicians, including some MPs, and were highly partisan;87 it was common for such newspapers to be published by people ‘whose primary purpose is not making money’.88 One owner of a local newspaper in an eastern resort town, for example, specialised in gruesome stories about the deaths of foreign tourists. A hotel which wanted to keep its name out of the newspaper could ‘buy’ an offending news item about an incident which had taken place on its premises.89 Surat notes that local newspapers were often constrained in their reporting, for fear of violent reprisals if their news displeased local influential figures. Around half of the circulation of popular Bangkok newspapers such as Thai Rath was in the provinces, giving such newspapers an important influence on provincial perceptions of national politics.

The role of the Reporters’ Association of Thailand (RAT) The RAT has a long history, and was first established in the 1940s. It was not the only journalists’ association in Thailand (there were two others),90 but was by far the best known and most widely accepted – as was shown by its leading role in the campaign to abolish Decree 42 during the Chatichai government. The RAT’s history can broadly be divided into three periods. Prior to the Sarit regime, it was primarily a professional body concerned with improving working conditions. From Sarit’s time until the repeal of Decree 42 (1958–90), the main focus of RAT activity was campaigning for greater press freedom. From 1990 onwards, the Association concentrated on promoting reform of the media, with an emphasis on professional development through training reporters and holding seminars. By 1992, the Association had 700 members. Senior figures in the Association, especially the President, were often nominated to important official committees (Pramote Fai-uppara, RAT President 1993–5, was appointed to the Democratic Development Committee chaired by Dr Prawase Wasi), but the policy of 1995–7 President Sommai Paritchart was to reject all such nominations.91 During the events of April and May 1992, the RAT effectively became part of the ‘pro-democracy’ movement which opposed the unelected premiership of General Suchinda Kraprayoon. The politicisation of the RAT arose largely from the hostile stance adopted towards the media by the Suchinda government.92 Following the May events, President Mrs Banyat Tasaniyavej identified low ethical standards among journalists as a threat to press freedom just as serious as the interventions of the state. In one case in September 1990, the RAT decided to reimburse Interior Minister Banharn for a trip to the provinces by a group of reporters which he had sponsored.93 Monitoring the ethics of the profession was

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one of the roles of the RAT, but in practice this often proved difficult. As business competition between rival newspapers grew more and more intense, so allegations of unethical practices became part and parcel of the conflicts between them. For example, in January 1995 a row broke out between Phujatkan Daily and The Nation. An article by Jittin Ritthirat which appeared in The Nation, 19 January 1995,94 quoted the historian MR Rujaya Abhakhorn, director of the Chiang Mai University library, as implying that there was a possible conflict of interest between the Chaiyong Limthongkul Foundation’s support for an historic conservation project in Luang Prabang, and the M Group’s involvement in hotel and tourist development in the Laotian city. Rujaya declared: ‘While the foundation aids in the preservation of Luang Prabang, the M Group, founded by the same person, acts contrary to this project.’95 The article provoked a strong reaction from Phujatkan Daily: ‘Rambutree 516’, the pen-name for Khamnoon Sitthisamarn, the daily’s editor, claimed in his column96 that Rujaya’s observation was an affront to the foundation and the soul of Sondhi’s late mother, after whom the foundation was named. The columnist then declared that a response to Rujaya’s statements and The Nation article ‘will come in all possible manners, through all possible methods, and in all possible ways’. That statement cannot be taken to mean anything other than a threat against the lecturer who offered his views [on the issue] and the reporter who reported it, Nation editor Thepchai (Yong) said in a letter to the Reporters’ Association of Thailand yesterday. He said The Nation needs to bring the matter to the attention of the association because it considered the columnist’s use of the language to be unethical and threatening.97 The Foundation produced a lengthy document disputing a number of points in the original Nation article.98 However, more disturbing than either the precise nature of the business relationship between the M Group and the Laotian side or the mistakes in the original Nation article, was the crude reaction of Sondhi and Phujatkan to public criticism, especially the menacing tone of the Rambutree 516 article. The RAT investigated the matter, summoning staff of both publications to give evidence, but in practice the Association had no power to discipline newspapers, and the dispute was not satisfactorily resolved. Similar problems occurred later in 1995, when Thai Rath was accused of improper behaviour by its rival Khao Sot. An investigation by the RAT’s Ethics Committee succeeded in exacerbating tensions between the two newspapers, which were complicated by the fact that then RAT President Sommai Paritchart was the executive editor of Matichon (the same company as Khao Sot), while RAT secretary-general Chavarong Limpattamapanee was head of Thai Rath’s information division. When tensions reached their height in January 1996,

26 Politics and the media in Thailand Chavarong and other Thai Rath staff on the RAT executive decided to resign from their Association positions. Chavarong argued that it was necessary for mechanisms to be established which formally separated business and professional issues, so that RAT executives would not find themselves placed in an almost impossible position.99 Not all Thai media practitioners were enthusiastic about the RAT. Chatcharin argued that the Association was a carve-up between the big newspapers, especially Matichon and Thai Rath, who dominated the organisation and used it to suit their own interests; thus it was not a true professional organisation.100 Certainly, it was true that the key executive posts of the RAT were held by Matichon and Thai Rath staff from 1993 to 1997. Nevertheless, Chavarong strongly disputed this criticism, arguing that many of the active members of the committee came from other newspapers.101 Sommai Paritchart also disputed this perception of domination of the RAT by big newspapers, arguing that this problem had now greatly declined.102 Yet the Association still did not open its doors fully to reporters working in the electronic media, who were only eligible for associate (non-voting) membership. Changing the rules to allow full membership to television and radio reporters had been regularly proposed (including once by Pramote Fai-uppara during his time as president), but was rejected on the grounds that reporters working in the electronic media could not be disciplined by the Association, since many of them worked for state enterprises.103 The continuing determination of the Reporters’ Association to exclude perhaps 30 to 40 per cent of reporters from full membership rights was a major obstacle to the growth and development of the Association.

Monarchy and the culture of rumour The politicisation of the Thai print media was largely begun by the Thai monarchy itself, which sought to use the press as a means of advancing its views and responding to its critics. Rama VI was a frequent contributor to the press, writing under a variety of pseudonyms and engaging in disputation with other anonymous commentators. To this day, many political columns appear pseudonymously, operating in what Susan Pharr has called ‘a zone of liminality or “periphery” between the established order and the symbolic universe surrounding it’.104 In this zone of liminality, critical references to leading politicians and military officers are often encoded, creating a closed culture of rumour, gossip and name-calling. Annette Hamilton has argued that the existence of forbidden topics leads to a spawning of ‘rumours and foul calumnies’: such as the case of the queen’s dream which foretold impending disaster for all persons whose names contained a certain letter of the alphabet and which brought normal life to a standstill one weekend in 1988 after it was mentioned on television news.105

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At the core of this closed culture remains the institution of monarchy. The monarchy is currently off-limits to political commentators, having built up enormous reserves of popular legitimacy during the ninth reign. Strict lèse majesté laws make it very dangerous to risk any public statement which discusses (let alone analyses or criticises) the character of royal political interventions at junctures such as the October 1973, October 1976, April 1981 or May 1992 political crises, or the nature of royal influence in the day-to-day political process.106 Since very few people have any first-hand knowledge of what political role the King does play, and those people never speak about the matter in public, the political role of the monarchy remains an endless source of speculation. However, this speculation cannot be aired openly in the press. Instead, allusions are made and conspiracies hinted at without any direct clarification ever emerging. The result is a climate of rumour, a climate both fostered by and reflected in the press. A good example of the politics of rumour in Thailand surrounded the unexpected entry of the Chart Pattana Party into the government coalition in December 1994. The government, led by the Democrat Party under Prime Minister Chuan Leekpai, was shaken badly by the withdrawal of its largest coalition partner, New Aspiration, in a dispute over reforms concerning local administration. It was initially assumed that Chuan would dissolve parliament and call a general election, which he was considered well placed to win. But to the surprise of most analysts and commentators, the Democrats instead invited the opposition Chart Pattana Party to join the government – despite the fact that party leader Chatichai Choonavan had previously declared that he would not join the government under any circumstances. The most obvious explanation for the development was a simple one: mutual self-interest on the part of the two parties. Chuan had often declared his ambition to become the first elected premier ever to serve out a full four-year term. It was well known that Chatichai, who had been in the political wilderness since being ousted as prime minister in the military coup of February 1991, was eager to return to the limelight. However, many commentators were unhappy with this explanation, believing Chuan too proud and inflexible to have agreed willingly to work with the notoriously manipulative Chatichai, while Chatichai himself appeared to have much to gain from a quick general election in which he could present himself as a ‘comeback kid’. Democrat party secretary-general Sanan Kachornprasat privately told senior columnists that Chuan had not initiated the deal: he himself had arranged for Chart Pattana to come on board, presenting the decision to Chuan as a fait accompli.107 There was considerable speculation that Sanan had done so at the request of Prem Tinsulanond, former prime minister and privy councillor; it was rumoured that Prem wanted to see Chuan continue in office for the sake of political stability. Sanan and Prem were both ex-generals with long-standing personal ties. Prem was in turn known as a member of the King’s most trusted inner circle. Thus it was possible to argue that the entry of Chart Pattana into the coalition was on some level the result of a royal intervention: either that Prem had asked Sanan to set up the deal at the

28 Politics and the media in Thailand King’s request, or that Prem had proposed the idea off his own bat, knowing that it was in accordance with the King’s preferences. Alternatively, Sanan could have hinted to Chuan or to Chatichai that Prem or the King hoped they could form a coalition, without Prem’s ever having explicitly said any such thing. In principle, the Thai subordinate (Sanan or Prem) should not need to ask what the superior (Prem or the King) wishes him to do, but should know how to act in such a way as to please him. Precisely because the real wishes of the King are not explicit and cannot be openly discussed, politicians may be able to make use of real or ‘imagined’ royal desires or royal ‘green lights’ for their own advantage. Situations such as the entry of Chart Pattana into the Chuan government in late 1994 illustrate the problems faced by the Thai media in covering political stories. The real explanation for events was difficult to establish, yet it was also impossible to write openly about the range of possibilities which existed, since several of them touched on the taboo subject of the King’s political role. Similar problems arose at the beginning of the Banharn Silpa-archa government in July, August and September 1995. The King was widely rumoured to be unhappy that Banharn, a self-made Chinese businessman, had become prime minister. When the country was faced with extensive flooding, the King began making nightly television appearances more or less explicitly criticising the government’s handling of the crisis. The flooding issue became a kind of metaphor for what appeared to be attacks on the corruption and incompetence of ministers in the new cabinet. The press was obliged to report the royal statements verbatim, without discussing the background to, or the ramifications of, the apparent tensions between monarch and prime minister. One of the few members of the Thai media willing to discuss the issue of the monarchy is Chatcharin: From the outside, Thai society looks like an open society. But deep in its culture it is a closed society. This is a paradox. Although from their political coverage it looks as though newspapers have a lot of freedom, actually none of them dares criticise the King. This is something we can’t write, and it has real influence in Thai society. If you ask what we can’t write, it is usually matters related to the monarchy. No matter how important the person is, Kamphol, Suchinda, Chuan, they can’t come out against the King. It’s culture and tradition, in the blood of society, which if you look at this world is very dangerous, in my view. I myself am trying hard to talk about this matter, because I believe that talking about this in a relevant way will make society less dangerous. But actually I can only talk within certain permissible limitations, not a lot. There are lots of people, like Sulak, Pridi, Puey, who have tried to talk about these things but could not succeed … I believe it’s not right to stay quiet.108 The existence of a whole sub-text of Thai politics – the real or imagined relationships between the monarchy and other political actors – which is completely off-limits for the press, has the effect of stunting the nature of

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political coverage, promoting rumour and innuendo, and preventing a critical and analytical mode of journalism from developing. While the print media is not a servant of the state in many other respects, it does operate as a loyal subject of the crown.

Readership ‘An ordinary bus trip on a Bangkok bus reveals an interesting fact about Thai people: They don’t read.’109 Despite its claimed literacy rate of 93.8 per cent, Thailand is largely a society of non-readers. Newspaper circulations in Thailand are notoriously exaggerated. On days other than the bi-monthly lottery result days, it is probable that the total circulation for all daily newspapers in Thailand is below two million copies,110 which is equivalent to one newspaper purchased per thirty people, or thirty-three newspapers per thousand people.111 Official statistics suggesting higher sales figures are based on fictitious circulation figures invented by newspapers themselves, and must be disregarded. Thais consume an average of 20.1 kg of paper per capita per year; Malaysians, with a supposedly lower literacy rate of 80 per cent, consume an average of 48 kg, while Singaporeans, with a literacy rate of 91.6 per cent, consume an average of 187 kg of paper.112 Most newspaper readers (probably over 60 per cent) are in Bangkok, although newspapers such as Matichon have sponsored the free distribution of their publications to rural villages, where one copy may be read by numerous readers in a central place. Some estimates suggest that a typical copy of a Thai newspaper may be read by an average of ten readers, which would mean that twenty million Thais read daily newspapers. A more realistic estimate is that around ten million Thais, or one in six of the population, read a daily newspaper. Nevertheless, in an elite-dominated society characterised by topdown governance, even the relatively small readerships of newspapers such as Matichon or Phujatkan are extremely influential. Politicians, bureaucrats, military officers, business people and local intellectuals do read newspapers, and these groups are important in forming public opinion.

Structure of the book This book sets out to answer three central questions about the nature of the relationship between media and politics in Thailand: What kind of political role does the media (especially the Thai language press) perform? What kind of political power and influence does the media have? How does ownership affect the political stance of the media? In order to answer these larger questions, the operations of the print media will be examined in chapters which draw upon extensive empirical research. Chapters 2, 3 and 4 concern themselves with a detailed examination of the workings of the press; the process of political newsgathering viewed from inside a major newspaper (Thai Rath); the work of political reporters at an important location of political news (parliament); and

30 Politics and the media in Thailand the internal organisation and editorial politics of another major newspaper (Matichon). Chapter 5 focuses on a single news story, analysing how another newspaper (Siam Post) handled a major ‘scoop’. Chapter 6 looks at the role of political columnists in a range of newspapers. Chapter 7 provides a short conclusion which reviews and summarises the book’s findings, and briefly reviews developments in the media after the economic crisis of 1997.

2

Political news-gathering in Thai language newspapers

This chapter will explore a number of questions with relation to the Thai language press: What constitutes ‘political news’? Where does political news come from? How is it assembled in the newsroom? What are the relationships between political reporters, columnists and editors? How do newspaper people relate to politicians and other political actors? The Thai press will be viewed as a political actor in its own right, pursuing an independent agenda. As Cook notes, this view of the media has been largely neglected: journalists have been very successful in downplaying the extent of their political influence, while political scientists have failed to take the power of the media seriously.1 The main focus of this chapter will be the leading daily Thai Rath. Thai language newspapers have a hierarchical structure; nowhere is this more evident than in their approach to the coverage of political news. One way of understanding this approach is to view it in terms of a set of dichotomies, or corollaries.

The case of Thai Rath Thai Rath was the best-selling daily newspaper in Thailand, with sales of around a million copies on twice-monthly lottery days, and perhaps 700,000 copies on a normal day. Thai Rath published several daily editions (five in 1995),2 and had the best national reach of any Thai daily, thanks to its formidable network of delivery trucks and regional distributors. Advertisers had to book space months in advance, and the newspaper was quite selective about accepting advertisements. Thai Rath was well known for its brash, large-type headlines, accompanied by lurid and often gory photographs. A typical front page featured a couple of graphic images of crime and accident victims, along with pictures of television stars, a beauty queen and a politician. The Thai Rath compound on Viphavadee-Rangsit Road (a prime location which lies between central districts of the city and Don Muang airport) is heavily guarded by armed security staff, a somewhat understandable precaution given frequent attacks on the newspaper. Newspapers and individual reporters often face threats of violence in Thailand when covering controversial stories, especially stories about the business interests of the rich and powerful. One of the worst such attacks took place in the early hours of 5 December 1994, when

32 Political news-gathering in Thai language newspapers an M79 mortar shell was fired at the editorial building; miraculously, there were no injuries.3 Understanding Thai Rath is impossible without examining the personality of the founder and owner of the newspaper, the late Kamphol Wacharapon (1919– 96).4 Kamphol, who served in the navy before joining a newspaper, starting a printing business and eventually establishing Thai Rath, came from very humble origins, had little schooling and was barely literate. The secret of his business success was to hit upon a newspaper format with enormous appeal to the man on the street such as himself, a daily newspaper full of crime, sex and sleaze, with a formidable network of local reporters, a rolling production schedule, excellent political contacts and a chameleon-like ability to accommodate itself to the prevailing order. Unsubstantiated rumours often linked Kamphol to organised crime; it might be more useful to argue that Kamphol preferred to run a legitimate newspaper business as though it were an illegitimate business, demanding advance payments in cash from advertisers, surrounding himself with armed bodyguards, and generally behaving like a godfather (jao pho)5 figure rather than a respectable newspaper owner. Godfather or not, Kamphol’s immense wealth and considerable political influence meant that he was appointed to the Senate in 1983.6 Under Kamphol’s leadership, Thai Rath’s organisational structure was highly personalistic: formal structures (such as editorial meetings) counted for little, and power was wielded by those individuals with the best ties to the owner, rather than the formal holders of senior positions. The newspaper was extremely maledominated (the only senior woman in 1995 was the economics editor), and had a distinctly macho culture. At daily news meetings, there was a jokey, bar-room atmosphere, and one political rewriter usually amused himself by playing with a loaded gun. Some senior staff drove expensive cars, bragged openly about their mia noi (minor wives), and lived hard-drinking, chain-smoking existences, roaming bars and massage parlours in search of the latest gossip. At the same time, some Thai Rath staffers, including several senior ones, were well-educated, respectable people of liberal political views, who had excellent contacts with academics and social activists. They saw a mass-market newspaper such as Thai Rath as an invaluable platform for presenting their views; for the newspaper, their presence on the staff helped legitimate Thai Rath’s claims that it was a serious, socially engaged publication. Kamphol’s formidable personal power provided support and protection for his loyal subordinates. At a mundane level, this applied to questions such as schooling for Thai Rath staff. When school entrance examinations were held each April, Thai Rath lobbied schools to admit the staff of its employees. In 1995, for example, the education editor claimed to have managed to have twenty-five out of thirty staff children admitted to their parents’ desired school, or an equivalent one, by promising to give the schools favourable coverage in the paper and ‘help them out’ if they would reciprocate.7 Although apparently trivial, Thai Rath’s capacity to cajole school principals was an indicator of its influence: no other newspaper could do so on such a scale. When Kamphol died in February 1996,

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Thai Rath’s influence declined significantly. The newspaper’s decline was symbolised by the murder of Sangchai Sunthornvut, director of the Mass Communications Organisation of Thailand, and a Thai Rath foreign affairs columnist. Within a few weeks of Kamphol’s death Sangchai was gunned down near his home, probably as a result of personal conflicts related to his directorship of MCOT. While it is difficult to prove a causal link between Kamphol’s death and Sangchai’s murder, the death of his long-time patron left Sangchai badly exposed.

News versus comment An important distinction in the context of the Thai language press is the distinction between news and comment. As Aroon Larnlua, editor of Siam Post, explained: ‘Opinions and ideas should not be included in the news. If it’s a column, then that’s all right. Many reporters today attempt to guide readers in the news. This is a total breach of ethics and theory.’8 ‘News’, especially political news, is narrowly defined as literal descriptions of actual events, plus the statements of people involved. The majority of the text in political news stories comprises direct or indirect quotations. This tendency is seen most evidently on television news broadcasts, where the domestic political news slots consist of nothing more than a sequence of off-the-cuff interviews with government and opposition politicians. But essentially the same structure applies to political news stories carried in the Thai language press. Most political reporters are not employed to gather information so much as to collect quotations. The Thai concept of what constitutes a ‘front-page’ political story often differs from that used in other countries. The front pages of most Thai newspapers consist almost entirely of large headlines, with sub-headings and the first few words of a story. The rest of the story then appears on an inside page, sometimes running on to a third page. Thai Rath typically carried six or seven front-page stories, one of which was a political story – two in times of tension or crisis. The political desk competes with other desks (in the context of Thai Rath, primarily the Bangkok and regional crime desks) for front-page headlines and story space. A more upmarket newspaper like Matichon carried about three political stories. Business-focused newspapers such as Phujatkan typically carried no more than one or two political stories on their front page, while Siam Post gave over almost its entire front page to politics. Many newspapers had a political page, in addition to their front-page coverage of political news. In practice, however, the political page tended to be given over mainly to columns and ‘routine’ items of political news which were of little interest. Perhaps for this reason, Matichon, a newspaper famous for its political coverage, has no political page. Thai Rath’s political page is page 3. In 1995, the page typically contained three columns: the regular ‘Chalam Khiao’ column in the bottom right-hand corner, a second column in the top right-hand corner which alternated between a political gossip column, and a commentary by the political editor, and a third column written in rotation by some of the senior reporters.9 The rest of the page

34 Political news-gathering in Thai language newspapers was taken up with around four short political stories, most of them routine accounts based on ministerial press releases. In the context of a newspaper like Thai Rath, there was a great difference between a front-page story (the main text of which actually appears on an inside page such as page 17), and a politicalpage story on page 3. A front-page story will be widely read and may have considerable impact; a page 3 story is of negligible significance. At a meeting of the Thai Rath political team in April 1995, one reporter who had been overseeing page 3 for the previous two weeks expressed great dissatisfaction with the quality of the articles appearing there;10 sometimes they were hardly worth publishing. He urged political reporters to look upon page 3 as ‘their’ page, and try to improve the material which appeared there. In practice, however, just as there was a strict seniority hierarchy among the staff of newspapers, so there was a parallel hierarchy of pages: page 1 stories were considered vastly more important than page 3 stories, and reporters sought to get their stories on to the front page, even if this meant in practice that they appeared buried somewhere in the middle of page 17. The political news-gathering organisation of Thai language newspapers produces very large quantities of information. Although some of this information is discarded in the editing process, far more material is left over than can be readily conflated into one or two front-page political stories. In any case, the information comes in classified according to the location of the source rather than the issue: ministers and other political figures interviewed by political reporters commonly comment on a range of issues, not simply those for which they are directly responsible. The solution used by newspapers such as Thai Rath and Matichon was to run marathon ‘front-page’ political stories which consisted of several different political issues, some of them linked to the initial headline and others quite unrelated. A lecturer in journalism at Chulalongkorn University – addressing a training seminar for provincial reporters on Thai Rath – pointed out that breaking stories down into short ‘frames’ under sub-headings had two serious drawbacks.11 Reporters could lose their ability to integrate their stories into one text, while readers were not challenged to remember a story and think about it properly. Yet this was precisely the way in which Thai Rath political stories were run. Political news stories rarely contain background information or explanation of the significance of events or statements concerned. Although Thai Rath (in common with other Thai newspapers) had substantial resources of background information including a large clippings library, political desk staff seemed very reluctant to make use of these resources. Clippings files were rarely to be seen in the political desk area (in sharp contrast to the political desks at Matichon and Siam Post, where these files were in constant use).12 Checking background information from clippings seemed to run counter to the institutional culture of the Thai Rath political desk: most reporters and columnists generally worked from memory, as though admitting that the need to check a fact amounted to a loss of face. Clippings files were more commonly used by other desks, especially the economics desk.

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Since front-page political stories referred to a wide range of issues and typically included lengthy quotations from at least half a dozen political actors, making sense of the material they contained could be difficult. The stories followed a definite formula, with a series of quotations linked by phrases such as ‘Mr Chuan still insists that’ and ‘the Permanent Secretary also stated that’. A story about the Democrat Party might begin with a series of statements from Democrats (not necessarily in order of seniority), then quote various responses from rival political parties, followed by statements from academics or well-known public figures not directly involved in the party political fray. These news stories have no conclusion: the quotations simply come to an abrupt end. For example, in April 1995 veteran political campaigner Chalard Vorachat declared that he was going to stage a protest in front of parliament in order to press for political reform. On the third day of the protest, Thai Rath carried a detailed story about Chalard. The mammoth story, which came to almost 3,800 words in English translation, comprised twenty-two sections, each with its own sub-heading. Section 1 was an introduction, section 2 described the atmosphere at the protest site, sections 3–16 consisted entirely of quotations about the protest, section 17 was a related report about an anti-government petition, section 18 was a related story about Chalard dropping a lawsuit against the prime minister, section 19 was an unrelated story about an MP seeking police protection, sections 20 and 21 were unrelated reports of the latest statements of the agriculture minister and his deputy about the land reform scandal, and section 22 was an unrelated report about the possibility of a leading politician stepping down from his party post. Thus the article contained six different stories: Chalard’s protest, the petition, the dropping of the lawsuit, the MP’s request for protection, the latest on land reform, and speculation about a change of secretary-general for the Democrats. The fourteen sections consisting of quotations from public figures comprised the great bulk of the story. Sections 3 and 4 were quotations from Chalard himself. Section 5 quoted a deputy prime minister from the Democrat Party; 6 and 7, the interior minister (another Democrat); 8, the labour minister (Chart Pattana Party); 9, the deputy education minister (Palang Dharma); 10, a Democrat MP and advisor to the interior minister; 11 and 12, a deputy leader of the Solidarity Party; 13, Dr Prawase Wasi, a respected social critic involved in the political reform movement; 14, a political science professor from Chulalongkorn University; 15, a senator from the military; 16, a Palang Dharma MP. The selection was hardly balanced, since apart from Chalard himself and Dr Prawase, all eleven of those quoted were either government MPs or ministers, or else well-known conservative figures. No opposition MPs were quoted, nor any members of pro-democracy groups such as the Confederation for Democracy, or the Campaign for Popular Democracy. Although given the nature of coalition politics (at the time the government comprised MPs from five different parties: Democrat, Chart Pattana, Palang Dharma, Solidarity and Seritham) it might be appropriate to interview politicians from several government parties, the Chart Pattana (8) and Palang Dharma (9) ministers interviewed were minor figures,

36 Political news-gathering in Thai language newspapers whose ministerial duties were not related to the issues raised by the protest. The Democrat (10) and Solidarity (11, 12) MPs interviewed were well-known selfpublicists who cultivated close links with reporters and were often to be found in the reporters’ room at the parliament building. The Palang Dharma MP (16) was another figure who courted publicity. The academic quoted (14) was also well known for his willingness to supply the press with his views on any and every political issue. Reporters were sometimes limited by the availability of suitable interviewees, and on this occasion the problem was compounded by the fact this was the hot season and the Songkran (Thai New Year) festival, when many politicians would be away in their constituencies, or abroad on holiday. Insofar as the comments of the various figures interviewed offered any insight into the political situation, this was less a function of the importance of the figures concerned (with the exception of the deputy PM, the interior minister and Dr Prawase) than the possible significance of hints of dissent from the government position in the run-up to the forthcoming no-confidence debate. Thus the significance of Solidarity MP Kanin Boonsuwan’s statements was his criticism of the prime minister for ‘underestimating’ the situation, criticism which might imply dissatisfaction with the Democrats on the part of Solidarity. In the weeks which followed, Kanin privately encouraged reporters to believe that Solidarity might not support the Democrats in the no-confidence vote. The significance of the Palang Dharma MP’s comments – like those of the Palang Dharma minister – was the stress on the need for Palang Dharma MPs to adhere to official party policy. The implication was that party policy could be changed, and there was no explicit support for the government’s position. Again, the source of interest was whether Palang Dharma could be relied upon to support the government; in the event, it was the withdrawal of Palang Dharma from the coalition on the eve of the vote which led to the collapse of the Chuan administration, The newspaper account did not offer the reader any assistance in the task of deciphering or translating the evasive utterances which it quoted at such length. To do so would be to commit the crime of ‘guiding readers in the news’, denounced as unethical by Siam Post editor Aroon. The task of making sense of the material was left up to the reader; ironically, in a country where newspaper sales were low, those who did make the effort to read a newspaper had to be prepared to grapple with front-page stories far longer than those common elsewhere in the region. Nowhere in the lengthy story did Thai Rath mention that Chalard had staged similar protests before: in 1992, when he had helped create the momentum for the anti-Suchinda demonstrations which had forced out an unelected premier; and in 1994, when he had held an unsuccessful protest which had petered out. Unless the reader already knew Chalard’s political record and his mixed achievements, the new protest and the views of different figures about that protest were largely unintelligible. Even the introductory section of the story contained a series of decontextualised points from the quoted material which followed, capped by a single general sentence about the mixed reactions produced by the protest.

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The irony of front-page political news stories in the Thai language press was that although they sought to preserve a rigid distinction between news (presentation of facts and quotations) and comment (interpretation and discussion of facts and quotations), news itself consisted almost entirely of the comments of others. The culture of quotations was not unique to Thailand. Yasuo Hanazaki has argued that the Indonesian press uses a similar style of ‘tape-recorder journalism’, or ‘talk journalism’:13 This type of news story begins with a direct quotation of a VIP’s comment, and then narrates the content of the briefing or announcement. In this type of story, a reporter seldom quotes views, comments, opinions from other news sources.14 He describes this style of reporting as a means of self-protection on the part of the press, which is highly vulnerable to pressures from politicians and other power-holders. Thai political stories differ from Indonesian ‘tape-recorder journalism’ in two important respects. Most Thai political stories do contain comments and opinions from sources other than the main source; in this respect they are more sophisticated than many Indonesian political stories. Highly literal news reporting was more excusable in the Indonesian political context, where major news publications were regularly banned.15 In Thailand, however, the press was much freer than in Indonesia, especially after the lifting of Decree 42 in 1990, and even more so after the events of May 1992. Quotation-based political stories had originally evolved in Thailand under the military dictatorships of Sarit and Thanom, and offered a means of survival from newspapers which lived under constant threat of closure. By attributing controversial statements to others, newspapers attempted to distance themselves from their own stories. Yet once the need for self-censorship had declined, Thai political journalism had failed to respond by restructuring itself. As Hanazaki noted concerning the Indonesian case, the use of quotation-based stories made reporters lazy, eventually undermining the capacity of reporters for independent fact-finding. As tape-recorder-wielding political reporters were promoted to editorial positions, the culture of passive news-gathering became more and more firmly entrenched. The separation of news and comment practised by Thai reporters actually reflected an over-literal interpretation of a western news agency style manual published in the 1960s. This manual was used as a text for a whole generation of Thai journalists. While by the 1990s the majority of journalists were not journalism graduates, during the 1970s alumni of the journalism programmes at Thammasat and Chulalongkorn Universities assumed key positions in several leading newspapers. In much the same fashion, the Indonesian Information Ministry justified the idea of a press guided by principles of freedom and responsibility (the rationale for all manner of censorship and self-restraint) by distorting arguments by the American media scholar Wilbur Schramm.16 The Indonesian theory owed its origins to controversial recommendations by the

38 Political news-gathering in Thai language newspapers Hutchins Commission, which produced a report entitled A Free and Responsible Press in 1947.17 The Commission’s proposal that government regulation of the press should be employed if self-regulation failed was never adopted in the United States, but became an article of faith for successive Indonesian governments. Like the Indonesian authorities, Thai journalists had sought – and found – external referents to justify their hyper-cautious style of newswriting. Even within Thai language newspapers, however, the style of reporting used in political stories was exceptional. Foreign news stories, produced almost entirely by translating English language news agency material into Thai, offered an alternative model of writing. Business stories emulated international styles of journalism, and employed a more integrated style of reportage, combining quotations with background information and commentary. Only the political desks remained firmly wedded to a rigid distinction between news and comment. Nevertheless, this distinction was supported by some newspaper readers, including Prime Minister Chuan Leekpai. In 1993, Chuan criticised what he saw as a growing tendency for the Thai press to imitate the style of English newspapers: ‘Most importantly, I do not want opinions to be inserted in news reports. I want the readers to read what is really the news. Opinions should be written in other articles and columns.’18

Dek versus phu yai Underlying the structure of political coverage in the Thai language press is a hierarchical relationship between juniors and seniors. This relationship exists in two parallel worlds: the political world beyond the newspaper, and the journalistic world inside the newspaper. In the political world, reporters do not operate on terms of relative equality with politicians. With the exception of a handful of senior reporters,19 those working on the political ‘beats’ at places such as parliament and Government House were overwhelmingly aged between 20 and 30.20 The majority had been working as reporters for no more than two or three years. They were generally referred to by both editors and politicians alike as dek, kids, and received little or no training for their work. Whatever their private views of the politicians whose utterances they gathered, the dek were generally deferential and polite in their dealings with political figures. The reporters were not empowered to write their own news stories, and were largely dependent upon preserving harmonious relations with politicians in order to obtain quotations. Front-page political news stories in Thai language newspapers never carried a by-line; indeed, by-lines were rare for news stories anywhere in the Thai press, other than some weekly magazines. In part this reflected Thai traditions of journalism, but it also derived from the fact that these stories really did not have a single author. A typical front-page political news story contained material from eight, ten or even twelve different reporters. Internal evidence suggests that the 11 April 1995 Thai Rath Chalard story included material from metropolitan

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reporters inside and outside parliament, and at Government House, the Interior Ministry, the Labour Ministry, the courts and the Agriculture Ministry, as well as from a provincial reporter in Korat, supplemented by two or three telephone interviews. The quotations gathered were either faxed or phoned in to political ‘rewriters’, whose task was to string the material into some kind of story. At Thai Rath, some rewriters literally employed scissors and paste to create a news story out of faxed material sent in from reporters,21 typing up connecting material themselves. Thai Rath had only three political rewriters, who worked in rotation on 24-hour shifts (in practice, they were able to grab sleep on camp beds during quiet periods). Rewriters were not involved in producing the political page, although they would pass on material they were not using to the person responsible for ‘closing the page’. The political page was ‘closed’ by one of the political reporters, who did the job in rotation. Political rewriters were not always satisfied with the quality of news material sent in to them by reporters. In an internal memo sent to all members of the political team on 24 April 1995, Weerajak Konthong (better known as the columnist ‘Chalam Khiao’, or Green Shark) set out his criticisms of reporters’ material. The memo contained five points. Weerajak first observed that since parliament was opening, politics was becoming more complex, and there were lots of different issues every day. People who wanted to get into the news were speaking at great length, but the problem Thai Rath faced was that the newspaper did not have much space for political news. He urged all political reporters to send in just the main points they had found; where longer supplementary details or ‘atmosphere’22 were required, the rewriters would contact reporters by pager and ask them for more material. His second point was the need to develop the quality of political news-writing. Political news had to be tightly written, and reporters had to be news-hounds (suakhao, literally news-tigers) rather than simply sending in what they taperecorded. They should grasp the point (jap praden), and put both question and answer about the same issue together in the same section, rather than flooding forth information. Third, it was a shame reporters felt they did not know what the main issue was, and sent in long stories accordingly. If those in the field could send in abbreviated news itemising the different issues, this would have good results: Thai Rath could cover all the political news succinctly. His fourth point was that reporters might well ask why it was that rewriters did not do the job of shortening their material. It was true that news could easily be shortened: four pages could be cut down to four sentences. But his purpose in asking for shorter news was to get reporters to develop the skill of writing well: he wanted all of them to have the chance to become rewriters, so they should also try to practise and develop themselves. Reporters could be proud of their success when the news they had sent in had all been published, without even a single letter cut. His fifth and concluding point was that reporters needed to read the newspapers before starting work, so that they would be familiar with the development of particular issues. In this way, even if they were only listening with one ear to someone being interviewed, they would know at once what the point was. News

40 Political news-gathering in Thai language newspapers should be written succinctly. Under present conditions, to make things easier for themselves they really had to work together and help each other. Weerajak’s memo reflected doubts about the quality of some Thai Rath reporters, reservations felt by senior editorial people at the paper. But his plea for shorter, more tightly written news items went against the institutional culture of Thai Rath, and the general modus operandi of political reporters for the Thai language press. For most political reporters, tok khao, missing an important item of news, was their greatest fear. Partly out of habit, and partly because they were not always confident of their ability to spot the important issue, reporters preferred to fax in everything they had collected. They were afraid that if they sent in less material they would be regarded as lazy or inefficient. These fears were actually somewhat justified, since some of Thai Rath’s political reporters were indeed regarded by their superiors as lazy. Some newspapers used ‘targets’ for political reporters, urging them to produce a certain number of ‘stories’ each day. Weerajak’s proposals for improving the quality of the material sent in by reporters illustrate problems inherent in the process of news-gathering used by Thai Rath’s political desk. Front-page political stories were extremely lengthy, and it was often difficult to grasp the point of the stories. Although Weerajak complained that many reporters were unable to get the point (jap praden) about the issues they were covering, the unfocused nature of their faxed submissions was also simply a reflection of the rambling quality of political news in general. Although Weerajak began his criticisms by pointing out that Thai Rath had very limited space for political news, political editors in most other countries would be envious of the long political stories carried by the Thai language press. The core issue was not the quantity of space available, but the quality of the material used to fill that space. In part, this reflected structural problems: the limited allocation of the number of front-page political stories meant that several stories had to be dealt with under a single banner, leading to stories which had more than one praden. But the essential reason why political stories in newspapers such as Thai Rath lacked focus was their slavish repetition of the utterances of politicians and other public figures, without explanation and without much editing. Stories would quote more than one figure from one of the parties (Chart Thai or the Democrats, for example), making essentially the same point. Where there were differences of opinion among various figures, the newspaper story would never summarise and elucidate these differences, but rather leave the reader to divine them for him or herself. Numerous praden lay buried within quotations, rather than unearthed and exposed for the reader to see. Thai reporters were taught that inserting any sort of explanation or background material into a story was tantamount to putting in the personal opinions of the writer, something absolutely forbidden. Any such material could only be expressed within the confines of a column. This meant that the newspaper reader had to be extremely skilled, not only having the time and stamina to read a front-page political story the equivalent of ten normal A4 pages long, but also capable of extrapolating the main points from that story.

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Although political news stories did have a ‘beginning’ – usually a statement by a well-known public figure – they lacked either a middle (a core praden), or an ‘end’, in the form of a concluding paragraph summarising the development and looking forward to the next stage. Rather than reach a conclusion, news stories instead abandoned their original theme in favour of secondary or entirely unrelated issues, resulting in a loss of focus. Thai Rath was unusual in employing section headings which highlighted, and to some extent clarified, jumps in story line. Other newspapers, such as Siam Post, did not use any section headings in political stories, whilst Phujatkan used them very sparingly, and Matichon employed them in some stories but not in others. Some senior staff at Siam Post were unhappy with the hard-and-fast distinction drawn between news and comment, and sought to break down the barrier slightly. For example, Krisakorn Wongkornwuthi sometimes used connecting phrases such as ‘it is interesting that’ in the front-page stories he compiled. Two other political desk staff on the newspaper criticised this to me, one saying that a story using this phrase would be given only 4 out 10 by an instructor teaching a university class in news-writing.23 These staff members believed that it was up to readers to draw their own interpretations and conclusions from factual information and quotations set out in political news stories, with no guidance from the reporters or rewriters. Nevertheless, not everyone saw the business of political rewriting as a mechanical process. At least one Thai Rath insider argued that it was possible to tell from reading Thai Rath’s front-page stories which of the three political rewriters had been on duty that day. Rewriters were more than passive compilers of material: as Weerajak made clear, they could page or telephone reporters to follow up stories and supply more detailed quotations. Indeed, they could also telephone sources of their own and solicit quotations from them. Although sometimes the source of information for a story was clear (indicated by phrases such as ‘our reporters report that’), the collective nature of the political newswriting process meant that rewriters could slip in quotes from their own sources; these might include personal friends, and drinking buddies with whom they enjoyed close relations. Of the three political rewriters, one was very close to several figures in the Chart Thai Party and other ‘ex-devil’ parties, while another had a broader range of connections in parties such as Chart Pattana and Chart Thai. Two of the three had formerly worked for Ban Muang, the newspaper owned by Chart Thai politician Banharn Silpa-archa, who became prime minister in July 1995. Close and sometimes symbiotic relationships between politicians and journalists could often influence the nature of political coverage. The political rewriters were supervised by the front-page editor. In 1995 there were four front-page editors who worked in rotation on 24-hour shifts. Of these, two had started off as political desk reporters. The other two had come up through the crime beat, and had little interest in political matters. When either of these crime-centred front-page editors was on duty, the political rewriters had considerable latitude in drafting their stories.

42 Political news-gathering in Thai language newspapers Front-page editors did not have the final word on decisions, however. A former front-page editor for a leading daily explained that he would select frontpage stories partly on the basis of hints from the newspaper’s owners that he should ‘look out’ for particular stories.24 At Thai Rath, the owner’s son, Saravudh (nicknamed Khun Yi), held the post of editor-in-chief, working from a desk in the corner of the main newsroom. Another important figure at Thai Rath was deputy editor-in-chief Likhit Chongsakul, a former Matichon political journalist and editor of Khao Sot. Likhit, the partner of one of the owner’s daughters, chaired the morning news meetings. In addition, much of the day-to-day decision-making about selection of stories and headlines was overseen by deputy editor-in-chief Chupong Maneenoi.25 Chupong, a veteran of Ban Muang, Naeo Na and the Bangkok Post, never attended the 11.00 a.m. news meetings. He usually arrived at Thai Rath at around eight or nine in the evening, in time to check the stories and headlines for the central region five-star edition, which went to press at 11.00 p.m. Chupong was believed to liaise closely with owner Kamphol and ensure that his wishes were carried out. It was said that Kamphol had told his son Saravudh (the nominal editor-in-chief) to follow Chupong’s guidance, and learn from him the art of running a newspaper. Chupong was known to rewrite headlines if they did not express the newspaper’s stance clearly. This sometimes led to discrepancies between quite bland story content and very forceful headlines. One example of a general policy over-riding day-to-day news considerations was a decision in late 1994 to lock a big story about the So Po Ko land reform scandal26 on to the front page, meaning that this story would be run every day regardless of whether there had been any important development. This continued for around six months, until the Democrats lost power in midMay 1995.

Reporters versus columnists By contrast with the front pages, the inside pages of Thai language newspapers contained considerable amounts of political ‘comment’, mainly by regular columnists.27 Unlike reporters, who were juniors in both the political and newspaper worlds, columnists were seniors or ‘big people’ (phu yai). As phu yai, they could operate on terms of relative equality with political figures. Indeed, some well-known columnists might be more powerful than the average politician. Most political columns consisted almost entirely of opinion, with very little factual material. Most political news consisted of the comments of people ‘outside’ in the wider political world (mainly MPs, party leaders and ministers), while most political columns contained the comments of those ‘inside’ the newspaper and those closely associated with it. In other words, Thai language newspapers established and perpetuated a constant political dialogue between two groups of commentators, both of whom had the status of ‘insiders’ in the Thai political order. Almost all political coverage in Thai newspapers was composed of opinion. News consisted of the opinions of phu yai outside the newspaper. Comment consisted of the opinions of phu yai inside the newspaper.

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The Thai language press lacked a clear concept of a distinctive ‘Sunday newspaper’ which differed from its weekday counterpart. Typically, Sunday editions contained less news on inside pages, which were given over to special columns and features. Thai Rath gave over the whole of page 3 (the political page) to a full-page ‘political analysis’, which took the form of an extended commentary on recent developments. Whereas the editorials in Thai Rath reflected the views of superannuated ‘senior editors’ who played little part in the day-to-day news-gathering process, the Sunday political analysis – signed ‘the Thai Rath political team’ – could be seen as the authentic voice of the newspaper. The articles were written at Thursday evening meetings held on the political desk, meetings which divided into two sections. During the first part of the meeting, which lasted half an hour or so, there was a general discussion about which topic to tackle and how it should be approached. Although between twelve and fifteen of the twenty-strong political team might have been physically present, the sectional layout of the political desk made it impossible for the entire team to sit down in the same area. This meant that in practice the team divided itself into a core group clustered around a typewriter near the political editor’s desk, comprising mainly columnists and senior staff, and a more peripheral group of reporters who spilled over into adjacent areas. Most of the discussion was conducted by a small number of the participants, led by deputy editor Chupong and three or four other senior team members.28 Once a topic and an angle had been agreed, the text was dictated by Chupong – with occasional interjections from others – and typed up by Weerajak Konthong. One striking feature of the meetings was the relatively minor role played by figures such as assistant editor Likhit and political editor Pramote. Junior reporters had little or nothing to say during the meetings; indeed, many preferred to hold their own conversations, or to watch television in an adjoining area. The main role of junior and especially female reporters in the proceedings appeared to be the preparation of prodigious quantities of spicy sausage and other snacks. It might be assumed that other senior figures on the Thai Rath political team resented the dominant role played by Chupong in drafting the Sunday political analysis column. However, when Chupong was away in Britain in April 1995, it was apparent that no one else felt qualified to take his place. On one evening,29 there was a lengthy discussion at which Pramote did much of the talking, and there was participation from many more of the team, including some quite junior reporters. However, no one took Chupong’s place in dictating the final article. Weerajak took notes and wrote up an article later, for final review the next day before going to press. The resultant piece – using Chalard’s protest to criticise the Chuan government, but not to blast it completely – was much less strident in tone than that of the week before. The following Thursday evening, the discussion was uninspired and the lack of Chupong seemed sorely felt. Weerajak was more or less told to go off and write something up himself.30 Next day, Pramote complained that the resulting piece – a generalised rant about the So Po Ko land reform scandal – was bao, light or insubstantial. This ‘lightness’ appeared to be a direct result of the inability of other political team writers to

44 Political news-gathering in Thai language newspapers compose the kind of incisive critique which was Chupong’s forte. This meant that the task of writing Thai Rath’s most important political column was largely in the same hands as the task of overseeing the newspaper’s final headlines. This concentration of control helped make Thai Rath an influential political actor, since there was tight co-ordination of its stance on important questions.31 It would be wrong, however, to view Thai Rath as a monolith characterised by centralised control. This was only one part of the story. Another strength of Thai Rath lay in the diversity of views expressed by the various columns. The daily ‘Khunaphap sangkhom’ feature on page 5, for example, was a progressive column which dealt with social and political issues in a thoughtful manner, publicising the activities of NGOs and critiques of the mainstream order. Thai Rath’s success was based upon maintaining good ties with as many politicians and interest groups as possible, seeming to support different sides in different columns of the paper. Whatever the outcome in any given political change, Thai Rath had friends in the right high places. Chaiyan Rajchagool has offered a cynical view of such practices: A common characteristic among popular newspapers is the inclusion of a wide variety of editorial columns in order to cover a broad readership. Some columns may be radically progressive, whereas others may be downright conservative. By including these opposing views in one paper, these dailies create the facade that they are in fact ‘liberal’. But with close inspection, one can easily pin-point the overall outlook of a paper by its distribution of space to certain topics and political parties.32 During 1995, for example, while the deputy editor, a front-page editor and a political rewriter were on good terms with Chart Thai and Social Action, another political rewriter had excellent ties with Chart Pattana, and the political editor had strong links with the secretary-generals of the Democrat, Chart Pattana and Palang Dharma parties. The head of the information service had good links with academics and non-governmental organisations, while several columnists were on close terms with different factions in the military, and a senior reporter had an excellent relationship with the New Aspiration Party and its leader, General Chavalit Yongchaiyudh. The result was that all bases were covered: whichever party, group or faction came out on top, Thai Rath had its own hot line already connected. At Thai Rath, morning news meetings were held daily between eleven and twelve. Fifteen senior members of the editorial team were expected to attend: assistant chief editor Likhit, the front-page editor of the day, the political editor, the crime editor, the special assignments editor, the provincial editor, the economics editor, the education editor, the foreign editor, the political, crime and provincial rewriters of the day, the chief photographer, and the Bangkok page chief. One of the editor-in-chief ’s secretaries attended the meeting and took short minutes (usually only one page) which were circulated in the afternoon. Most of the minutes were taken up with an attendance list. The atmosphere at

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meetings was informal and jocular; there was rarely much sense of serious discussion about news priorities. This was mainly a reflection of the fact that the news meeting was not vested with decision-making powers, which lay largely in the hands of the front-page editor and the deputy chief editor. For a long period in the early 1990s, Thai Rath actually stopped having a news meeting at all. The minuting and attendance procedures surrounding the morning meeting reflected attempts by the newspaper’s management to professionalise the news operation.

Inside versus outside Another way of characterising the reporter/columnist distinction and the news/comment distinction was to see them in terms of an inside-versus-outside dichotomy. Reporters worked outside the newspaper. While this meant that they might be physically close to sources of power within the Thai state (such as Government House, parliament or the Interior Ministry), in status terms they were outsiders in those locations. Reporters were thus double outsiders, holding only peripheral or associate membership of the institutions they covered, and occupying a peripheral or marginal position within the newspaper itself. The long, unsocial hours worked by beat reporters, coupled with the appalling traffic conditions in Bangkok, meant that many Thai Rath and Matichon reporters only visited the newspaper’s offices once or twice a week. The situation was worse at Siam Post (located in the docklands area of Klong Toey, miles from the main political beats), and especially bad at The Nation (located out on the Banga-Trat highway to the east of the city). Some Nation reporters went to their office only about once a month. By contrast with reporters, editors and political desk staff were insiders who worked close to the centres of power in the newspaper organisation, and therefore held the position of consummate insiders in a parallel universe to the wider bureaucratic and political order. To work inside the newspaper as a desk editor, rewriter, front-page editor or full-time columnist was to have achieved higher status. In the case of a big newspaper such as Thai Rath, to hold a senior position inside the organisation gave you high-level access (including the ability to speak directly by telephone to cabinet ministers, and sometimes even the prime minister) to information and to power.

‘Inside the system’ versus ‘outside the system’ The Thai Rath political team had around twenty members: three parliamentary reporters, three at Government House, two covering the military, two at the Ministry of Interior, one at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, one at the Ministry of Agriculture and Co-operatives, one at the Bangkok Metropolitan Authority, then three political rewriters, a senior columnist, and the political editor, plus the deputy chief editor (a former political editor) and the assistant chief editor. In addition, there were three photographers assigned to work for the political desk, as well as seven cars (complete with drivers). The support resources in terms of

46 Political news-gathering in Thai language newspapers photographers and cars greatly exceeded those available to the political teams of any other newspaper. A striking feature of the political team was its focus upon gathering news from traditional centres of state power in the capital. The main emphasis was on four institutions: Government House (the office of the prime minister, the five or so deputy prime ministers, and the three or so ministers attached to the PM’s Office), parliament, the military, and the Interior Ministry. There were no roving political reporters whose job it was to pursue important stories: the job of reporters was to ‘cover’ specific physical locations, usually leaving them only to follow the movements of associated phu yai. For example, one of the Government House reporters would typically follow the prime minister around when he was not in his office; at the Interior Ministry, one reporter might similarly tail the minister. A problem with the practice of assigning reporters to a specific location was the tendency for bureaucratisation and routinisation. Some reporters tended to identify with the values of the government officials alongside whom they worked. The result was a highly conservative political coverage; the views of prominent politicians and senior establishment figures were reported at considerable length, while those of non-governmental figures or ordinary members of the public were marginalised. For example, the Chalard story of 11 April 1995 included no quotations from non party-aligned political actors other than Dr Prawase and Professor Kramol, both of whom were serving or retired senior civil servants in their own right.33 People at the protest site other than Chalard himself were not interviewed. Reporters and rewriters took the view that the opinions of people with no formal standing in the political or bureaucratic hierarchy were of little value or credibility. Despite the view taken by many academics that Thailand’s ‘bureaucratic polity’ had long since been modified by the rise of party politicians, new social forces and alliances between business and politics, political reporting reflected a notion of politics more appropriate to the 1960s than to the 1990s. Although reporters also held secondary assignments to cover political parties, in practice their interest in parties outside election times was limited. Party coverage tended to be a function of institutional coverage: thus when the Democrats were in office, Thai Rath reporters at Government House covered the Democrat Party, while parliamentary reporters covered Chart Thai, the leading opposition party. After the July 1995 election, when Chart Thai gained power and replaced the Democrats at Government House, Thai Rath reporters did not follow their parties. Such a move was carried out by some other newspapers, but for the most part reporters remained in place and changed the parties they covered. The location of the reporter, rather than the party covered, was preeminent. Some reporters were also assigned to cover news concerning extraparliamentary groups such as the student movement, labour unions, and prodemocracy NGOs, but these secondary tasks were frequently re-assigned, and were not taken very seriously by the reporters concerned unless a specific demonstration was taking place or a high-profile issue emerged. Extraparliamentary politics was generally referred to as nok rabob,34 ‘outside the

Political news-gathering in Thai language newspapers

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system’, a phrase which suggested an illegitimate quality. One Thai Rath reporter explained that government officials regarded NGOs and similar groups as trouble-makers who derived funds from abroad. In this respect, she and other reporters on the paper were broadly in agreement with the opinion of government officials, including military and police officers.35

Bangkok versus the provinces Another characteristic of the political news-gathering operation was its Bangkok focus. Metropolitan reporters only ventured out of Bangkok in pursuit of political stories for two main purposes: accompanying politicians such as the prime minister on provincial trips, and covering parliamentary elections. It is important to appreciate that although a national newspaper such as Thai Rath maintained reporters in every province in the country, provincial reporters did not enjoy the same status as Bangkok-based reporters. Provincial reporters were not full-time salaried employees of the newspaper, but semi-freelance ‘stringers’ who were paid by the story. Complaints were common about the quality of provincial reporters: some political desk staff claimed that 10–20 per cent of the provincial reporters were doing a good job, 30–40 per cent could improve, and the other 50 per cent should be sacked immediately.36 A senior figure on the newspaper argued that most provincial reporters were only capable of covering crime stories, and even these on a pretty rudimentary level – who shot whom, when, and where.37 Insofar as they covered political and other issues, provincial reporters tended to act as the mouthpieces of local government officials, especially provincial governors. In practice, working as a provincial reporter meant dealing on a daily basis with ‘influential people’ – a euphemism for important criminals, many of whom were leading businesspeople and politicians. Whereas in Bangkok a newspaper reporter could become an influential person, in some provinces only an influential person could become a successful newspaper reporter. A reporter had to be sufficiently well connected to gain access to local officials and businesspeople. Some local reporters had become little more than sidekicks of the provincial governor. Given the tight-knit nature of ‘upcountry’ life, in which a handful of prominent individuals could control virtually the entire economy and political order in a particular province, local reporters could ill afford to cross the powerholders in their area. Every year, a number of provincial reporters were murdered as a result of business or other conflicts. Six provincial reporters from one Bangkok newspaper were killed in 1991 alone.38 Some reporters attempted to use their status as a means of advancing their business interests, wearing jackets and other clothing bearing the Thai Rath name and logo, plastering Thai Rath stickers on their vehicles. One provincial newspaper reporter allegedly mounted large signs bearing the logo of a national newspaper on top of illegal gambling dens and brothels which he owned.39 Such reporters sometimes used the threat of critical reporting as a means of blackmailing vulnerable people in their districts. Behaviour of this kind helped

48 Political news-gathering in Thai language newspapers give the newspaper a nak leng (tough guy) reputation, but for the most part it was not condoned by the newspaper itself. The terms on which Thai Rath’s provincial reporters were employed – as stringers paid on a freelance basis – meant that they were subject to very little day-to-day control from the newspaper’s head offices. There was no system of regional bureaux to oversee them. At a training session for Thai Rath provincial reporters in 1995, participants were told that a large number of reporters (perhaps thirty or forty) had been fired by Saravudh the previous year for abusing their positions. One participant reported that some of his colleagues were involved in illegal lotteries, whilst another claimed that Thai Rath reporters close to ‘Kamnan Poh’, a godfather in the Chonburi area, had supplied him with information about the identity of other reporters who were publishing material critical of him. The names of provincial reporters were supposed to be kept secret in the interests of their safety. Local stringers commonly developed highly ambiguous relationships with political power-holders. The night before candidate registration for the July 1995 general election, I accompanied a group of national and local reporters who were interviewing Chart Thai party leader (and later prime minister) Banharn Silpa-archa, in his Suphanburi constituency. Banharn called over the local stringer for a leading daily for a private chat.40 The stringer later told me that Banharn had asked him to request his main opponent in the election to step down, so that he would be elected unopposed. The stringer, who knew both politicians extremely well, was deeply embarrassed by this request – which was impossible for him to fulfil. This incident illustrates the way in which local reporters could become involved in the affairs of politicians, as intermediaries, PR aides or informal lobbyists. It was significant that this particular reporter was a first-rate stringer for a top-selling daily, and an important figure in Suphanburi province. Despite the fact that 90 per cent of Thai politicians represented provincial constituencies, and that important political issues such as the So Po Ko land reform scandal were essentially provincial stories, very little political news was generated in the provinces. Bamrung Kayotha – secretary-general of the Assembly for Small-Scale Northeastern Farmers – complained that the media took little interest in the problems of poor people, which were often not seen as news.41 When newsworthy events did take place, reliable information was difficult to obtain outside Bangkok; only trusted local people had ready access to facts and sources, but those with such access were likely to be implicated in events themselves, and so could not be relied upon to give a balanced account. Just as the Thai bureaucratic system has two central characteristics – extreme centralisation which results in what has been termed ‘internal colonisation’ of the country by the Bangkok elite,42 and intense rivalry and competition between different ministries and agencies – so these features are replicated in the structure of news-gathering. Newspapers have a number of distinct desks which mirror broader bureaucratic distinctions: a political desk, a crime desk, an economic desk, a provincial desk, a foreign news desk, and then lesser desks such as education, environment, women’s affairs, society, and features. Desks generally

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have their own pages in the newspaper, and sometimes their own allocations of front-page space. Where a story straddled more than one desk – especially if it was also a provincial story – newspapers could experience difficulty in covering it, as with the murder of political activist Pravien Bunnak in Loei in July 1995.43 However, as Thai society grew increasingly complex, and distinctions between Bangkok and provincial politics, and between politics and economics, became increasingly blurred, newspapers showed little ability to respond effectively to these changes.

Changes at Thai Rath from 1996 This chapter has used Thai Rath as the main example for its account of the political news-gathering operation in the Thai language press. As the largest Thai newspaper, Thai Rath can be seen as a model for the press as a whole. Although some features of the news-gathering operation at Thai Rath are open to criticism, it should be recognised that many of the newspaper’s staff supported reforms of these features. At the time of fieldwork in 1995, Thai Rath was pioneering a state-of-the-art information service, computerising and networking its clippings library. In a rolling programme of residential sessions, all provincial reporters were invited to spend a week in Bangkok, undergoing intensive training aimed at upgrading their performance. Following the death of owner Kamphol in 1996, power was less concentrated in the hands of a small number of key editors. The meetings system was made more professional through more rigorous minuting procedures. Yet despite these attempts at reform, the political coverage of Thai Rath – like all other Thai language newspapers – continued to reflect the intensely hierarchical structure of Thai society, with its distinctions between junior and senior personnel, and its conservative, state-centric, Bangkok-centric focus on major political actors and institutions.

Summary Underlying the organisation of Thai language newspapers is a set of corollaries which define their operations, and have an enormous impact on their political coverage: •

•

•

News versus comment. There is an absolute distinction between political news (which consists almost entirely of comments from important people), and political comment (the views of senior newspaper staff, expressed in columns). Dek versus phu yai. Junior people (reporters, members of the public, or other people with no formal position of any importance) are deeply subordinate to senior people (columnists, politicians, senior government officials), and have no right to criticise them. Reporters versus columnists. Reporters have no opinions, but act as human tape-recorders, gathering quotations from phu yai outside the newspaper

50 Political news-gathering in Thai language newspapers

•

•

•

world. Columnists, who are phu yai in a parallel universe inside the newspaper world, engage in a dialogue with the political world through highly opinionated writings. Inside versus outside. Reporters who work outside the newspaper enjoy marginal social status, whereas senior newspaper staff working inside the organisation have high status. Inside the system versus outside the system. Virtually all important political events occur at parliament, Government House and major ministries, and are initiated by government officials, politicians or military officers. Other forms of politics are seen as illegitimate and usually unimportant. Bangkok versus the provinces. Everything of real political significance happens in Bangkok. Political developments outside Bangkok are deemed important only insofar as they affect national politics.

These corollaries give rise to political coverage characterised by the following features: •

• • • •

Long, rambling ‘news’ stories comprising thousands of words of quotations, coupled with highly opinionated and often biased commentary in political columns. Virtually no serious attempts to explain or to analyse politics in an accessible fashion. Excessive deference to authority within news stories, coupled with axegrinding irreverence in headlines and columns. Deeply conservative political perspective which strongly reinforces bureaucratic power and dysfunctional parliamentary politics. A profoundly Bangkok-centric stance which marginalises 90 per cent of Thais, and so helps exclude them from genuine political participation.

While many secondary features of political news-gathering in Thai language newspapers could readily be reformed and improved (for example, by more formalised procedures, better training and new technology), so long as the fundamental distinctions outlined above – especially the distinction between news and comment – persist, Thai language newspapers will broadly retain their present character as partisan and sometimes wayward political actors.

3

The role of political reporters

Introduction On 3 April 1995, Prime Minister Chuan Leekpai publicly rebuked two young female television reporters who had questioned him about the land reform issue when he arrived at Bangkok’s Don Muang airport late in the evening. In response to their questions (whether or not the government had asked the Agriculture Ministry to amend the Land Reform Act, and whether this was necessary) he retorted, ‘Go and ask your father and mother.’1 This outburst reflected Chuan’s frustrations at being exposed to repeated questioning on the same issues, day after day, wherever he went. It was also a patronising outburst, illustrating his dissatisfaction at being challenged by young reporters whom he seemed to regard as kids fresh from school. Explaining the prime minister’s remarks, Industry Minister and Democrat Party executive Trairong Suwannakhiri claimed that Chuan had not intended to insult the reporters, but found their questions childish: ‘If the prime minister must spend all his time answering questions from children, he won’t have time to do any work.’ The Reporters’ Association of Thailand (RAT) issued a strongly worded formal protest over the incident,2 expressing great disappointment that the prime minister had spoken in such a way to reporters. The reporters concerned were simply doing their duty in asking him about an important political issue, for which the government was directly responsible. The RAT claimed that a response such as this could affect public faith in the credibility of the leader of the government. In order to set this discussion of Thai political reporters in comparative context, the case of Japanese political reporters will be used. There are several obvious parallels between political news-gathering in Thailand and Japan. In both countries, there is a strong national press, with a small number of daily newspapers exercising an important role in reporting political news. In both countries, there is a culture of co-operation among political reporters from rival newspapers, with considerable importance being attached to the quality of personal contacts between reporters and politicians. The Japanese case has been exhaustively analysed in an important recent monograph by Ofer Feldman,

52 The role of political reporters based on original interview and participant observation research.3 Japan is a more useful comparison for Thailand than western liberal democracies such as Britain or the US. The ‘Go and ask your father and mother’ episode choicely illustrated a number of features of the work of Thai political reporters. The first point was the extraordinary access which Thai reporters enjoy to leading politicians, having wholly unstructured opportunities to ask them questions wherever they go. Ministers and other politicians did indeed voluntarily spend a great deal of their time ‘answering questions from children’, or at least from cub reporters, colloquially referred to in Thai as dek (kids). According to former Chuan government spokesman Abhisit Vejjajiva, ‘It’s amazing, because this is why parliament has been made so irrelevant. You know the British PM never gets to face reporters like this ever, let alone three times a day.’4 Although Japanese prime ministers would appear to answer spontaneous questions in front of television cameras in a similar fashion to Thai premiers, in practice the Japanese prime ministers always had prior knowledge of the questions they would face.5 A second point illustrated by the incident was the routinisation of the political reporters’ work, their constant badgering on the same points, day after day, week after week. This was a routinisation produced by the endless demands for more quotations from politicians, generated by newspapers and electronic media which ran lengthy stories comprising nothing but quotations. A third point was the power relations between reporters and politicians, where very senior ministers were in constant contact with the most junior staff from media newsrooms. Many political reporters were recent college graduates, aged from 20 to 25.6 A fourth point was the presence of more than one reporter at the airport, asking the same question at the same time. Thai political reporters hunt in packs, mobbing politicians and prominent figures. For example, large numbers of reporters converge on Government House every Tuesday to question ministers as they leave the weekly cabinet meeting. During the second half of 1995, the most controversial minister in the Banharn cabinet was the outspoken Deputy Finance Minister Newin Chidchob. On one occasion when he left a cabinet meeting, Newin paused on the steps at the side door of Government House, waiting to be questioned.7 Around thirty news staff, including a number of television crews, surrounded him, completely blocking his exit. However, no one came forward to ask him a question: everyone waited for someone else to ask something. Newin walked over to his car, and only then did one political reporter from The Nation literally run up and ask a couple of questions, saving the day by giving the hapless television crews something to videotape. In other words, the majority of political reporters were driven by a demand for material (soundbites, video footage or column inches), rather than a need for actual information. They were reliant on a small minority of self-appointed ‘leaders’ to ask virtually all the questions.

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The case of parliamentary reporters Perhaps the most conspicuous phenomenon visible to an occasional visitor … is the sight of many reporters everywhere … moving from one side to the other of this huge complex, coming and going from one floor to another, entering and leaving the various committee rooms and the plenary chamber. They are even seen in the restaurant. Dozens of reporters frequently cluster in the corridors, leaning on each other’s shoulders, forming a circle around a … politician talking to them.8 The quotation refers to the Japanese Diet, but could apply equally to the two locations which loomed especially large on the horizons of Thai political reporters for the harvesting of quotations and the gathering of information: Government House and parliament. Most of the larger newspapers and radio stations assigned three reporters to each, while television stations had either one or two three-member ‘teams’ (reporter, cameraman and sound technician, sometimes backed up by a driver) at each location. This resulted in contingents of approximately a hundred news staff in daily attendance at each location. The contingent could easily swell to two hundred at Government House for Tuesday cabinet meetings, while for major parliamentary events such as no-confidence debates there might be several hundred reporters swarming around. For many Thai political reporters, parliament was the assignment of first choice. Parliamentary reporters had access to a wide range of politicians across the party spectrum, giving them the chance to cultivate numerous news sources. Government House reporters, by contrast, spent most of their time monitoring a small number of ministers from the ruling coalition parties: typically, the prime minister, five deputy prime ministers and four or five ministers attached to the Prime Minister’s Office. Parliamentary reporters enjoyed largely free access throughout the complex of parliament buildings (although this was somewhat curtailed when debates were actually in progress), whereas Government House reporters could only enter the building housing ministers when they had an appointment to see a particular minister. Government House reporters spent much of their time outdoors, walking between buildings and waiting outside them. This meant that they were often exposed to hot sun or torrential rain. The two press rooms were situated in outbuildings. At parliament, by contrast, all the main buildings were linked by covered walkways, and a large press room was located within the same building as the parliamentary chamber. Whereas the Government House reporters were often said to be factionalised, competitive and hostile to newcomers and outsiders, parliamentary reporters were generally more amicable and co-operative. For this chapter, fieldwork was undertaken among reporters at the parliament during the month of May 1995, a month that saw the collapse of the Chuan Leekpai government following a no-confidence debate. Following the dissolution of parliament, seventeen reporters were interviewed, using a semi-structured question format.9

54 The role of political reporters Parliamentary reporters worked from a press room on the ground floor of the main building. The room was equipped with desks, typewriters, fax machines, a television, lockers and a notice-board on which forthcoming events were posted. Small press conferences could be given inside the press room. In practice, the press room was not large enough to accommodate all the parliamentary reporters. Unlike the Japanese press rooms described by Feldman, there was certainly not enough room in the Thai parliamentary reporters’ room for each major publication to have its own desk.10 Television crews generally based themselves in an adjacent lobby area, while comfortable seats in the main lobby outside the press room served as an overspill area for reporters. Television sets in this lobby area relayed live closed-circuit broadcasts of parliamentary debates, so that reporters could watch debates without going upstairs to the parliamentary chamber. Some larger newspapers (such as Thai Rath) had regular desks which were located just outside the main press room.

Background of parliamentary reporters Many parliamentary reporters were inexperienced; more than half of those interviewed had been reporters for a year or less.11 However, the great majority of the reporters held undergraduate degrees, typically from the vast ‘open’ Ramkhamhaeng University, or from teacher training colleges in the provinces. There was a pecking order of employers; many young reporters would start out by working for radio stations or for small newspapers (such as Ban Muang) before moving on to well-known Thai language papers such as Thai Rath or Matichon, or sometimes to English language newspapers. Reporters for larger or more reputable papers were more likely to be graduates of prestigious public universities such as Chulalongkorn, Thammasat, Silpakorn or Kasetsart, or of well-known private universities such as Bangkok University, or the University of the Thai Chamber of Commerce. Some reporters had majored in journalism or communication studies,12 and had undertaken work placements with particular newspapers as part of their degree programme. These placements could lead to full-time jobs after graduation. However, most of the graduates of leading communications faculties – such as those at Chulalongkorn and Thammasat – preferred to seek employment in the more lucrative fields of advertising and public relations. Many reporters had no academic background in the media field: often they had majored in political science, law or other non-vocational arts or social science subjects. One reporter frankly admitted to having taken his present job after applying unsuccessfully for other kinds of employment. Political reporting was not well paid. In 1995, new Matichon reporters (who needed at least a bachelor’s degree) had a starting salary of 8,000 baht a month, plus 3,000 baht for travel expenses, and around 2,000 baht unsociable hours payment.13 After two years, they received an experience-related pay rise. While a few publications (such as Bangkok Post) offered slightly higher salaries than this, many smaller newspapers and radio stations paid less.14 These were higher salaries than would be paid to new graduates entering the civil service, but were lower than typical

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private sector salaries in related fields such as public relations, advertising and marketing. Some reporters moved on to work in such fields after gaining some journalistic experience. Some parliamentary reporters had gained a year or two of work experience before becoming reporters, working for companies or sometimes for nongovernmental organisations. Many reporters did not regard journalism as a longterm career, but as a chance to broaden their experience before going on to further study (several expressed a desire to study English, or to gain master’s degrees in western countries such as Britain, the US or Australia) or more lucrative employment. As Heuvel and Dennis put it: ‘many young journalists see the job as an adventure, something to do in the salad days of one’s 20s, but later they want better-paying jobs’.15 Few reporters felt a strong commitment to their employer: within eight months of being interviewed, at least five of the seventeen had changed jobs (some more than once) or left journalism altogether.16 An observer described the system for recruiting and developing Thai reporters as one of ‘sink or swim’; the weak were left to drown, while the strong were promoted to better-paid posts within the newspaper.17 The overall picture was of a largely under-qualified and inexperienced contingent of political reporters. Whereas in most other countries reporters would spend time learning the ropes on local newspapers, or working as office juniors for a period before being dispatched to important news locations such as parliament, in Thailand parliament might be a cub reporter’s first assignment. This reflected the chronic shortage of staff in the media business, which underwent very rapid expansion in the late 1980s and early 1990s. Experienced staff were promoted rapidly to desk jobs and editorial positions inside newspapers, radio stations and television stations; others were poached by better-paying private sector firms. Many young reporters had virtually no training and received little support from superiors in distant offices, whom they rarely saw. They learned their jobs literally by following other reporters around and copying what they did. At the same time, much of the work required of political reporters was extremely routinised and mechanical. In the narrow terms that the job was defined by most rewriters and editors (sending in a constant flow of quotations from politicians), the work of a parliamentary reporter was extremely easy to perform, and could be done by anyone capable of operating a tape-recorder, a typewriter and a fax machine. It has often been argued that Thai reporters need better training.18 Although improved training was clearly desirable, in some cases it served mainly to increase reporters’ frustration. One reporter from Phujatkan (not a parliamentary reporter) described how she had attended a one-month journalism training course run by her company, but on completing it had found it impossible to implement many of the new ideas she had learned.19 The distinguished Indonesian writer and editor Mochtar Lubis has argued that training journalists was of no value in a country where newspapers could be closed down by the government at any time.20 Training therefore had to be seen in the context of prevailing journalistic norms and power structures. In Thailand, it was all too

56 The role of political reporters easy to scapegoat inexperienced reporters (as Prime Minister Chuan had done) and argue that they needed more training; yet, as in Indonesia, the core problems with political news-gathering were structural ones. Until political news was defined more broadly than simply a recitation of quotations, there was little point in training Thai political reporters to international standards.

The work of the parliamentary reporter Different news organisations pursued different policies as regards ‘covering’ parliament and other political beats. Some organisations – especially big-name newspapers such as Thai Rath and the Bangkok Post – maintained reporters in post on particular beats for years, sometimes decades, on end. One Daily News reporter had been at parliament for almost forty years. Senior reporters of this kind typically became ‘father’ or ‘mother’ figures to the recent recruits and arrivals; in some cases, they were referred to as ‘godfathers’ or ‘godmothers’ because of the power they sought to exercise over the reporting community. More commonly, news organisations kept ‘regular’ (prajam) reporters at parliament, but rotated them between beats every year or couple of years. Reporters might have their assignments altered following elections or changes in the composition of the government coalition. This rotation system had the advantage that reporters did not become too institutionalised, but was criticised by some senior reporters on the grounds that most parliamentary reporters never had a chance to develop the knowledge and expertise required to do their jobs properly. In particular, some less experienced reporters had a very hazy understanding of the legislative process, and the system of parliamentary committees. Some organisations did not have regular parliamentary reporters per se; this was true of radio stations such as the Pacific News Centre, which rotated its reporters every month, and Manager Radio. Parliamentary reporters typically arrived around 10.00 a.m., since few news sources would appear before this time unless there was an important meeting scheduled. Most parliamentary reporters described their main duty as gathering khao routine, routine news. There were two principal components to routine news: khao talaeng, ‘press conference news’, most of which was presented in a small press conference area within the reporters’ room (there were also other press conferences, for example those given at the end of parliamentary committee meetings), and khao comment, ‘comment news’, gathered by questioning politicians on their way in or out of offices, meeting rooms or buildings in the parliament complex. Khao comment typically occupied 60 or 70 per cent of parliamentary reporters’ time. Routine news-gathering tended to be a collective enterprise. Korakot found that 63 per cent of political reporters engaged in group interviews of news sources every day.21 Interestingly, very few reporters mentioned covering parliamentary debates as a central part of their work: most of the important political activity occurred outside the parliamentary chamber itself. Comment news was supplemented by khao kho tae jing, factual news about actual political events: was the leader of an opposition party holding secret

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meetings with a government ‘fixer’, were the investigations of a particular parliamentary committee likely to yield evidence of official misdoing? At ministries and other government offices, press conferences were often supplemented by official handouts which reporters could use as the basis for stories.22 One media analyst and journalism trainer criticised the excessive use of khao haeng (dry, factual news) in the Thai press; much of this news was khao ratchakan (official news) with no critical perspective, which served as PR for the government officials or agency concerned.23 A second duty concerned the gathering of khao khluan wai, ‘news about political movement’, unfolding developments, and especially conflicts between different politicians, factions and parties. Assessing the nature of the day’s political ‘movement’ was essential in identifying issues (praden) about which to solicit comments from politicians. Reporters hoped to have the opportunity to peut praden mai, ‘raise a new issue’. In some cases, new issues emerged from personal conversations with politicians or other informed news sources. This kind of conversation was often referred to as khao diao or khao siv, an exclusive story. As a general principle, less experienced reporters were primarily focused on routine news: press conferences, comments and factual information. Many newspaper reporters, and virtually all radio reporters, were terrified of missing out on a story. Some editors were very dissatisfied if their publication or station tok khao, failed to carry a political story which had been covered by its main rivals. This led to a prevailing culture where many reporters preferred to send in any piece of news, no matter how trivial, rather than risk being accused of having missed it. According to Feldman, Japanese political reporters were similarly constantly aware that ‘a newspaper company will not tolerate another newspaper publishing information or covering a topic that does not appear in its own newspaper’.24 Thus reporters were kept on a constant treadmill of comment-gathering, transcribing tapes or notes, and faxing or phoning news into their offices. Korakot found that 34 per cent of political reporters sent in an average of four or five items of news daily, while another 31 per cent sent in more than five.25 Because routine news was gathered collectively, it was not necessary for all reporters to ask questions. In a typical group of ten reporters gathered around a politician at parliament or elsewhere, there would usually be around three reporters who asked all the questions. Some reporters, especially younger ones, might be nervous of asking questions in front of a large group of people, but would talk to the politician after the main group had broken up. Other reporters might ask bolder or more senior colleagues to ask questions on their behalf. However, there were numerous reporters at parliament – perhaps 25 per cent or 30 per cent of the total – who literally never asked questions at all, surviving simply by noting down answers given to questions asked by others. A common practice when dealing with routine news was the sharing of news, notes and tape-recordings. When a politician had been interviewed by a group of reporters, they would frequently regroup at the end of the interview to ‘share’ their news. One reporter would listen to a tape-recording and repeat the precise wording to the assembled group, so that they had agreed a common line as to

58 The role of political reporters what had been said. Where no tape-recording had been made, notebooks would be compared and a similar line agreed.26 This sharing system could be extended to reporters who had not been present at the interview concerned, perhaps because they had been tied up elsewhere in the parliament complex, gathering other news which they would ‘trade’ for different items.27 Throughout the day at parliament, reporters could be heard calling out to one another questions like ‘Do you want Sanoh?’28 or ‘Have you got Newin yet?’ Indeed, news could also be shared with friends who had not been at parliament at all that day, or who were not even regular parliamentary reporters. This culture of benign plagiarism could lead to inaccuracies, since sometimes a mistake by one reporter might be copied by numerous others.29 Another variation on the ‘sharing’ system was the recycling of faxed copy: a faxed account of a politician’s comments drafted by a reporter for a particular news organisation would typically be typed on a shared machine in the reporters’ room and marked simply ‘parliament’.30 It could then be faxed over to the political desks of more than one publication. Typically, this would be done in the case of organisations which were not in direct competition, such as a masscirculation newspaper, a business newspaper and a news agency. It is little wonder that one Thai Rath rewriter requested political reporters to add their names to the faxes they sent in.31 The fax system was wide open to all manner of abuses; Thai Rath Government House reporters complained at a political desk meeting that some senior reporters from rival newspapers loyal to the Democrat Party were spying on them, and had purloined or interfered with some of their faxes.32 More experienced reporters, especially those from newspapers which emphasised political news (such as Matichon or The Nation), were generally more interested in political ‘movement’ than in routine stories. They viewed their roles in similar terms to the Japanese political reporter who told Feldman his job involved obtaining information ‘not only about what has just happened, but also information concerning contemporary trends and even some assumptions of what may occur in the near future’.33 This was partly because they were able to assign juniors under their supervision to take care of routine tasks; and sometimes because their newspapers had a policy of emphasising political ‘scoops’. It also reflected the greater ‘news sense’ of more experienced reporters, their desire to pursue their own stories rather than simply respond to the latest utterances of politicians, and their deeper interest in and understanding of the nuances of politics. A number of junior reporters remarked that they had little personal interest in politics prior to being assigned as political reporters. Many junior reporters felt that they did not know how to pursue their own political stories. Parliamentary reporters were not all tied down to the parliament complex: many of them, especially more senior reporters or those working for small news organisations, would regularly work outside parliament, especially covering meetings and activities of the parties they were assigned to follow. Typically, parliamentary reporters were assigned to opposition parties (whereas Government House reporters were generally assigned to cover government parties).

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During the Chuan administration, opposition leaders held a regular Monday luncheon meeting at the Central Plaza Hotel which was attended by a substantial contingent of parliamentary reporters. On Tuesdays, some parliamentary reporters would go to Government House to help in the labourintensive task of ‘covering’ cabinet meetings – many reporters were needed to gather comments from the fifty or so cabinet members as they emerged from the meeting. Wednesday and Thursday were the main days for parliamentary business, while Fridays were typically quiet days enlivened only by Senate meetings.

Job satisfaction among parliamentary reporters Given the highly routinised nature of their work, it is not surprising that many parliamentary reporters were less than satisfied with their role. A common response to questions about job satisfaction was pho jai nai radap nung, satisfied up to a point. Those who expressed a high degree of satisfaction were generally in one of two categories: either very new recruits, for whom the gathering of khao comment remained a novelty and who saw this as a necessary preliminary stage before moving on to more interesting work, or senior reporters who did not have to concentrate on comment-gathering but had more freedom to pursue stories and meet sources. Many reporters, especially better-educated ones or those with at least a year’s experience, expressed dissatisfaction with various aspects of their work. Some wanted the chance to do more in-depth reporting and to research the background of stories, but found that the pressure of deadlines reduced them to sending in bare quotations. This was an acute problem for radio reporters; some stations such as INN and Pacific broadcast news bulletins every half hour, and reporters were racing one another to get their stories out first. Others complained that because they worked for small newspapers or second-string radio stations, it was difficult for them to get any exclusive stories: sources wanted to give these stories to leading newspapers. A couple of reporters declared that they were effectively little more than mouthpieces or ‘messengers’ for politicians who wanted to get their views across to the voting public. They wanted to contribute analyses or opinion that would supply a context for statements by politicians, but they were too junior to do this. Thammasat University professor and television presenter Chermsak Pinthong was critical of the way editors and rewriters sought to determine which news stories should be pursued, rather than allowing and encouraging reporters on the ground to make more decisions.34 This ‘top-down’ news-gathering structure lay at the heart of the problems of political reporters. Chermsak lamented the fact that reporters were not proud of being reporters; working at the newspaper office was more comfortable, and editors only occasionally went out in search of stories themselves. Some reporters were philosophical about the limitations placed upon them, arguing that if they did their job properly, the news material they supplied would

60 The role of political reporters form a good basis from which columnists and editors ‘inside’ could write analyses of political developments. Other reporters had some scope to write analyses themselves, usually because they worked for smaller news organisations. Three or four reporters argued that they were performing an important job in raising news issues, setting the political agenda and monitoring the power of politicians. These were mostly more senior reporters from well-known newspapers. One such reporter argued that most parliamentary reporters had a fundamental misunderstanding of their jobs, believing that ‘news consists of people making comments abusing one another’. Comments, she insisted, were not news: reporters needed to be trained to understand that ‘news’ was something broader than the trading of insults. She believed that the preoccupation with personal conflicts was especially acute among parliamentary reporters. Since few serious economic or policy decisions were made in parliament (most such matters were determined by cabinet resolutions), parliamentary reporters were mainly interested in political infighting and backbiting. According to Feldman, the activities of political parties and their various factions were the main focus of interest for Japanese parliamentary reporters,35 though his study also suggests that the legislative business of the Diet itself looms much larger for Japanese reporters than does parliament for Thai reporters. It could be argued that, in the Thai system, parliament was the focal point for opposition to the government: no government had ever been buoyed up by parliamentary success, but many governments had been undermined or fatally wounded as a result of parliamentary attacks, especially in no-confidence debates. Reporters focusing on the government were based at Government House, while reporters focusing on opposition activity were based at parliament. A couple of experienced parliamentary reporters argued that Government House reporters needed greater economic and policy expertise than did parliamentary reporters, in order to do their jobs. In part, the culture of comment-gathering among parliamentary reporters partly reflected the weakness of the parliamentary institution itself, not simply shortcomings in the news-gathering operation.

Reporters and their news sources For more junior reporters, their ‘news sources’ consisted of the MPs and ministers whom reporters would mob for comments around the parliament complex.36 Such reporters rarely or never asked questions themselves, and so had little personal rapport with their sources. Reporters were well aware that many sources were cautious in public settings, but would reveal more interesting information in small group or one-on-one situations. More experienced reporters sought to cultivate personal relationships with politicians in order to gain access to better stories and useful background. This kind of access was easier for reporters from major newspapers, some of whom claimed to have close regular contact with up to forty different politicians. The discrepancy in access to sources experienced by reporters from newspapers of different sizes was explained

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graphically by a reporter who had worked for about three years on the downmarket daily Khao Sot. When he first started at the paper it was relatively unknown, and politicians had been reluctant to give him interviews. Now that the newspaper’s circulation had greatly increased, making it among the four topselling dailies, politicians were much more interested in talking to him. Most politicians preferred to give an important story to a leading newspaper rather than to a small paper or a radio station; a radio reporter complained that politicians would sometimes ask her to hold back a story until the next day, so that it could appear in the newspapers first. One experienced and well-regarded reporter from a small financial paper remarked that phone calls from him would never get a sleeping politician out of bed. Another factor was length of service: more experienced reporters stood more chance of building up personal sources, but the system of regular rotation and rapid promotion practised by most Thai newspapers in the 1990s militated against reporters staying many years in a single assignment. Japanese political reporters might wait twenty years before moving to a desk job at their newspaper,37 but Thai political reporters were often promoted to work ‘inside’ after three years on the beat. Reporters generally wanted to have at least one good news source in each of the ten or so political parties, and some had three or four such sources per party. Selection of news sources was dependent upon a number of factors; senior figures such as party leaders or secretary-generals were rarely very open in their dealings with the media (especially with low-level political reporters), whereas ordinary ‘no-name’ MPs were often delighted to answer questions, but had little useful information to communicate. Ideal sources were typically members of the party executive with close connections to senior figures, but not themselves holders of important ministerial or party posts. Feldman discovered that ‘all reporters from the various newspapers and wire services mentioned the same names and positions of their information sources’, who comprised fewer than twenty-five Diet members.38 Similarly, Thai reporters tended to rely on the same small circle of outspoken or well-informed MPs for most of their information, though given the larger number of parties and ministers in Thailand, this circle probably numbered fifty or so MPs, rather than twenty-five. As in Japan, ‘the more elite the source of information, the more newsworthy the story. Thus the personage of the information source frequently gives meaning and significance to a certain information item.’39 One common practice was to assign reporters to cover politicians who came from the same province or region. For example, during the Chuan government many newspapers assigned reporters from the south of the country to cover Government House, since Chuan himself and many other Democrat ministers were southerners.40 Despite the usefulness of politicians as sources, reporters were wary of trusting them too far. Experienced reporters pointed out that MPs often tried to use the media to ploi khao, to spread leaks or rumours which were either untrue or politically motivated. Reporters had to guard against becoming unwitting ‘tools’ of manipulation by their sources. One reporter who was in charge of supervising a couple of juniors at the parliament explained that she would check

62 The role of political reporters her subordinates’ stories with her own party sources before authorising her paper to run them.41 She operated on the principle that no story should be published unless it had been cross-checked with a second source. However, many less experienced reporters did send in stories based on a single source, which frequently led to denials and disputes. In practice, most political reporters rarely set up proper appointments for one-to-one interviews with sources. Korakot found that 47 per cent of reporters would have prearranged interviews with sources no more than once or twice a month; only 3 per cent normally had interviews of this kind daily.42 Politicians were not the only sources available to parliamentary reporters: others sources mentioned included MPs’ assistants (all MPs had three salaried assistants, while senators had one), MPs’ drivers, officials at parliament – especially the officials who serviced parliamentary committees – guards around the parliament complex, academics, NGO activists, the staff of the parliamentary radio station, and staff of political parties. Access to parliamentarians was made much more difficult than in most other parliaments (such as the British or Japanese parliaments) by the fact that MPs and senators in Thailand had no personal offices provided at parliament. Feldman notes that Japanese political reporters gained much of their information from visits to Diet members’ offices and chats with their secretaries.43 In the Thai case, only the prime minister, the leader of the opposition, the president and deputy presidents of parliament and the chairs of parliamentary committees had their own offices. In practice, many of the offices assigned to committee chairs were used as general offices by members of the same party or faction, and were regular meeting places for reporters and news sources. A further problem was the role of MPs’ assistants: many MPs and senators were happy to assign the title and salary of ‘assistant’ as a favour to loyal subordinates or sidekicks, but many MPs’ assistants did not in fact work with MPs on a daily basis, dealing with political matters. Some used their status as parliamentary assistants for other purposes: one university lecturer worked as assistant to a senator in order to obtain official papers for his academic research; in another case, a car salesman persuaded a northeastern MP to appoint him as his assistant so that he could gain easy access to other MPs, and offer them special deals on luxury European cars. The lack of wellestablished roles for Thai MPs as constituency representatives, and the limited importance of parliamentary debates, meant that many MPs rarely attended parliament except on a handful of formal and set-piece occasions each year. Catering facilities at parliament – a rudimentary canteen and a couple of coffee bars with very limited opening hours – could not compete with even the seediest two-star Bangkok hotel, and so parliament was not a place where many politicians regularly gathered to socialise, other than just before or just after debates. Again, shortcomings of parliament itself made the task of political reporters difficult; they could not call on MPs in their offices, meet them easily in parliamentary bars or restaurants, liaise readily with MPs’ assistants, or even expect to see the majority of MPs appear at parliament during an average week.

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These shortcomings increased the dependency of reporters upon a small number of MPs who attended parliament regularly, sometimes for the explicit purpose of feeding information to the press. For example, in the first few months of 1995, government MPs Thawil Praison (Palang Dharma), Kanin Boonsuwan (Solidarity) and Alongkorn Pholbutr (Democrat) were almost daily visitors to the reporters’ room, engaging in damage limitation, while opposition ‘Group of 16’ MPs Newin Chidchob (Chart Thai) and Pairoj Suwanchawee (disaffected Chart Pattana) were also frequent visitors to parliament, updating reporters on their campaign to expose alleged Democrat misdoings over the land reform scandal.44 The problem of using a narrow range of sources applied to other political beats other than parliament. The Foreign Ministry was an especially sleepy beat, where most of the ten regular reporters seemed to have supplementary duties elsewhere. Very few of the reporters there had any substantial grasp of foreign affairs, relying almost entirely on official briefings and ministerial comments. Most could not speak English. One senior Foreign Ministry reporter, asked whether he had any other sources of information apart from the ministry itself, could only cite USIS and the American Embassy. At other political beats such as the Interior Ministry45 and the military headquarters, reporters were confined to specific areas of designated buildings for security reasons, and often experienced difficult working conditions.46 At a meeting of the Thai Rath political desk, the senior military beat reporter complained that it was very difficult to meet important army chiefs, since they could only be interviewed with an appointment.47 Reporters who took a critical line – asking too many awkward questions – were likely to be cold-shouldered by the military establishment. Privileged access could only be obtained by those who were trusted by senior officers. Similar circumstances applied at the Interior Ministry; one reporter there claimed that only two or three of the thirty to forty political reporters based at the ministry were able to obtain good stories, since information was jealously guarded by mistrustful and highly conservative senior officials.48 By far the bestinformed reporter at the Interior Ministry was the Bangkok Post’s Termsak Traisophon, who had been based there for more than twenty years and regularly obtained exclusive stories.

Political reporters as news sources ‘We are news sources for them just as they are for us’ was one parliamentary reporter’s description of the two-way communication between political reporters and politicians. Blumler and Gurevitch refer to this as an ‘exchange model’ of relations between politicians and the media.49 Feldman’s study of Japanese politicians revealed that politicians had two main objectives in meeting reporters from national dailies: obtaining information, and maintaining good relations with the press.50 He noted: ‘Amazingly, Diet members of all levels want and need a variety of advice from reporters.’51 Although many leading Thai politicians obtained more information from newspaper columnists and editors than from

64 The role of political reporters junior reporters, even low-level participants in the news-gathering process could be useful sources for MPs and ministers. Before commenting on a particular story, some politicians would ask what comments had been made by other figures in their own party, or by rivals or opponents, ‘so it’s like you are the bridge between two groups of people’. Sometimes a new piece of information was implicit in the reporter’s question: ‘Was X right to say after the cabinet meeting this afternoon that you were on the verge of pulling your party out of the government?’ The next ‘level’ of reporter-as-source occurred when a politician asked a reporter for her or his views on how a particular development had been viewed by other politicians, by the media or by the public. This kind of questioning was very common, especially from junior politicians. For example, when Pairoj Suwanchawee was involved in a public dispute with police officer Seri Temiyewet, he asked some reporters at parliament how much the incident had damaged him. The next stage up from this sort of ‘cross-checking’ was requests from reporters for specific information which could be politically useful. Most MPs did not employ researchers and had limited knowledge of many issues (especially detailed policy questions). Opposition MPs had little access to political and economic information. Some MPs cultivated reporters from major newspapers – which maintained large libraries of clippings and reference materials – as informal research assistants who could supply them with material for use in no-confidence and other parliamentary debates. Many reporters were happy to perform services of this kind, arguing that they received valuable news information in exchange, that they would not give out information which could be politically harmful to anyone else, and even that they were performing a useful service for the country. Khao Sot, for example, lent aerial photographs showing land allocated under the So Po Ko programme to opposition MPs, while a Matichon reporter provided MPs with copies of clippings from back issues of the paper, and a Nation reporter contacted a colleague on the foreign desk to obtain information on Burma for an MP. Phujatkan owner Sondhi Limthongkul even organised briefing sessions for Muanchon party leader Chalerm Yubamrung, to prepare him for no-confidence debates.52 The closest relationships between reporters and politicians occurred when reporters became more than simply informants, assuming the role of advisors. During the premiership of Kriangsak Chomanan in the late 1970s, the Bangkok Post’s Theh Chongkhadikij was a frequent visitor to the prime minister’s house, and had been shown confidential files prior to cabinet meetings. While this was an extreme example, many other politicians took selected reporters into their confidence: Chamlong Srimuang, for example, after being re-elected Bangkok governor in 1990, asked a reporter at the BMA to advise him on the best locations for a number of flyovers.53 Some reporters were unhappy about entering into relationships of this kind, fearing that their professionalism could be compromised and that they might be made use of by politicians.

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Meeting sources The great majority of meetings between parliamentary reporters and their sources took place in the rooms and corridors of the parliament complex. But given the desirability of cultivating news sources – and also partly in view of the semi-public nature of any meetings in an institution where there were few private offices – some news organisations encouraged their reporters to meet politicians outside the context of parliament, sometimes privately, sometimes in groups. Occasionally, reporters would go to the houses of politicians to cover developments or to attend social events at which many important figures would be present. Former premier Chatichai Choonavan, for example, held a large allday birthday party at his home on 5 April every year. One common extra-parliamentary meeting between reporters and a politician or politicians took the form of a dinner or lunch invitation by a particular politician. Typically, the politician (almost invariably male) would invite the reporters assigned to cover his ministry or party to meet at a restaurant. The reporters, many of them very junior, would attend the gathering in a large group. Politicians from many parties held social gatherings of this kind; one example was Thaksin Shinawatra during his brief term as foreign minister (1994–5). Some reporters were uneasy about accepting hospitality from politicians, feeling that this could constitute a form of bribery; at the same time, most went along to the dinners, partly out of a positive desire to get to know the news source better, and partly out of a fear of missing a story by not attending a meal. Most reporters felt that the danger of missing a story outweighed the danger of being exploited or manipulated by a politician. For most junior reporters, meals of this kind were a relatively rare occurrence, except if they travelled upcountry to cover the activities of politicians. However, a number of reporters, including one very senior one, made it an absolute rule never to eat anything paid for by a politician Some newspapers preferred to arrange their own lunch or dinner meetings with politicians, at company expense. Often these would be hosted by senior figures, such as a senior editor, or even the owner of the newspaper or publishing group. A minister or prominent politician might be entertained by a small group of staff from the same newspaper or company, at which junior reporters from the relevant beat would also be present. This enabled newspaper ‘insiders’ to keep up high-level connections, while also allowing more junior staff to get to know leading political figures. The presence of senior newspaper people helped make the meetings more equal, since their seniority ‘balanced’ the high status of the politicians. The size of the gathering might range from two or three participants to fifteen or twenty. Large dinner meetings with prominent politicians were held regularly (often on Tuesday or Wednesday evenings) in a special executive dining room at Matichon newspaper (to which staff from sister papers Khao Sot and Prachacha Thurakit would also be invited), and at Ton Po, a riverside restaurant on Phra Arthit Road owned by the Matichon group. Another regular venue was Daeng Sat Sen Duan, a restaurant owned by Phalang Tham MP (later deputy house speaker) Sutham Sangprathoom. Similar meetings,

66 The role of political reporters though generally less regular and on a smaller scale, were organised by Thai Rath and Siam Post. The Nation and sister paper Krungthep Thurakit had also previously organised regular dinner meetings, but budget cuts meant that these were greatly reduced in 1995. Hosting dinners for politicians – turning the table on the traditional relationship in which politicians ‘treated’ reporters – was a newsgathering and source-building strategy available only to profitable newspapers which emphasised political stories. Since much of the information gained during these meals was ‘off the record’, it was of little use to radio and television reporters who needed direct, literal quotations. But newspapers could use this material as background when compiling political gossip columns, commentary columns and editorials. While there was nothing inherently wrong about lunch or dinner meetings between reporters and sources (such meetings are common practice throughout the world), the main difficulty in the Thai context was that the senior person would generally insist on paying; the senior person was almost always the politician, and so the reporters were left in debt to the source. One former Matichon reporter explained that although his newspaper had a formal policy of reimbursing him for meals with sources (should he manage to succeed in paying), in practice obtaining reimbursement was a drawn-out process, making it easier simply to let the source pay in the first place.

Women reporters and sources While a major newspaper like Thai Rath employed relatively few female political reporters, the majority of television reporters were women, and in 1995 women probably amounted to just over half of parliamentary reporters as a whole. At the same time, career prospects for women were not especially good. In general, there were few women in senior positions at Thai language newspapers: one out of the six front-page editors at Matichon was a woman, but none of the four at Thai Rath. Most senior women at Thai newspapers worked on the features side, or on the business desks. One senior woman journalist explained that the long working hours of newspaper journalism made it virtually impossible to have a successful personal and family life,54 and perhaps for this reason there was an especially high turnover of female political reporters. At the same time, there were a small number of women who assumed leadership roles within the community of parliamentary reporters. Opinions varied as to the importance of gender in political reporting, some female reporters claiming that women often enjoyed better relations with sources than men. However, three women reporters interviewed saw their gender as a potential limitation upon them in pursuing stories, especially if this entailed meeting male politicians in bars or restaurants, or at night. For male reporters, it was easy to engage in activities of this kind, whereas for women meetings of this kind could lead to innuendoes that they were exploiting their looks in order to obtain information. Rumours of sexual attraction between reporters and sources could easily start and then prove difficult to dispel. One reporter described how

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she was reproached by senior colleagues for creating a bad image after she and another young woman reporter met a senior government official for an exclusive talk at the Central Plaza Hotel. The incident led to malicious gossip, and made her feel embarrassed about her dealings with male sources. She now tried to avoid a particular politician who was said to be attracted to her. Another reporter explained how she found it inconvenient to have limitations placed on her interaction with sources because of her gender. She saw this as a chong wang, a gap that gave male reporters an unfair advantage. Nevertheless, she tried to build up close contacts with sources whilst maintaining a proper distance from them, kan wang tua hai mosom, acting very properly, so as not to allow these relationships to develop any sexual connotation. She attached great importance to dressing politely, always wearing long skirts and presenting herself as a riaproi (respectable-looking and -acting) professional person. In Thai society this was very important, since it made her look as though she had been well brought up by her family and well trained by her employer. She hoped that the important people she met would think, on meeting her, dek khon ni riaproi, du di, ‘this is a respectable-looking young person of good appearance’. Some of the young female reporters wore short skirts and behaved in a frivolous – and occasionally flirtatious – manner with sources; although this behaviour was nearly always entirely innocent, it aroused attention from male politicians and met with the disapproval of more experienced reporters, both male and female alike.

Crossing the boundary: improper relationships between reporters and their sources In seeking to establish good relationships with news sources, reporters might find that their independence and integrity were compromised. Compromises ranged from ‘low-level’ decisions about whether or not to accept meal invitations from sources or to supply politicians with potentially useful information, to more weighty decisions about dealing with offers of bribes or other financial favours. In some cases, reporters themselves actively solicited money or benefits from politicians. Of the parliamentary reporters interviewed, all acknowledged that improper relationships existed between politicians and reporters, though a few junior reporters said they had never seen or heard any evidence of impropriety themselves. At a general level, it was believed that many reporters felt an affinity with the particular group of news sources they were assigned to cover. This affinity could compromise their objectivity to some degree. For example, parliamentary reporters were generally more sympathetic to opposition parties than Government House reporters: in May 1995 a number of parliamentary reporters enjoyed excellent relations with the opposition ‘Group of 16’, which marshalled the evidence that led to the downfall of the Chuan government over the land reform scandal. One reporter interviewed referred in the third person to various ‘Group of 16’ MPs as phi (elder brother): ‘Phi Phairoj’, ‘Phi Thanee’ and ‘Phi Worathep’. During two days of fieldwork with military beat reporters, it

68 The role of political reporters emerged that most of the reporters were very sympathetic to requests from the navy for the procurement of submarines. One reporter for a leading daily exclaimed, on a trip back from the Sattahip naval base, ‘if only we could get them just one submarine’, and explained how the press had been actively supporting the navy’s request.55 Personal sympathies of this kind did not necessarily lead to journalistic improprieties, but could form the basis for close relationships between reporters and politicians which might prove mutually advantageous. Many politicians sought to turn the circle of reporters assigned to cover their activities into an informal support group which would receive patronage and monetary benefits in return for providing favourable coverage. Politicians often treated reporters assigned to cover their ministry or party as phuak diao kan, the same group, and paid special attention to them. A politician meeting a group of reporters at a hotel or other public setting might single out a favoured reporter and give him or her preferential treatment in answering questions. By showing their greater trust for these reporters, politicians would seek to incorporate them as ‘insiders’ within a charmed circle which received privileged access to information. Since the ambiguous status of reporters meant that they were essentially ‘outsiders’, both at parliament and often in their own organisations,56 the offer of ‘insider’ status from news sources could be attractive. Problems began when either politicians or reporters sought to commercialise this relationship. The question of ‘treating’ reporters to hospitality became more acute when reporters accompanied politicians on trips to the provinces, or even overseas. For example, during the first half of 1995 parliamentary reporters frequently travelled upcountry with opposition politicians, covering allegations about the government’s mishandling of the land reform issue. Opposition leader Banharn Silpa-archa made an extended visit to the south during April 1995, accompanied by a group of MPs and a substantial contingent of reporters. In May, he made a one-day trip to Chantaburi province by helicopter, again accompanied by a large number of reporters. Once the election campaign opened, parliamentary reporters began travelling extensively in provincial areas. On the Chantaburi trip, reporters used three different means of transport. The reporters from the main television stations travelled with the opposition leader in a second helicopter paid for by the politicians concerned. Television crews were therefore able to put together dramatic footage of the trip which made an excellent news story, despite the fact that the supposed ‘investigative mission’ of the opposition MPs had uncovered no new information. Originally, the MPs had planned a ‘television only’ story designed to have maximum impact on a Sunday night when there would be little other political news. After protests from other reporters, Banharn agreed to provide a bus to transport newspaper and radio reporters to the province. However, this free transport was not entirely welcomed by the reporters concerned, since by taking the bus they were limited to travelling directly to Chantaburi and then back, without any scope for further reporting on the land reform scandal. Reporters from leading newspapers and better-off radio stations travelled to Chantaburi in vehicles provided by their companies. For most newspaper and radio reporters, however, this was not an

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option, for financial reasons. The politicians in question were able to make use of budget constraints imposed upon reporters to limit their access to stories and sources of information: the reporters would obtain a one-sided, anti-Democrat story. The only way for these reporters to ‘balance’ the story was to solicit rides from other reporters who had cars at their disposal, a practice which enhanced the mutual dependency of reporters and contributed to the culture of news sharing. In the event, whereas almost twenty reporters took the bus to Chantaburi, only around eight returned by bus: the others joined friends with cars to call upon the Democrat MP accused of improper land transactions before returning to Bangkok. At Chantaburi, Banharn’s party had lunch at a luxury hotel, to which all reporters were also invited. The MPs ate in a separate room from reporters, but the bill for the lunch (attended by at least forty reporters, photographers, and news staff) was met by the politicians.57 One reporter (one of only two who did not join the hotel lunch, but instead ate at a nearby noodle stall) explained that accepting a meal under these circumstances was not generally considered taking bribes: meals of this kind, especially upcountry, were regarded as part and parcel of the news-gathering process; politicians expected (and were expected by many reporters) to ‘take care’ of the media on trips where refreshments might be difficult to obtain. Although she herself had declined the meal on this occasion, she had accepted similar meals in the past, and knew that most reporters preferred to accept the meals rather than leave the news sources and possibly miss a story. Another reporter explained how, on the extended trip to Phuket and other southern provinces with the same MPs the previous month, she and other reporters had made discreet arrangements with hotel and restaurant staff to pay their own meal bills. Such back-door arrangements removed the dependency of the reporters on news sources, yet avoided any confrontation with the politicians. On trips which involved overnight hotel stays, the expenses concerned were much greater. Some newspapers and radio stations had inadequate budgets for decent hotel accommodation. Politicians would invariably stay in the best provincial hotels, while reporters wanted to stay in the same hotel as politicians so as not to miss out on stories or information. In any case, Bangkok-based reporters, especially women, were often uneasy about checking into cheap hotels in unfamiliar provincial towns. On a trip to Suphanburi, 4–5 June 1995, to cover Chart Thai leader Banharn’s candidacy registration for the forthcoming election, I travelled up by car with a small group of photographers and reporters. On arriving at the main hotel in the town (where all the media people would be staying), I was the only one to check in. It transpired that the others were hoping one of the local parliamentary candidates would pay for their hotel accommodation. Later on in the day, at the house of one of the candidates, a photographer asked the politician about the rooms (in front of a large group of reporters); the politician replied that he would be footing the bill for everyone. One reporter had already told me that she expected this politician and ‘source’ would pay her bill, but that she would get a receipt from the hotel so that her company would

70 The role of political reporters ‘reimburse’ her, allowing her to make a personal profit of around 700 or 800 baht. She described this as common practice among reporters on upcountry trips. This was not a simple matter of hard-up reporters accepting hospitality from politicians, but of reporters expecting and even soliciting hospitality, in some cases so that they could cheat on their expenses. However, by no means all the reporters covering the story accepted hospitality from ‘sources’; many paid their own way, sometimes sharing rooms to keep costs down. Another feature of improper relationships between sources and media practitioners was the practice of giving cash payments, or gifts such as Buddha amulets, to reporters and photographers. Attending the ground-laying preparations for a new statue of former premier Field Marshal Sarit Thanarat at a military base in Bangkok on 10 April 1995, I was given a white envelope containing a Luang Pho Khun amulet and a 100 baht note58 by uniformed military personnel. Similar envelopes were handed to all reporters at the event, which they described as kha rot (bus fare money) or kha kafae (coffee money). Such practices were a common feature at some official press briefings, and were also widely used by PR companies in an attempt to attract favourable coverage for clients from business reporters. Similar practices are common in other Asian countries, and in Indonesia are facetiously known as the ‘envelope culture’.59 At a Songkran ceremony at a Bangkok temple sponsored by Nam Thai party leader Amnuay Virawan on 13 April, reporters (and everyone else present) were given commemorative amulets and small face-cloths bearing the legend ‘Nam Thai Party, Songkran 1995’. The reporters I was with presented their amulets to the photographers and drivers accompanying them. Some Thai Rath political-desk drivers kept impressive collections of Buddhist amulets on the dashboards of their cars, obtained from events such as these. In 1994, Chart Thai party deputy leader Vattana Assavahame faced implicit allegations of involvement in drug trafficking from the US government, which had denied him a visa. At the end of a press conference called by Vattana, at which he defended himself over the allegations, it was said that gold Buddha amulets were going to be distributed to all the news staff present. At this point, all fifteen reporters present left the room.60 Subsequently, a Reuters reporter wrote a story referring to the incident. The young reporters who had ‘boycotted’ the alleged amulet distribution sent in a letter which called upon the Reporters’ Association of Thailand to investigate the matter, but they were never even summoned to give further information to the RAT. Only photographers were left in the room, and no one knew whether the amulets were really distributed, or whether they were in fact gold. Many reporters felt that newspaper photographers were generally much more likely to solicit or accept gifts or cash from news sources. Some photographers were said to ask politicians for money in return for taking their picture. Politicians were very keen to have their photograph appear in newspapers, and so would often comply with such requests. In one notorious case, then foreign minister Thaksin Shinawatra handed out free mobile phones to a group of reporters at a special ‘thank-you’ party (he owned a telecommunications empire); following complaints to the Reporters’ Association, these were

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all later returned. Other examples of gifts received by reporters and newspaper people include gold necklaces hidden inside pieces of cake at a party for journalists sponsored by the Shinawatra group and held at the Taurus night club in December 1995, stocks and shares presented to business desk reporters, offers of free, company-sponsored trips, both within Thailand and abroad, and raffle coupons for valuable prizes given out by U-Com at a media ‘thank-you’ party at the Shangri-La Hotel.61 Such practices were especially widespread among business journalists, and were less common on the political desk. In a feature article,62 former newspaper photographer Chamlong Bunsong described how some of his colleagues made large incomes by soliciting payments from companies to have pictures of their executives or products appear in the press. Sometimes newspaper employees in charge of selecting pictures for the social page could be offered several thousand baht per picture. Crime photographers forged close ties with police officers, who would help them obtain the best shots of bloody accident and crime scenes (graphic pictures of this kind were published in popular magazines such as 911). Political photographers would moonlight by taking pictures of MPs participating in parliamentary debates, or in the company of ‘big shots’. MPs would pay for these pictures, and use them for their own publicity purposes. Another phenomenon was that of ‘ghost’ reporters, who were never seen doing any reporting but appeared whenever there was an officially sponsored party or the chance of freebies. Some of these reporters carried official identity cards.63 There were cases at parliament of reporters asking politicians for money, on the grounds that a relative was sick or that they had to attend a funeral. One character in particular was well known for making requests of this kind; there was some scepticism as to whether or not he was really a reporter, but he claimed to work for the tiny newspaper Dao Sayam, which finally closed in 1995.64 Dao Sayam was believed to pay the wholly inadequate salary of 2,000 baht per month. Although meetings had been held among the parliamentary reporters to discuss this problem, and notices had been posted in the reporters’ room announcing that anyone seen asking for money from politicians would be punished, the community of parliamentary reporters had no effective sanctions against this practice. A similar investigation had been held following allegations that one newspaper reporter had asked for hotel expenses from the ‘Group of 16’ MPs on the April 1995 trip to Phuket. The reporter in question had appeared before the parliamentary reporters and explained his actions. This meeting was chaired by the most senior reporter at the parliament, who used various informal means to promote ethical behaviour among the reporting community at parliament. Several reporters said that they had themselves been offered cash payments by politicians, or seen cash offered to others. One reporter who was assigned cover to Chart Pattana recounted how a minister from this party offered him (and a fellow reporter) 1,000 baht, after Chart Pattana joined the government in a controversial volte-face in December 1994. Another reporter mentioned being offered small sums of cash (300, 500 or 1,000 baht) on several occasions.

72 The role of political reporters Another described a common ploy by politicians: hearing that a particular reporter was about to go on an overseas trip (usually covering a ministerial visit or international conference), a politician would offer the reporter a small sum for ‘shopping’, sometimes on the pretext of buying something for them. This had happened to her two or three times, and would be accompanied by a spiel about their ‘close relations’ during which she would be addressed as nong or nong sao (younger sister).65 She would challenge this and refuse the offer in such a way as to embarrass the politician, so that it would never be repeated. It is safe to assume that some reporters accepted these offers. Another ploy by politicians was to offer envelopes containing cash to reporters in order to ‘make merit’ (tham bun). Many newspapers ran charitable foundations or were associated with charitable causes. By giving ‘charitable donations’, politicians and reporters could claim that their motives and actions were entirely respectable; only the individual reporters knew whether or not the donations actually found their way to charity, or whether (as was probably often intended by the donor) the money went directly into reporters’ pockets. Some politicians provided special hospitality or discounts for reporters. When he was minister of health in the Chuan government, Arthit Urairat offered cutprice medical treatment for reporters at the private hospitals he owned. Deputy Defence Minister Sombat Rodpothong invited reporters from the defence and BMA beats to enjoy ’free’ hospitality at a restaurant on Rachadapisek Road every Friday night, whether or not he was there himself.66 Former prime minister Chatichai Choonavan had been well known for his lavish entertainment of reporters; one notorious party for Government House reporters was held at his home just a fortnight before the 1991 coup which ousted him.67 Asked about the extent of improper relationships between reporters and politicians, parliamentary reporters interviewed gave widely differing answers, ranging from those who saw the problem as one of a tiny minority – perhaps 2 or 3 per cent – to others who argued that 30 per cent or more of reporters were accepting or soliciting bribes or favours from politicians. Some respondents were eager to play down the problem, while others probably exaggerated it. There was a general consensus that the issue of corruption became worse in the higher echelons of the media. Given the much greater power of columnists to voice political opinions, their services were in far more demand by politicians. Many respondents believed that most of the corrupt relationships between politicians and newspaper staff existed at the columnist level and above, especially in mass circulation papers. In many cases, payments were made to journalists in the form of shares. The small-scale transactions familiar to most parliamentary reporters – distributions of amulets or envelopes containing a few hundred baht – were simply testimony to a prevailing culture of ‘soft’ corruption, the tip of a much larger iceberg. With the exponential growth in the media sector during Thailand’s 1980s and 1990s ‘boom’, media corruption had substantially increased. While it might be argued that gift-giving and similar practices had little harmful effect as far as parliamentary reporters were concerned, a media culture where individual columnists or even entire newspapers served the direct

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interests of particular politicians certainly undermined any conceptions of the press as a fourth estate, a source of checks and balances in the political system.

Working relations among parliamentary reporters In contrast to other beats such as Government House and the Interior Ministry, parliamentary reporters were not highly factionalised. Informal groups existed based on seniority, friendship, gender and type of news organisation – for example, groups of young female reporters or a group of television reporters – but these did not form a basis for intense competition in terms of newsgathering. Different respondents offered different accounts of the informal group structure. One reporter explained that there had previously been more sense of competition between groups (for example, the English language newspapers Bangkok Post and The Nation trying to outdo one another), but this had declined when some of the more competitive-minded reporters had been moved to other assignments. Indeed, several respondents argued that in some respects conditions at parliament were too co-operative: there was so much sharing of news that the different newspapers and radio stations carried virtually identical stories.

Different news-gathering strategies among parliamentary reporters In a study of journalists at the European Commission, Baisnée has argued that contrasting news-gathering strategies were adopted by different groups of reporters, who understood their roles differently. In particular, he described long-serving Brussels correspondents as having an ‘institutional’ focus, identifying closely with the bureaucrats they covered. By contrast, many newer arrivals had an investigative, political orientation, seeking out scandals and controversies.68 One Thai respondent similarly argued that there were two distinct types of reporter at the parliament: the great majority, who were comfortable with a collective, co-operative and essentially non-competitive ‘group’ approach to news-gathering, and a small minority (numbering perhaps only five or six) who disagreed fundamentally with this approach and sought to pursue stories in a more individualistic way. For those reporters who chose this ‘less-trodden’ path, working conditions were much more difficult; they were likely to be accused of selfishness when they pursued exclusives which they did not share with other people. This was especially the case if they tried to work the system both ways, going off in pursuit of their own stories but then asking colleagues to give them routine items they had missed. A common response in such cases went: ‘You are doing exclusive stories so you can’t expect to get the routine stuff from us.’ Reporters who behaved in this fashion were likely to find that colleagues would not co-operate with them in all sorts of minor ways (lending mobile phones, offering lifts, sharing tapes). One reporter who had

74 The role of political reporters studied in the US argued that there were cultural reasons for the emphasis on sharing: ‘We emphasise teamwork here. It would be very bad if you separated yourself from the group.’ Several respondents drew a distinction between other reporters who sought exclusive stories for ‘selfish’ reasons, and those who had ‘their own reasons’ for doing so because they were instructed to find those kind of stories by their editors. They said that they could understand those reporters who did not share information as a result of company policy. Nevertheless, ‘understanding’ this behaviour in the abstract was a different matter from accepting it in practice. One respondent had felt that a Matichon reporter at one ministry (her previous assignment) was behaving ‘selfishly’ in his approach to news-gathering. But the Matichon reporter had told her he was working for Matichon, and getting paid by Matichon to get news for them, not to write the same news as other people. When asked whether this was a satisfactory explanation, the respondent said it was jing khong khao, true for him: the explanation was true from the subjective perspective of the Matichon reporter, but not necessarily acceptable to other reporters. Another Matichon reporter gave a similar answer to that recounted by the respondent: Reporters need to think of the readers who pay five baht for the paper and want to get something more for their money. If we have exclusive stories, we don’t have to share all of them, we need to use our brains. One respondent explained that understanding this kind of behaviour – practised by some of her close friends – was often difficult. She went on to argue that if a reporter got a major exclusive story (hypothetically, that Prime Minister Chuan himself had received land improperly under the land reform programme) it would be undesirable to run that story in one newspaper alone; for the collective good, it would be better if the story appeared in more than one paper. There was some justification for this argument. For example, on 27 July 1995, Matichon ran an exclusive story quoting former Education Minister Samphan Thongsamak as saying that Prime Minister Banharn Silpa-archa’s master’s degree thesis had been written by someone else. Samphan immediately denied having made the statement. When the reporter concerned had phoned in the story the previous day, one of the deputy political editors at Matichon told her to spread it around to other reporters, so as to make it less deniable.69 Either the reporter had not shared her story or other papers had not wanted to risk running a story likely to antagonise the new prime minister. The result was that Matichon’s ‘exclusive’ turned out to be a damp squib. Rumours about Banharn’s thesis persisted, however, and the story resurfaced at the beginning of 1996, when it was run extensively by several newspapers, including Siam Post. An exclusive, especially one based on a single deniable interview by a junior reporter, was sometimes not worth having.

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Another respondent expressed the dilemma for reporters very starkly: they had to choose between getting good stories and being good friends. He himself chose to have friends: ‘In society, friends are important. And I’m new as well. I’m not yet skilled enough.’ This reporter went on to explain that where he did obtain news items before others, he ‘gave’ them to other people, thereby making himself popular. For the new reporter (especially one without the backing of a big newspaper), falling in with prevailing norms was a much safer option than going against the grain and deun khon diao (walking alone). There was general agreement that exclusive stories could be obtained at parliament, though in practice those seeking such stories were likely to find themselves faced with hostility from their peers. ‘Your friends will understand you if you make it clear’, explained one respondent optimistically. Another respondent argued that in practice only five or six reporters obtained exclusive stories with any regularity, mainly reporters for the English language newspapers or Thai papers with strong political coverage, such as Matichon and Siam Post. A couple of reporters from such newspapers explained that there were exclusive stories available for those who wanted to look into the work of parliamentary committees: these committees frequently took expensive overseas ‘inspection’ trips at taxpayers’ expense, and often failed to produce reports about what they had accomplished on these trips. Access to exclusives often depended on good personal contacts with sources, including government officials. Often exclusive stories concerned political ‘movement’ and were difficult for less experienced reporters to spot. Few reporters saw themselves explicitly working in direct competition with other newspapers or radio stations, claiming that there was little competition, or arguing gnomically that they were simply ‘competing against themselves’. There was a surprising discrepancy between the common outsider’s view that the news media were in intense commercial competition, and the reality of the considerable co-operation among reporters. The most senior reporter at parliament argued that the culture of ‘sharing news’ was of very recent origin and had only become established in the past four or five years. He attributed it firmly to the policy of editors who forced reporters not to ‘miss’ stories. In the past, all reporters had been expected to find their own news: this was real newsgathering. Now, by contrast, people getting their own news were looked down upon. He expressed concern about the way reporters would fax the same typed sheets to different papers. Sometimes unscrupulous politicians would pay reporters to circulate what were in effect home-made press releases, the origin of which was unclear, and these would duly be faxed off to political desks as news. Some reporters had become rap jang jaek khao (news distributors for hire) rather than genuine reporters. The spirit of co-operation had produced lower standards of reporting. Ironically, it was precisely the increased business competition among the media and the exponential growth of unskilled reporting labour which had given rise to a quasi-Fordist mass production of political news stories, an assembly line of quotations produced by teams of workers from rival companies.

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Role models Respondents were asked about whether they looked up to any other reporters as role models: were there any ‘front-line’ political reporters who stood out from the pack? Seven explicitly identified one female reporter from a leading political daily as an outstanding reporter who had good sources and was skilled in extracting information from politicians. She was also well known for her abilities as a fortune teller who would offer to read politicians’ palms as a way of building up a rapport with them. She did not spend time on ‘routine’ news, but would go off and find her own sources, telephoning people and interviewing them. Another ‘outstanding’ colleague mentioned by a couple of respondents was a male reporter for a small business newspaper, though his working for a less prominent publication made him less conspicuous. There was a tendency to assume that reporters from larger newspapers were better, but actually some of the reporters for major papers obtained a great deal of information from colleagues on lesser-known papers. Some younger respondents were inclined to cite senior colleagues on their own papers as models. A few respondents argued that no one really stood out: most were working in much the same way: ‘People say Matichon is good, but actually they miss stories quite often … Everybody’s taking it easy. People who are supposed to be really great don’t produce anything very special.’ In part, this lack of variety reflected the conformity of political coverage adopted by the press and media: not only were there relatively few talented people, but there was also little opportunity for talented reporters to use their skills. One reporter lamented about the low quality of many other reporters, who would ask him extremely basic questions about the identity of ministers and other prominent politicians. Standing out in this kind of crowd was not difficult, especially when reporters with as little as two or three years’ experience were likely to be promoted to work as desk-based ‘rewriters’, leaving very junior staff covering important political beats.

Political ‘movement’: the meanings of krasae Krasae refers literally to a tide or current. Many reporters used the term krasae to mean the direction of the news (krasae khao) or the ‘movement’ of political opinion. There was general agreement that no political change occurred until a krasae had emerged. One of the main functions of the media was to monitor the day-to-day political weather conditions, looking out for emerging krasae rather as meteorologists might look out for impending storms. Yet on the precise details of what constituted a krasae and what role the media played in its appearance, respondents gave varying answers. Some reporters argued that politicians were responsible for creating krasae; others attributed the emergence of krasae to media practitioners themselves. Some respondents felt that the media played a central role in kansang krasae, building up the momentum of the current; still others argued that a krasae could not become significant until it had aroused significant public interest beyond the chattering classes.

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How long could a krasae last? ‘Valence issues’ of this kind, such as the latest allegations of misdoing against a cabinet minister or the dubious deals of a particular company, typically lasted only a few days, or at most a couple of weeks. Most krasae were krasae wan to wan, day-to-day krasae. Very few cases could last any longer: examples of stories which did included the 1994 Saudi gems case and the 1994–5 land reform scandal. Ultimately, as one reporter put it, ‘Tuk yang thong clear’ (‘Everything must be cleared’), even if the ‘clearing’ involved sweeping the issue under the carpet, or simply seeing it displaced by new stories rather than ‘resolving’ the matter satisfactorily. The Saudi gems case70 was a good example of such a story: after occupying the front pages for around three months from August to October 1994, the story ran out of steam and began to wind down, despite the fact that the location of the main missing gems remained an enigma. One reporter explained the sequence of principal krasae at the end of 1994 and in early 1995 as follows: At the time the So Po Ko krasae ma [came], just after that So Po Ko tok [dropped down] because oil smuggling khao ma [came in] instead, by then the [Saudi] jewels case had completely disappeared, when oil smuggling came in, right after that Phra Yantra khun ma [rose up], oil smuggling tok loei [dropped completely], everyone forgot about it; and before oil smuggling there was a story about BMA refuse which came up, this dropped at exactly the same time as Yantra, and then it was just So Po Ko rising up until the house dissolution when So Po Ko went quiet again. News stories came and went, rising and falling like an irregular tide, with a frequency which bewildered even political reporters themselves. The duration and intensity of a krasae depended partly on the interest shown in it by the media, especially by leading columnists and newspapers. Some politicians were rumoured to employ advisors who were past or present newspaper staff, to advise them on how to create krasae for their own purposes. With important stories such as the Phra Yantra71 or land reform cases, the decision of major newspapers not to let them drop (notably Khao Sot and Thai Rath respectively) was crucial in forcing a decisive ‘clearing’ of the problem. The Yantra case was cleared by the errant monk’s defrocking and his subsequent fleeing the country; the land reform case was cleared by the downfall of the Chuan government. Thus the business of building up (sang) and prolonging krasae, and pushing them towards some sort of resolution or dissolution (‘clearing’ them), became an exercise in power politics, in which newspapers sought to demonstrate their influence over news and political agendas. By these means, newspapers could do more than simply set agendas: they could also play a part in determining political outcomes. Politicians, by contrast, sought to use their influence (sometimes including personal contacts with newspapers) to dap or extinguish hostile krasae. During the 1995 no-confidence debate, for example, rumours were rife that the Democrats were going to bring the New Aspiration Party into the coalition to preserve their majority: the Democrats held a party at

78 The role of political reporters which they tried to quell these rumours and extinguish the incipient krasae. Early in the subsequent election campaign, Chart Thai leader Banharn used all the resources and connections at his disposal in an attempt to dap a krasae that his party had set up a 1,500 million baht fund to buy up MPs at 15 million baht per head. Columnists could play an important role in stoking or extinguishing incipient krasae. One respondent drew a distinction between the krasae khao (news current) and the krasae phalang prachachon (people’s power current). Whereas the former could be ploi (let loose) by politicians or other news sources, the latter involved an element of popular interest and usually a sense of public grievance. By no means all news items could produce a ‘people power’ effect. Such an effect was most easily created by bigger newspapers; small papers, even if armed with a good story, could not necessarily create a public mood of support if they were not supported by larger papers. Large newspapers liked to make particular stories into their own special campaigns, and were therefore reluctant to commandeer stories which had been pioneered by smaller papers. For some reporters, the word krasae carried a negative connotation, implying that media practitioners were simply going with the flow, following the tide, rather than adopting any clear stance of their own. One radio reporter explained that his station had a policy of attempting to pursue an independent news agenda rather than simply following the day’s ‘hot’ topics (the English word ‘hot’ was widely used in Thai to convey the idea of burning current issues). Another radio reporter lamented the fact that radio stations were often guilty of tam krasae nangsuephim, following the news trends set by newspapers. But experienced newspaper reporters typically took great pride in their ability to spot emerging ‘movements’ and trends which could become the next big stories. In part, criticism of the krasae culture by radio reporters reflected their sense of relative weakness compared with big newspapers: despite the fact that radio news services such as INN and Pacific had much larger audiences than even the bestselling newspapers, their political influence was significantly less.

The media and the fall of the Chuan government An outstanding example of a political krasae was the media campaign on the issue of abuses of the So Po Ko 4–01 land reform programme, a campaign which culminated in the downfall of the Chuan government following a no-confidence debate in May 1995. Many commentators attributed the demise of the Chuan government in part at least to the efforts of newspapers such as Thai Rath. Parliamentary reporters interviewed, many of whom had been centrally involved in covering the land reform story, were divided in their view of the events. One reporter argued that there had been something ‘almost like cooperation, unplanned co-operation, between the opposition and the media; it’s like both of them created the pressure on the government and demand for correction’. The media had behaved as a monitoring organisation, checking abuses of political power by the Democrats. Some others saw the co-operation

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between media and opposition as more than simply a fortuitous coincidence, feeling that elements of the media had actively sought the downfall of the government. Some pointed the finger at Thai Rath’s influence, and attributed the events partly to personal antagonism between Kamphol and Chuan. They felt that the media had not behaved in a neutral (klang) fashion. Others argued that the collapse of the Chuan coalition had to be seen in a broader context, especially the failure of the Democrats to preserve important alliances with extra-parliamentary groups such as pro-democracy organisations, intellectuals and elements of the middle class. Chuan’s own handling of the crisis and overconfidence that he could dap the krasae allowed the problem to escalate. Some respondents were critical of the view that the media had been largely responsible for the collapse of the government, one arguing that despite the hostility of some elements in the media towards the Chuan administration, they were only 20 per cent to blame for its demise. A Thai Rath reporter expressed satisfaction with the role played by his newspaper in covering the land reform affair, arguing that without publicity from the media the public would not have been aware of abuses of power by the government. At the same time, the root cause of the downfall of the government was its own wrongdoings: if the government had done nothing wrong, there would have been nothing for the media to do. ‘If they hadn’t done anything wrong, then Thai Rath would not have had any impact.’ Media organisations were not all that large: they were ongkon khong prachachon, people’s organisations. He was happy that in this case the media had acted on behalf of the people, and denied that Thai Rath had ever sought to bring down the government. By contrast, a reporter for one of the English language papers argued that the media had created a krasae which made it impossible for the Chuan government to survive. She argued that it was the media themselves who had failed to take a broad enough view of the situation, not understanding wider political and economic issues but concentrating on a single issue with the use of biased headlines. Media practitioners themselves existed in a ‘narrow world’.

Summary Political reporters in Thailand have been criticised by politicians and media analysts for repeatedly asking routine questions, for their lack of experience, and for their herding instincts. Yet much of the blame for the behaviour of political reporters can be attributed to the demands placed on them by the rewriters and editors who supervise them. Political news coverage in Thailand consists almost entirely of quotations from politicians and government officials; reporters have the task of harvesting these utterances. The rest of the blame should be assigned to politicians themselves. If politicians limited their access to the media, confining themselves to formal press conferences and interviews, political reporters would have to modify their behaviour accordingly. The Thai parliament had a large contingent of political reporters in 1995, who might have numbered a hundred on an average day. The majority of these

80 The role of political reporters were aged 20–25, had less than two years’ working experience, were not journalism graduates and did not see themselves making a career in the media. Reporters were poorly trained, many simply learning ‘on the job’. At the same time, little training was needed for the bread-and-butter work of gathering routine news, which consisted mainly of collecting quotations from politicians and attending press conferences. Relatively few reporters, typically those from English language newspapers or more serious Thai language dailies, made attempts to obtain exclusive stories or stories which anticipated future developments. For most reporters, news-gathering was a collective enterprise: politicians were hunted by groups of reporters who often shared notes with each other. Most parliamentary reporters were dissatisfied with their work, some feeling that the endless rounds of ad hoc interviews were meaningless. But most reporters were barred from writing analytical stories because of the structure of the newsgathering operation and their own lack of seniority. Partly because most parliamentary reporters had little experience, it was difficult for them to build up personal contacts with news sources. Most of the information supplied to reporters came from around fifty or so talkative MPs who welcomed opportunities to give informal interviews. Some news sources sought to plant false or misleading rumours in the press, a constant problem for reporters. However, it was often difficult for reporters to gain access to a wide range of sources: MPs had no office space at parliament and few clear parliamentary functions to perform, and so many MPs rarely attended the place. Reporters often served as news sources for politicians, sometimes providing them with research assistance or other services. Relations between reporters and news sources were thus mutually beneficial. At the same time, there were always dangers that this would compromise the professional integrity of reporters. Invitations to enjoy meals, drinks or other forms of hospitality with news sources were common. Women reporters were particularly wary of these invitations, which could lead to damaging rumours of sexual improprieties. Some politicians sought to turn reporters assigned to cover their activities into informal support groups, providing them with hospitality, free transport and accommodation on trips upcountry, gifts and sometimes even cash. Although these practices were relatively common, they were trivial in comparison with the substantial benefits available to senior columnists and editors who cultivated corrupt relationships with political figures. Although the media business was supposed to be highly competitive, in practice there was considerable co-operation between reporters from rival publications and organisations. Reporters who pursued exclusive stories, or refused to share information with colleagues, were typically branded as selfish by other reporters. However, perhaps only five or six of the hundred or so reporters at parliament pursued an independent line. One of the main duties of reporters was to monitor the political krasae, the ‘tides’ of news stories which rose and fell with great regularity. Reporters were divided as to how far the media played an important role in creating these currents of popular interest in particular issues. Nevertheless, igniting and

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extinguishing krasae was generally seen as an aspiration of leading newspapers, which competed to influence the political agenda. An outstanding example of this was the media campaign on the land reform scandal which had brought down the Chuan Leekpai government in May 1995. In this case, political reporters provided ammunition which was used by some newspaper owners and senior writers to wage war on the Chuan government. Political reporters were an essential element in the news-gathering process which enabled newspapers and other media organisations to operate as partisan political actors. Nevertheless, reporters themselves occupied a very lowly position in the pecking order, and could not be blamed for the institutionalised lack of professionalism in their industry. Thai political reporters in locations such as parliament were simply the front-line casualties of inept interactions between a defective media and a deficient political order.

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Inside a political daily Editorial politics at Matichon

Introduction: Matichon Matichon regards itself as Thailand’s leading political daily. Although Matichon dates back only to January 1978, the newspaper has an intellectual lineage to Prachacha, a progressive newspaper of the 1973–6 period, founded by a group of writers and journalists including Suthichai Yoon, Pongsak Payakvichien, Khanchai Boonpan and Sujit Wongthes. When Prachacha was closed after the 6 October 1976 military coup, the staff of the newspaper dispersed, later regrouping to open Matichon following the demise of the Thanin government after 20 October 1977. Senior staff at Matichon describe the newspaper as an organisation run along family lines, where everyone treats each other with the kindness and respect due to close relatives (phi nong). When asked how the newspaper today differed from the early Matichon, they argued that the ‘spirit’ of the paper as a tight-knit entity remains the same, despite the transformation of the newspaper into a major business venture. By 1995, Matichon was a major newspaper with a daily circulation of 120,000, making it Thailand’s fourth best-selling newspaper (after Thai Rath with 600– 700,000, Daily News with 300–400,000, and Khao Sot with 160,000; sales were perhaps 40 per cent higher on the twice-monthly lottery results days). From the eight black-and-white pages of the early days, the paper had now expanded to thirty-two or forty pages. Whereas Matichon had traditionally concentrated on politics, giving over virtually its entire front page to political stories, its coverage had now broadened to encompass more economic and business news, as well as crime stories and ‘soft news’. While Matichon editors insisted that the news covered in the paper was not ‘sensational’ (unlike the gory car crash and murder photographs which typified the front pages of top-selling papers), the distinction between sensational and non-sensational crime stories was not always easy to detect. Most of the senior staff of the newspaper were adamant that Matichon should be regarded as a quality newspaper, though their definitions of ‘quality’ varied. One deputy political editor1 argued that a quality paper was one where the news staff did not come under pressure from the owners about their editorial decisions, and one which firmly opposed the misdoings of governments. The

Inside a political daily: Matichon 83 political editor2 argued that maintaining a certain level of quality involved being selective in the running of soft news stories, not running a particular story if it might have negative consequences. Another deputy political editor3 argued that ‘quality’ was ensured by an editorial decision-making process where news meetings, rather than personalities, were paramount. A quality newspaper was one which emphasised hard news and had clear jut yeun (standpoints). It was working for the benefit of society and the country, and could not be made use of (rap chai) by other groups or individuals. He argued that Matichon’s quality was illustrated by the fact that it was the first newspaper to use academic research reports as the basis for news stories, and the fact that Matichon was the newspaper most subscribed to by ‘village reading places’ across the country, testifying to its broad appeal. However, the news editor made an opposite argument, citing Matichon’s limited appeal to teenagers and uneducated people as evidence that it was still a quality newspaper.4 Another insider5 felt that Matichon’s quality status was based upon the position of political and economic news as the ‘heart’ of the paper. A more junior member of the editorial team6 argued that the essence of a quality newspaper was its ability to wang tua pen klang, to adopt a ‘neutral’ stance on political issues rather than engaging in partisan politicking. These views illustrate that the Thai concept of a quality newspaper differs significantly from concepts of the quality newspaper used in the West and elsewhere. Most of those interviewed associated popular Thai dailies (and clearly the main target was Thai Rath) not simply with sensationalism and distorted news values, but also with a partisan political stance, a susceptibility to outside influences which could interfere with the way in which important stories were covered. In other words, ‘quality’ was something defined less by the formal content of the newspaper than by the integrity of its procedures for selecting, vetting and presenting news stories. A quality paper was klang, whereas other papers contained political bias.7 In part, this definition of quality was a self-serving one for Matichon editorial staff, allowing them to shift attention from a weak point (the increasing use of soft news stories aimed at improving the paper’s circulation) to what they regarded as a strong point (the internal organisation of the editorial department, with its focus on meetings and teamwork rather than personalities and outside connections). News editor Bunlert put his finger on the problem, when he sought to use Matichon’s limited market penetration as an indicator of its continuing success as a quality newspaper: there was an implicit trade-off between sales and quality, a trade-off with which some staff were more comfortable than others. Because politics and other hard news stories were the ‘heart’ of Matichon, editorial staff – especially those who had worked for the newspaper for ten years or more – took pride in the paper’s serious coverage, which formed the basis of their selfimage as campaigning journalists working to improve society. Nevertheless, many outsiders regarded Matichon as a newspaper which was becoming more salesoriented and was experiencing a decline in quality. The old image of Matichon as a small organisation, run like a family, was at odds with the reality of the newspaper, especially following its flotation on the stock market in 1989.

84 Inside a political daily: Matichon The market flotation of Matichon had a considerable impact upon the working conditions of staff on the newspaper. All staff were presented with shares in the company, and in the hothouse conditions of the stock market boom then prevailing the price of these shares rose rapidly. More or less overnight, hard-up reporters became affluent middle-class consumers who could afford to buy cars and even houses. One8 explained that staff at Matichon were in a good position as a result of their shareholdings, since they enjoyed a good income and could take pride in their work, knowing that the company had helped them. He argued that this was a healthy situation, especially compared with other newspapers where staff were badly paid and sought to make money by forging mutually beneficial connections with corrupt politicians or businesspeople, or getting into the right inside clique (phuak) and ‘cheering’ the right people. Matichon staff were able to express their views freely and work more easily, without worries of this kind. However, this view was contested by others who were not shareholders. Shares had only been distributed to staff in the very first issue in 1989; additional shares had not been distributed in later issues, and so the only staff who held shares in the company were those who had been in post in 1989 and who had not since sold the shares they were given. The existence of two kinds of editorial staff, shareholders and non-shareholders, created an additional dimension of ‘seniority’ within the newspaper. The long-serving senior staff were also shareholders in the company, whereas newer and more junior staff were not. Whereas the original concept of Matichon was that of a group of friends (contrasting with the usual hierarchical structure of other Thai language newspapers), this had been undermined by the one-off share issues, which created a culture of shareholder ‘insiders’ versus employees. One non-shareholder9 said that when the shares were first distributed, staff used to be glued to the television screen, watching their prices go up. Some people gave up working and lived off their share income, while many others at chief reporter level continued working but were actually so financially secure that they began taking it easy and not striving to improve the newspaper. These people had become buffers between the management and reporters, failing to speak out, for example, when reporters’ travelling expenses were reduced. They shared the management’s interest in cutting costs to benefit shareholders. To paraphrase his arguments, it might be claimed that the ‘professionalisation’ associated with the shift to a share-owning culture among senior and middlelevel staff had reduced the ‘edge’ of Matichon’s hard news coverage, creating a culture of mediocrity. Another lower-level member of the editorial team10 argued that getting shares made senior staff more money-oriented and so open to the idea of changing to a more lucrative profession, rather than dedicating themselves single-mindedly to newspaper work. It also reduced the sense of belonging and common purpose, producing a more managerial culture where superiors gave orders, instead of soliciting and accepting the views of reporters and junior desk staff. Significantly, these criticisms were voiced by staff members who had joined the company too late to receive lucrative share options, and so might be attributed partly to sour grapes.

Inside a political daily: Matichon 85 In a fascinating 1996 paper, Hong Lysa argued that Sinlapa Wattanatham, a magazine dealing with historical and cultural controversies, had abandoned its earlier revisionism in favour of ‘commodifying’ Thai art and culture.11 The magazine, founded in 1979 by well-known scholar Sujit Wongthes, was vigorous and combative in its early years as an independent publication. However, in 1988 the magazine was acquired by the Matichon group and began to take on a new preoccupation with consumerism and lifestyle. According to Lysa: While the magazine continued to carry critical commentaries by wellestablished historians and others on the social and cultural practices in Thai society, it is the writings that do not outwardly purport to carry social messages, such as food or art reviews, that mark the change in direction. Articles now appeared which were vacuous, clichéd ‘mood pieces’ which flattered the reader into believing that he/she was acquiring a taste and understanding for art and culture, empathised with artists, and could pass off as being culturally sophisticated.12 Lysa went on to argue that the politics of the magazine became increasingly reactionary, as it supported the ‘incorporation of the Sino-Thai middle class by the Establishment’, thereby strengthening rather than challenging the status quo.13 Much of what Lysa wrote about Sinlapa Wattanatham could be applied equally to Matichon itself; the newspaper’s early critical edge gave way to an accommodation with and de facto support for the prevailing political order, especially after the newspaper group was floated on the stock market.

The news meetings system The system of consultative news meetings at Matichon was generally recognised by the editors of other newspapers as the best of any Thai newspaper. Thai Rath had very perfunctory meetings; Phujatkan’s meetings were more instructional than consultative, and were dominated by senior staff; Siam Post had no regular news meetings at all. Matichon had two daily meetings, a preliminary meeting at 11.00 a.m. and a second meeting at 5.00 p.m. Meetings took place in a large conference room, and were attended by the day’s front-page staff, the editor, managing editor, news editor and senior staff from the various desks: typically between twelve and fifteen people in total. The function of the morning meeting was to discuss the likely main news stories for the following day. The meetings were chaired by the front-page editor of the day. There were six front-page editors (technically known as assistant news editors) who worked on a rotation basis; in mid-1995, all except one had only one ‘turn’ at editing the front page per week. Support staff prepared a one-page summary for each morning meeting which listed the headline stories of all the main Thai newspapers; Matichon staff could scan the list and check whether any important story had been missed. Heads of each desk (or representatives where heads were not present) would explain the stories their reporters were covering and any stories

86 Inside a political daily: Matichon likely to break during the day. The front-page editor would note these. Seven stories were needed to put on the front page; if the paper was short of important stories, desk chiefs were urged to come up with other praden (issues) and assign reporters to pursue them where necessary. The front-page editor would make a proposal about the topic of the daily news feature ‘Today’, which began on the front page (continued on page 6), and dealt with a current ‘hot’ issue in a more reflective manner than the front-page stories. The topic of the page 2 news feature would also be discussed. The editor would also ask for suggestions about the topic of the editorial and the line which the paper should take.14 The afternoon meeting had a different function; an agenda was produced in the form of a page or half page of text listing the seven stories proposed for the front page, typically with a sentence or two of explanation for each story and some notes concerning photographs sought to accompany the stories. At the meeting, the front-page editor would explain the proposed stories (sometimes supported in this by a staff member from the relevant desk) and seek the approval of the meeting to run them. News developments during the day were reported, and provisional decisions were made about the shape of the front page. In practice these decisions often had to be revised in the light of developments later in the evening, when further ad hoc meetings might be convened, this time usually around the front-page desk rather than in the meeting room. A striking feature of the Matichon news meetings was the low-key role taken by the editor and managing editor, who left most of the day-to-day decision-making about news priorities in the hands of their subordinates. This contrasted with a much more interventionist role taken by their counterparts at Phujatkan, which was partly explained by the youth and inexperience of many Phujatkan desk chiefs. Desk chiefs and front-page editors at Matichon normally had at least eight to ten years’ experience. Nevertheless, when political controversy was brewing in the country, this often spilled over into the news meetings, resulting in heated discussions about news priorities. These discussions were sometimes little more than pretexts for the airing of personal conflicts between the different front-page editors, between front-page editors and desk chiefs, and between front-page editors and their superiors. The editor himself, Pichian, played an especially minor role in the proceedings. This was partly a reflection of his background on the foreign news desk, which meant that he did not always seem confident in expressing his views concerning domestic political stories. One junior member of the front-page team15 was critical of the meetings system, arguing that for all the rhetoric of democracy and egalitarianism used in connection with the meetings, in practice the meeting did not offer a forum for soliciting the views of junior staff. Matichon was essentially a hierarchical organisation, underpinned by cultural norms of seniority and deference. However, she also criticised the editors for not suggesting story ideas or proposing that the newspaper adopt a particular angle on a story. Only Pongsak Payakvichien (the deputy president of the company), who appeared on average about once a month at morning meetings, seemed ready to propose a ‘line’ for Matichon on important issues. Pongsak’s appearances had the effect of greatly changing the character of the

Inside a political daily: Matichon 87 meetings, since no one was able to contradict him, and he was prone to harangue the editorial team with his trenchant views. In practice, most of what he said was politely ignored. Other senior staff did not show the same inclination to exercise editorial leadership. In part, the lack of leadership by the three-man management team – comprising the editor, managing editor and news editor – reflected their view that power should be decentralised and left in the hands of the desk chiefs and frontpage editors. In this sense, Matichon was more democratic than most Thai organisations: a great deal of power was left in the hands of middle-level editorial staff. Indeed, it could be argued that there was a ‘bunching’ of power at the intermediate level, with a dozen or so staff holding positions as assistant news editor or senior desk chiefs. Matichon arguably had more chiefs than Indians. Given the poor relationships between many of the intermediate-level editorial staff, it was difficult for such a large team to pursue story-lines in a single-minded and coherent fashion. Rival front-page editors would routinely spike each other’s stories, preferring to highlight a story of their own choosing rather than continue to emphasise a story which originated with another front-page editor. This was in sharp contrast with other newspapers such as Thai Rath, where senior editors were empowered to lock key stories on to prominent front-page spots. The lack of editorial leadership by the management team was partly based on their inability to handle the conflicts within the intermediate-level editorial team. None of the three members of the management team displayed the necessary skills to provide successful editorial leadership. The result was a situation where individuals such as the managing editor and news editor lamented the low quality or unsuitability of many members of the intermediate-level editorial team, while members of that team blamed the shortcomings of the newspaper on the unsuitability of the phu borihan (administrators) for their positions. According to Bunlert: The problem is just below us, at the second level, that of the hua na. Some of these people aren’t suitable for this work, they can’t administer, their brains aren’t up to it. In the future there will be some changes, some transfers.16 Ironically, some of those at this second level felt that the news editor himself was a large part of the problem: People in those positions aren’t doing this job, but they’re also preventing other people from doing it. The news editor doesn’t need seventeen years’ experience; someone with five years’ experience and more vision could do the job better. Some people might be better staying at Government House for seventeen years. Yes, they may be thinking in that way and not understand the way the world has changed. A news editor needs to be capable of understanding and taking an interest in all kinds of news.17

88 Inside a political daily: Matichon A clear message was that Matichon’s institutional culture – with its origins in a group of friends, many of them professional writers, getting together around a table to produce a serious daily newspaper – was experiencing great difficulty in adapting itself to a rapidly changing society. The nature of news was changing, and these developments were taxing the ‘brains’ of many newspaper staff – including the ‘brains’ of the senior management of the newspaper. Matichon sought to deal with this problem by experimenting with ideas of reorganisation.

The nature of Matichon’s political coverage Given Matichon’s claims to be Thailand’s leading political newspaper, what precisely were the distinctive features of the newspaper’s political coverage that gave Matichon the edge over its rivals? In part, Matichon’s claims of superiority were related to the question of defining a ‘quality’ newspaper: if one accepted that Matichon was a ‘quality’ newspaper and Thai Rath a ‘mass circulation’ newspaper, then by implication Matichon’s political coverage would be superior. One deputy political chief denied that they saw Thai Rath as a competitor: ‘We don’t need to compare ourselves with papers like Thai Rath, which are mass papers rather than political papers.’18 The political desk chief had a different view: ‘Matichon is basically competing with Thai Rath in terms of political news. We are not afraid of other papers.’ Thus other ‘quality’ newspapers such as Siam Post, Krungthep Thurakit or Phujatkan Daily were not seen as core competitors by the head of Matichon’s political desk. Another staff member,19 however, argued that the greatest challenge to Matichon came from Krungthep Thurakit, which had broadened the scope of its coverage beyond business issues, had the capacity to adapt itself to the market, had an understanding of regional and international issues as well as purely domestic ones, and had been able to assemble an impressive team of staff. Krungthep Thurakit carried strong coverage of politics and had invested a lot in its personnel; if the editors felt a story was important, they would happily assign three or four people to cover it, whereas Matichon would have only one reporter on the case. Pattara emphasised that Matichon’s political coverage was more detailed than that of other papers such as Siam Post. He claimed that Matichon had more frontpage political news than any other paper, and that Matichon had more analytical articles (bot wikhro) than other newspapers. These claims need to be examined carefully. Matichon’s political coverage was certainly extremely detailed; but did the mere proliferation of details (comprising almost entirely of quotations from different politicians) amount to more substantive political coverage? And was such detailed coverage anything to be proud of ? Siam Post had a policy of trying to keep political news short and to the point; in part, this was a logical decision for a recently established newspaper which did not have the news resources of Matichon, but it also arose from a conviction among members of the front-page team that Matichon contained far too much detail. As for whether Matichon carried more front-page political news than other newspapers, this was another debatable point. It was probably true that Matichon carried more column inches

Inside a political daily: Matichon 89 of so-called ‘front-page’ political news than other papers, but most of this news appeared on inside pages. Siam Post’s front page reflected a preoccupation with political stories very similar to Matichon’s. A typical issue of Siam Post featured five front-page stories, four of them on politics, as against Matichon’s seven front-page stories, four or five of them on politics. Matichon ran a reasonable number of bot wikhro, but although the paper could take some credit for certain innovations in this respect (such as popularising the use of well-known academics as regular columnists), Phujatkan Daily had outdone Matichon and poached many of its best columnists after the February 1991 coup. Sanchai20 argued that the two areas where newspapers differed in their political coverage were in terms of depth and detail, and the extent to which their news values were determined by principles (laklai) about how useful their stories were to society. He saw Matichon as strong on principled reporting and the raising of important issues. Bunlert21 made a similar argument, saying that Matichon’s political coverage emphasised the misdoings of those responsible for running the country, both politicians and government officials. Misdoings could take many forms, ranging from politicians failing to stick to their stated policies, to outright corruption. He described bringing out the views of the public in an attempt to monitor abuses of power as the ‘heart’ of Matichon. Sanchai22 argued cryptically that the sensational (wue-wa) headlines used by Siam Post risked damaging the national economy. Like Pattara, he criticised the lack of detail in the nua khao (story text) of Siam Post’s political stories. Asked what value there was in producing extremely detailed stories, he argued that in Thai society not many people read and not many people were knowledgeable, so it was essential to present information in a lot of detail at the outset, to increase the amount of knowledge available. Some information which might appear excessively detailed could actually be important for certain groups, such as farmers. Another reason was that statements from different figures which might appear at first to be nonsense could actually have a great impact on future political change. Arguments such as these reflected the limitations of Matichon political desk staff, their preoccupation with the simple recitation of the utterances of political actors. Siam Post, the newspaper which gave the greatest weight to political stories, was generally seen by Matichon as lacking depth. Siam Post would use bold headlines, but these would not be supported by substantive reporting of the story. In seeking to challenge Matichon’s position, Siam Post had used aggressive headlines, often over-writing stories to promote itself. Matichon staff argued that these were ‘not proper news headlines’, and so undermined the credibility of the newspaper, laying it open to charges of bias. Matichon had the advantage that its relatively long history gave the newspaper more ‘weight’ and substance.23 Although objectively true, arguments of this kind had a complacent quality, an assumption that Matichon’s past made the paper relatively invulnerable to new challenges. Pakpoom24 argued that at any given time there would be one story which was the main news item, the praden lak or krasae lak. In addition, there would be

90 Inside a political daily: Matichon another important but essentially secondary story (or stories), the krasae rong. Siam Post would run strong stories, and could ‘scoop’ Matichon in certain cases. Yet these were always the krasae rong. Thai Rath and Matichon had the ability to latch on to the core stories in a way that their rivals could never accomplish. Matichon believed that their reporters were harder working and more effective than those of any other newspaper. What distinguished the political coverage of Thai Rath from that of Matichon was the quality of political contacts possessed by senior figures at Thai Rath (especially political editor Pramote, and columnists/rewriters such as Dave and Chalam Khiao).

Matichon’s relationships with politicians Senior staff on the Matichon political desk were keen to stress the professional nature of the relationships between the newspaper and politicians, in implicit contrast with the ‘beneficial’ relationships between staff on other newspapers (such as Thai Rath) and politicians. The meeting system meant that it was not possible for individuals to get particular stories into the newspaper unchecked. Some members of the political desk had very close connections with particular politicians (to the extent that, when those politicians held ministerial posts, they showed Matichon staff secret cabinet documents regularly). At the same time, the rapid turnover of staff during the late 1980s and early 1990s had meant that reporters had been summoned to work ‘inside’ on the desk (as deputy chiefs of the political desk) after only a few years’ experience on the beats, which made it more difficult for them to maintain their contacts. When compared to other newspapers (and again Thai Rath was the main comparison), Matichon lacked senior staff (at the level of columnists and editors) with the ability to get useful information from politicians. Whereas the political editor or political rewriters at Thai Rath could get virtually any politician on the telephone, this was not true of senior people at Matichon. As the political editor explained: ‘If Khanchai phoned Banharn he would answer, but if I phoned, Banharn wouldn’t.’25 Apart from one front-page editor’s close connections with then Finance Minister Surakiart Sathirathai, none of the front-page people had good ministerial-level contacts. None of them went out and about meeting senior politicians as a matter of course, in the way that several Thai Rath people did. Matichon had no equivalent of Dave’s ‘cheering’ gossip column, which praised everyone who appeared in it and so was very popular, especially with provincial MPs in need of a boost. Matichon’s sangkhom phu taen was a real gossip column, and so was not especially popular among those who appeared in it. One way in which Matichon sought to build up contacts with senior political figures was the hosting of special dinners for them, usually in a well-appointed executive dining room in the newspaper’s building. Typically, the figure would give an interview to the paper, followed by an informal dinner attended by both company management and editorial staff. However, the editorial staff present came from Khao Sot and Prachachart Thurakit as well as Matichon, and many of those who attended were typically editors who were not directly responsible for

Inside a political daily: Matichon 91 covering the issues associated with the politician or minister in question. Beat reporters were sometimes invited, but found it difficult to talk freely to the source in the presence of so many senior figures (phu yai); there were often between twenty-five and thirty people present at the dinners. A persistent criticism of the dinners by junior staff was that they served the business interests (and the ‘image’) of the company by helping senior managers build connections with politicians, but were of much less utility in helping to establish improved news sources. ‘Lots of executives go. They feel it’s their duty to appear, so they all turn up: directors, vice-presidents, the lot.’26 The presence of so many people tended to reduce the value of the information revealed by the source at the dinner, and also reduced the extent to which any lasting connection was formed with reporters on the ground. One obstacle which limited the capacity of Matichon to develop close personal ties with many politicians was the personalities of its senior staff. Unlike the columnists and rewriters of Thai Rath, many of whom were heavy-drinking men thoroughly at ease in the bars, massage parlours and other dubious establishments frequented by many prominent politicians, most of the senior staff at Matichon were rather more proper and respectable (riaproi) individuals of an academic or intellectual bent, such as managing editor Sommai Paritchart and news editor Bunlert Changyai. Unlike senior figures on other newspapers, who had various business interests which could lead them to form mutually beneficial relations with politicians, senior figures on Matichon were solely newspaper men. The same applied to most Matichon reporters; in the words of the political desk chief: Most of our reporters don’t have the right personal characteristics to fit in with Thai politicians, so they won’t be able to get involved in taking money, drinking and gambling. If they knew how to carry it off, they might be able to do it, but it would go against their natural behaviour. This means we can’t reach the highest level.27 Significantly, he cited ‘taking money’ in the same breath as drinking and gambling, as activities which would allow reporters to reach the highest level of access to sources. Matichon found itself caught on the horns of a perennial dilemma: its reputation (and self-image) as a ‘quality’ newspaper was based upon maintaining ‘professional’ relationships with sources, and not allowing its staff to develop connections with politicians which could bring them financial benefits. Yet precisely this stance impeded the capacity of its reporters to gain access to information. Once a reporter accepted money or favours from a politician, he had entered into that politician’s circle (phuak), and so became privy to better information. As one deputy political desk chief explained about his contacts with sources: I always tell them clearly before getting close to them that if I find out they are doing something bad, I will try to find out more information and expose

92 Inside a political daily: Matichon it. So they know, but still may be open with us. This may be an obstacle to getting close to them, and sometimes it’s uncomfortable (lambakjai) for me: should I present this or that story? But once it gets to a certain point, when there is a krasae or it becomes an issue, then I publish it. Sometimes in publishing something, I do wonder whether I am putting my life in danger. I’ve been in some situations when money has been given out and I’ve sat there thinking, should I publish this? They can understand this. It might mean that they won’t take us to see certain people in the future, but they know what job we do.28 The pact between political reporter and source is a Faustian one: information is given by the source, but the more valuable the information, the more constrained the reporter is in his capacity to publish it, and the more he is drawn into a kind of complicity with the source which prevents him from writing the story. By his own admission, Sanchai sometimes had to content himself with publishing the ‘inside’ details of a story only after the issue had become news, rather than using his inside knowledge to break new stories. A clear example of the limitations of Matichon’s success in obtaining scoops was the government policy programme announced by the Banharn administration in July 1995. Thai Rath was able to obtain the policy document before it was published, and printed it in its entirety.29 Matichon completely failed to obtain this scoop, despite putting considerable energies into trying to procure the document. Matichon had asked those directly responsible for producing the document to supply the paper with a copy. Thai Rath had tried a different tack: they had asked Vattana Assavahame, a deputy leader of the Chart Thai Party, to request a copy of the document for himself and then pass it on to them. This required strong personal ties with Vattana, a provincial machine politician who was likely to call in the favour later by soliciting Thai Rath’s help in defending him against allegations of involvement in illegal drug trafficking. Snoh could have got it, but we don’t have good enough relations with him; our editor and bosses don’t have good enough relations with jao pho types. This is our problem; all the key men in Chart Thai are jao pho, but the personal characteristics of the senior people in the newspaper aren’t suitable for getting close to them.30 Matichon was generally weak in its contacts with senior party figures such as deputy leaders or secretary-generals who could provide reliable information of this kind. As an alternative, the paper had tried to cultivate ties with ‘Young Turk’ politicians, rising stars who might be key figures in years to come, but this strategy would not be fully effective in the short or medium term. Where Matichon had made efforts to build up links with politicians – for example, by having dinner or other meetings with them – the politicians sometimes sought to make use of those contacts for their own advantage. For example, prior to the July 1995 election it had sought to cultivate Banharn Silpa-

Inside a political daily: Matichon 93 archa. When Banharn became prime minister, he began calling the paper to complain that stories critical of his administration had appeared three or four days in a row, despite the fact that he and Matichon were ‘in the same group’ (phuak diao kan). His idea of phuak diao kan and Matichon’s are different. We don’t think of ourselves as phuak diao kan in the sense that we have to help him. But we do think that we are phuak diao kan if he does something good. Banharn thinks of Matichon as well disposed to him, because we have had meetings and meals with him, and expects that we will help him and support him all the time. It’s not like that.31 The fact that Matichon president Khanchai owned a house in Suphanburi, Banharn’s home province, may have contributed to Banharn’s unrequited conviction that Matichon was part of his own group.

Matichon’s relationship with the National Peace-Keeping Council (NPKC) One reason why Matichon staff wished to exercise caution in their relationships with politicians and power-holders was because the newspaper had been badly burned over allegations of bias during the 1991–2 period. When General Suchinda Kraprayoon and a group of senior military officers from Class 5 staged a coup d’état on 23 February 1991, there was considerable public sympathy for the move, given popular resentment among Bangkok voters at the corruption of the Chatichai Choonavan government. Matichon founder and majority shareholder Khanchai Boonpan was among those sympathetic to Suchinda’s National Peace-Keeping Council. Khanchai had been friendly with Suchinda for almost twenty years, dating back to the time when Suchinda was a colonel, when Prem Tinsulanond was deputy interior minister and Suchinda was his secretary. Khanchai and Suchinda had met regularly, eating noodles together and going on trips. When Matichon was floated on the stock market in 1989, Khanchai gave shares to Suchinda and other Class 5 officers. Khanchai had sound reasons for wanting to cultivate powerful figures in Thai society. As a newspaper proprietor, he would find himself in conflict with numerous politicians and interest groups that were displeased with the way Matichon presented particular stories. Chatcharin Chaiyawttn has argued that anyone who wants to run a newspaper in Thailand needs to have backers with at least as much power and influence as anyone he intends to criticise.32 Immediately prior to the 1991 coup, Matichon learned just how vulnerable it could be. The newspaper published a letter containing some defamatory comments about the Supreme Patriarch.33 Matichon was forced to apologise, briefly closing itself down.34 Then editor Sommai Paritchart resigned and became a monk for three months, under the instruction of the Supreme Patriarch at Wat Bowornnives.35 In a court case relating to the incident, he was given a one-year suspended jail

94 Inside a political daily: Matichon sentence, and had to report to the police every two months for two years. At this time, the staff of the newspaper realised that there was no one who could help them: their connections to phu yai simply were not good enough for the problem to be readily ‘cleared’. Such a self-closure would never have been necessary for Thai Rath, which could have used its high-level contacts to resolve the issue by other means. The 1991 coup offered a fresh start, with the government in the hands of old friends. Matichon’s first post-coup editorial declared that the National Peace-Keeping Council had demonstrated clear evidence of gross maladministration by the Chatichai government.36 The NPKC was clearly justified in seizing power. Though the editorial went on to urge the NPKC to behave transparently and to act quickly to promulgate a new constitution, the overall tone of the newspaper’s response was very positive. There was no hint that the legitimacy of the coup was open to question. Nevertheless, the sympathetic line taken by Matichon towards the coup group created a new set of problems for the newspaper as its credibility began to decline. This was especially so among educated Bangkok readers, including the academics and intellectuals who had made second homes for themselves in the inside pages of Matichon as commentators and social critics. When regular columnist and leading academic Nidhi Aeusrivongse submitted one strongly worded piece, Matichon declined to publish it. Nidhi then began sending his articles elsewhere, notably to the new Phujatkan Daily, which quickly replaced Matichon as the leading publisher of commentaries by public intellectuals such as Nidhi, Chai-Anan Samudavanija, MR Sukhumbhand Paribatra and Kasian Tejapira. While Matichon staff denied that Khanchai’s connection with Suchinda had any direct impact on their news coverage, and insisted that Suchinda and fellow coup leader Air Chief Marshal Kaset Rojananil were often unhappy with Matichon’s coverage during this period, the perception among many readers was different. One Australian PhD thesis by a Thai described Matichon at this time as an example of ‘military-connected media’.37 Matichon’s perceived proximity to the NPKC created a gap (chong wang) into which Phujatkan (and later Siam Post) moved: the need for a reliable, broadly progressive political daily. Matichon’s problems grew more acute in April 1992, when Suchinda became prime minister (despite having previously given a public pledge that he would not accept the job). Matichon criticised this move, and relations between Khanchai and Suchinda became strained. At one point the army began a boycott of Matichon and Khao Sot, upset that despite the close personal relations between top officers and the senior executives of the newspapers, Matichon had been critical of the military.38 Nevertheless, Matichon was not seen as a hard-line critic of the military during the May events, and was not among the newspapers briefly banned at the height of the protests on 18 May.39 While Matichon editorial staff argued that, after May 1992, Khanchai and Suchinda went their separate ways, the newspaper still suffered from image problems over its relations with Class 5, problems which affected its coverage. For example, when Matichon reporters obtained a scoop about the 1995 military promotions exercise, editors decided to

Inside a political daily: Matichon 95 put the story on an inside page, in case readers thought the newspaper was ‘backing’ Class 5.

Problems of decision-making: the case of reporter Nit Nit40 was a reporter on the political desk, with around three years’ experience, two of them at Matichon. Prior to joining Matichon, she had worked for eight months at Ban Muang, a newspaper owned by leading politician Banharn Silpaarcha. Nit had been based at parliament from mid-1993 to mid-1995, with a brief to cover the Chart Thai Party. During this time, she had built up strong personal ties to several figures in the party, and had developed a good rapport with Banharn, then Chart Thai party leader and leader of the opposition. These connections had helped Matichon greatly during its coverage of the So Po Ko land reform scandal, which culminated in a May 1995 no-confidence debate against the Democrat-led administration. Nit’s father was a senior military officer, and this helped her forge ties with various senators and other politicians. She also practised the art of palmistry, and often told news sources their fortunes by reading their hands. When Banharn became prime minister following the 2 July 1995 general election, he immediately made it clear that he did not like or trust the majority of the political reporters at Government House. Normally, Government House reporters would cover the activities of the government party, and Banharn believed that many of these reporters were sympathetic (phuak diao kan) to the Democrats. An old-fashioned politician who saw the world in terms of friends and enemies (rather like Margaret Thatcher’s notion that people either were or were not ‘one of us’), he even called for the personal histories of all Government House reporters to be investigated. Typically, when faced with a group of reporters asking him questions, Banharn would seek out those he recognised and trusted, addressing his responses to them. The change from a Democrat-led to a Chart Thai-led administration in mid-1995 entailed a subtle change in the character of the Thai political order. Whereas Democrat leader and prime minister Chuan Leekpai had been a dedicated parliamentarian, Banharn was a poor public speaker who was ill at ease in the parliamentary chamber. The Banharn premiership was characterised by a shift of power and emphasis away from the legislature and towards the executive. Coverage of parliament was therefore becoming somewhat less important, and coverage of Government House correspondingly more so. At this juncture, Matichon faced a problem with its Government House team. Reporter S, the most experienced of the paper’s political reporters, was resigning at the end of August to go and study abroad. The other experienced Government House reporter, reporter D, had an excellent relationship with the Democrats but did not know the incoming team of ministers. There was an urgent need to strengthen the Government House team, ideally by bringing in a reporter with good ties to the Chart Thai Party and to new premier Banharn.

96 Inside a political daily: Matichon The proposal was simple: Nit should transfer to Government House, probably swapping with D. The job Nit was being lined up for – essentially that of tailing the prime minister – required personal qualities of good humour and endurance, rather than a profound grasp of specialised policy issues. The senior staff on the political desk were unanimous in supporting this proposal, as were the managing editor and news editor. In a more traditional family-owned newspaper, Nit would probably have been transferred immediately by an order from on high. However, in the context of Matichon’s highly decentralised power structure, matters worked out rather differently. On the evening of Thursday 20 July 1995, a meeting of the political team was held at Matichon. In attendance were the political desk chief, his three deputies and nine political reporters. Pakpoom, the political desk chief, began the meeting and raised the issue of transfers. He referred to the difficulties of reporters in trying to build up new sources from parties they had not followed previously. He did not, however, directly propose the transfer of reporter Nit from parliament to Government House, and went out of his way to stress that nothing had yet been decided. All reporters were then called upon to express their views about the best place for them to be assigned. The military beat reporter said he wanted to stay where he was; it was clear that no one thought he ought to move. The Interior Ministry reporter declared that he was unsuccessful in his present position and would like to move somewhere else, but no one took much notice. The three deputy political desk chiefs then spoke in turn, all urging that some reporters be transferred. The last of them spelt out his view that Nit ought to move from parliament to Government House, though he also criticised her for not sharing her information with other people and suggested that her personality and manner were not well suited to a Government House posting. These tactlessly raised secondary issues had the effect of obscuring the core issue, helping to create an impression that Nit was being bullied into moving. The political desk chief then tried to calm the waters by declaring that none of them was perfect, and that they should work together to try and counteract each other’s drawbacks. The meeting ended rather inconclusively; it appeared that Nit was going to move, but this had not been spelt out. Nit had not voiced any objection to the proposed transfer; indeed, she had scarcely spoken at all during the meeting. After the meeting, however, Nit made it clear that she did not wish to be transferred to Government House, and three days later was telling everyone that she would not be moving there. Instead, she was going to remain based at parliament, but would go over to Government House on Monday and Tuesday to cover important meetings. This plan was announced at the next political desk meeting on 3 August. On Fridays – a quiet day at the parliament – Nit would be free to seek out news sources wherever she could find them. Thus she would only be working at parliament on Wednesday and Thursday, an arrangement which could prefigure a complete disengagement from parliamentary work. Nevertheless, this interim arrangement designed to allow Nit to adapt herself (prap tua) to

Inside a political daily: Matichon 97 changing circumstances, was not regarded as a satisfactory solution by several senior staff on the newspaper. Rather, they saw the case as clear evidence of the political desk chief ’s weakness and inability to manage his staff. Without mentioning Nit or Pakpoom by name, managing editor Sommai41 explained that in the past decisions about matters such as the transfer of reporters would be made by senior editorial staff. Power had now been decentralised to the desk chief level, but some desk chiefs were unable to use their power, fearing that problems would occur if they transferred reporters. Weak desk chiefs were making reporters weak: although reporters had the right to express their views, in the end desk chiefs needed to make tough decisions rather than leaving these decisions to the editors. Political desk chief Pakpoom rejected these implicit charges of weakness: My problem is that I don’t like to keep repeating orders, so people may think that I am weak. I don’t like using power … Some senior staff think I am unable to control the staff on my desk in the way they think I should. This is a problem of the political desk which may have an impact on the work of the page 1 staff too, because they have their own idea about what they want the political desk to be, but I am not able to carry that out 100 per cent. In the western context, if someone wasn’t performing well you would move them to another position, but here in the editorial department there is a problem that people feel krengjai, and don’t want to create enemies.42 On the specific circumstances of the case of Nit’s transfer, Pakpoom explained: This is a case of maturity, this is what Thai people are like. When asked in the meeting she didn’t say anything, but then came out and expressed her views outside. This happens a lot, not just at the political desk. My character is such that I try to find a compromise, I am not so firm. If we were really struggling as a newspaper we might need to behave in a dictatorial fashion, but since we are doing quite well and don’t have to compete so strongly there’s no need to compel her, since this would have a negative impact on her work. Some people might not like my trying to find a compromise and say we should just let her go if she doesn’t like it. I told her she didn’t have to move if we could keep on matching the coverage of other newspapers, but actually this is not really practical; I was trying to get her to adapt in readiness for moving to Government House, to go over there every Tuesday so that she could get used to it. In future there would come a point when I would have to be firm with her, saying that her sources were at Government House and there was no point her being at parliament. The reasons enumerated by Pakpoom for his approach to the problem of Nit’s transfer were as follows: dislike of using power, feelings of krengjai (reluctance to make enemies), differences between Thai and western ways of

98 Inside a political daily: Matichon behaving, preference for compromise, fear that a compulsory transfer would adversely affect Nit’s work, and a belief that an interim compromise might help her adapt herself. Pakpoom sought to resolve the problem in his own way, implicitly a ‘Thai’ way (‘this is what Thai people are like’), rather than a more confrontational ‘western’ fashion. Senior editors held back from acting despite the fact that, by Pakpoom’s own admission, the decision had an impact on the work of the front-page desk, and that the political desk would not be able to match the coverage of other newspapers under the compromise arrangements. In other words, the question of Nit’s assignment had an impact well beyond the political desk itself. More importantly still, Pakpoom’s decision was predicated upon his view that Matichon was doing well and so did not have to compete too intensely with other newspapers, an argument for complacency which senior management could not be expected to support. The failure of senior editors to intervene over the transfer of Nit illustrated the extent to which a desire to avoid confrontation and postpone the taking of tough decisions pervaded the editorial department as a whole; as Pakpoom put it, ‘This happens a lot, not just at the political desk.’ While senior editors talked of creating a more efficient, decisive, managerial culture at the newspaper, they were themselves caught in the same prevailing norms as the political desk chief they criticised. Matichon had not yet made the transition from a small company run by a group of friends on a family-style basis to a modern business enterprise. Instead, power and authority had become so diffuse that vital decisions were simply not being taken at any level. As one frontpage editor explained: That’s the organisational culture here, which has good and bad points, the system where we are like phi nong [family] not jao nai [bosses]. But when we discuss things, khwamrusuk [feelings] become involved very easily … Every place has problems, but the conflict here doesn’t turn nasty; at the same time, the problems don’t really get solved.43 Matichon had many of the worst features of a typical family structure (cloying proximity, ancient feuds, fear of giving offence to loved ones), without always demonstrating the more positive attributes of mutual emotional and practical support. The Matichon editorial department was a family at odds with itself. When the wilful daughter Nit refused to obey the wishes of the family, her mildmannered father was unwilling to discipline her, and the family elders, for all their discontented mutterings, were not prepared to intervene. Despite Pakpoom’s claims that the transitional arrangement he had proposed would pave the way for Nit’s full transfer to Government House, he never reached the point of ‘becoming firm with her’. She remained based at parliament until January 1996, when she resigned to pursue her studies abroad. Her resignation may have been expedited by the pressures placed upon her to transfer to Government House.

Inside a political daily: Matichon 99

Co-ordination among desks Apart from issues of decision-making within desks, co-ordination among desks was another problem area at Matichon. As with other Thai newspapers, Matichon drew sharp distinctions between different types of news: each type of news was covered by its own desk and appeared on a different page. The main desks were: front-page desk, political desk, economic desk, provincial news desk, agriculture and technology desk, crime desk, Bangkok news desk, education desk, health news desk, environment desk, labour desk, foreign news desk, sports desk, popular culture desk (music, movie and television news), women’s desk, and society desk. Reporters were assigned to specific desks and were generally based at specific geographical locations, typically ministries or other government agencies. A problem common among Thai reporters (not just Matichon reporters) was one of bureaucratisation: reporters who worked constantly alongside government officials, from a ‘reporters’ room’ within a government department, using government-provided telephones, fax machines, typewriters and other facilities, often tended to view the issues they covered from a perspective similar to that of bureaucrats, and had a tendency to become passive mouthpieces for the official line. Deputy political desk chief Chamlong44 argued that a good proportion of Matichon reporters had views regarding important questions which reflected the influence they had received from bureaucrats. This applied less to political desk than to economic desk reporters: ‘Ministry-based reporters (nak khao prajam krasuang) is what we call them in Thailand, and they really are based at the ministry!’ Based on his own experience as a reporter at the Communications Ministry, he argued that reporters spent much of their time waiting around for the arrival of senior officials. This is the way they work: ‘Has the Permanent Secretary arrived yet? Let’s go and talk to him … Has the Deputy Director arrived yet? Let’s go and talk to the Deputy Director …’ And so on. These sorts of people think very conservatively. The reporters start to think in the same way. Ministry-based reporters rarely sought to check information given to them by bureaucrats with sources in the private sector, a serious weakness in a complex and rapidly changing area such as communications policy. Senior editor and columnist Sathian Janthimathon also argued that reporters were becoming more like bureaucrats, while Matichon itself was becoming increasingly conservative.45 A further problem was the failure of many reporters to see the ways in which issues crossed over the arbitrary divides created by the organisation of news desks. In particular, political reporters consistently failed to understand the financial and economic implications of debates about policy and legislation, while economic reporters did not recognise that many economic developments were being driven by political imperatives. This was especially the case when ministries were controlled by money-oriented provincial machine politicians, of

100 Inside a political daily: Matichon the kind who dominated the 1995 Banharn 1 cabinet. Reporters at assignments such as Government House, the Finance Ministry, the Communications Ministry or the Defence Ministry were constantly covering issues which straddled the divide between politics and economics, but for the most part they tended to reduce these issues either to politics or to economics, depending upon their own desk affiliation. Julalak,46 a front-page editor with a background on the economics desk, admitted that economic reporters were often very ill informed about politics, sometimes phoning in to ask what was going on politically. They had to be urged to read political news so that they could discuss politics with news sources, since many news sources regarded Matichon as a political newspaper. The same applied to reporters from the health and education desks, who covered the relevant ministries from a narrow policy angle, often failing to spot the political significance of issues within their domains. In defence of these reporters, it might be argued that they were essentially specialists in their own areas – rather than generalists – and that keeping them at the same location allowed them to build up contacts and increase their specialist expertise. Sathian argued that Matichon badly needed more specialist reporters; however, most of the existing reporters simply had a limited perspective rather than a specialist understanding.47 At a meeting of the political desk on 20 July 1995, one reporter48 argued that there were two theories of how to assign reporters, one based on an attachment to politicians and parties, another based on learning the specialised issues at different locations. He argued strongly for the location-based approach, based on his own experience as a Government House reporter responsible for monitoring policy issues, especially those relating to economic questions. However, Chamlong (like Sathian) argued that in fact most ministry-based reporters were not ‘specialists’ in any useful sense: they lacked in-depth knowledge of the fields they covered, and lacked the capacity to understand how those fields interrelated with other areas. In other words, such reporters were actually ‘narrowists’, rather than genuine specialists. To a large degree, these weaknesses reflected failings of the Thai education system. Sanchai49 lamented the fact that Matichon had no reporters with sufficient specialised knowledge to understand complex stories, such as the decision by incoming agriculture minister Montri Pongphanich to change the mechanisms for deciding fertiliser prices; there was no one at the paper who knew what the price of fertiliser ought to be, or even at what times of the year fertiliser was normally used. Similar problems applied in the case of the Tanayong Bangkok elevated railway project, the technicalities of which none of Matichon’s reporters properly understood. He argued that the newspaper needed more specialist reporters, who had the knowledge and capacity to do in-depth research on salient issues. While Sathian’s call for better-informed reporters appears persuasive, no newspaper could realistically expect to have an in-house specialist on every issue; what Matichon needed was reporters who knew how to acquire relevant specialist information quickly, rather than walking encyclopaedias of technical data. Sanchai noted that the news was getting more and more detailed, leaving less time for clearer, deeper coverage.

Inside a political daily: Matichon 101 Some senior staff even questioned whether many of the reporters had a serious commitment to their jobs; Pakpoom50 observed that whereas ten years previously reporters had done the job out of love of covering stories and issues, the young reporters now derived more satisfaction from the fun, friends and salary which they gained from the jobs than from the work itself. Reporters today were sensitive and moody. When talking among themselves, their conversation usually turned to a discussion of stars, fashion and matters concerning private life (chiwit suan tua) rather than more serious matters such as political issues, or professional questions such as how to develop news sources. Most of Matichon’s political reporters were still searching for the meaning of their lives, asking themselves whether or not they were really born to be reporters.

The Pravien murder: falling between desks On 11 July 1995, just as the Banharn coalition was preparing to announce its ministerial line-up, a political murder took place in the northeastern province of Loei. The victim, Khru Pravien Bunnak, was a leader of the local branch of the Assembly for Small-Scale Northeastern Farmers (ASNF). The ASNF was a leading people’s organisation, a network of political and social activists which campaigned on a wide range of causes across the region. In the past, the ASNF had often come into conflict with the government, and with powerful provincial politicians. Pravien had been leading a campaign against quarrying in the province. Former MP Tossapol Sunghkasup had a stake in the Surat Quarry Company, against whose operations Pravien had orchestrated a protest.51 He was shot dead in broad daylight in front of a crowd of witnesses. The timing and circumstances of Pravien’s death clearly pointed to a political crime, closely related to conflicts which had come to a head during the recent election campaign. Pravien had been a strong but unsuccessful candidate in the campaign, coming in fourth in Loei’s District 2 with 38,129 votes. His candidacy had helped dislodge incumbent Chart Thai MP Tossapol from his seat. At the same time, the crime itself was a police matter. The campaign against quarrying was actually an environmental issue, involving questions of provincial business, but organised by a group of farmers. Was this a matter for the political desk, the crime desk, the environment desk, the economic desk, the agricultural desk, or what? An event such as the Pravien killing, which took place at the intersection of several different desk domains, posed a serious challenge for a newspaper such as Matichon. A messy and complex story, it went to the heart of the illicit influence and violence that characterised provincial politics. Pravien’s murder exposed the seamy side of the recent election, and the corruption of politicians in the government coalition. Handling a story like this would push Matichon’s news resources to their limits. Although the newspaper had its own stringer in Loei, everyone knew that a story of this kind could not be successfully covered by a local person. Any stringer would be too close to the situation to report on it effectively. Local people were under great pressure to cover up the real circumstances which led to the crime. As one local activist told The Nation, ‘I

102 Inside a political daily: Matichon believe most of the local authority officials are so scared of the dark influences in this province that nobody tries to do what is right.’52 Only a reporter (ideally, a team of reporters) sent from Bangkok would stand any chance of getting to the heart of the issue. Factual news reports about who said what, where and when (the kind of news normally sent in by provincial stringers) would not be sufficient: this was a story which needed detailed investigation. Here was a moment when Matichon needed to despatch its top reporters to Loei, on the first available flight. An instant decision was needed. Yet no such decision was taken. The event had taken place in the provinces: it was therefore a matter for the provincial desk to deal with. Other people did not want to tread on the toes of the provincial desk. The local stringer was said to be able to handle the story. The story might only last a couple of days. It would be expensive to send reporters to Loei. No one, either at front-page editor or managing editor level, seemed able to say, ‘This is a big story. We can’t ignore or downplay it because it’s a provincial story. We must pursue it.’ The political desk would not consider pulling one of its reporters off politician-tagging duties to pursue a hot story upcountry. In any case, the political reporters would not know what to do in Loei. They operated within the narrow parameters of the Bangkok parliamentary and ministerial scene. Quite simply, Matichon had no top reporters who could be despatched anywhere. The only people who could easily have been freed up for the task were some of the ‘floating’ front-page editors, none of whom would have relished a difficult and potentially dangerous trip to Loei. Like other Thai newspapers, Matichon had stringers in hundreds of districts, the length and breadth of Thailand. What Matichon actually needed, however, was not reporters in every town, but reporters who were capable of going to any town. Other newspapers did respond to the challenge of the Pravien case more effectively: both Matichon’s downmarket sister-paper Khao Sot and the political daily Siam Post despatched reporters from their political desks to Loei immediately. Both newspapers carried detailed news coverage of the case, as did Daily News. While Siam Post53 plus Phujatkan54 and Krungthep Thurakit55 (both of which had northeastern regional news bureaux in Khon Kaen) ran in-depth pieces on the story, Matichon did not run a single substantive analytical article on the Pravien case. The case was the subject of the prominent political column ‘Jotpai Matichon’ which appeared in Matichon on 31 July 1995, but this was a Bangkok view rather than an analysis using first-hand information. The author of the column cited newspaper articles nine times as sources:56 he made three references to Siam Post, two to Krungthep Thurakit and only one to Matichon. The central point of his column, that the Pravien murder was far from being an ‘ordinary’ murder, was based upon a quotation from the provincial governor of Loei published in Siam Post. In commenting upon the Pravien case, Matichon’s top political columnist was dependent upon material obtained by rival papers, since Matichon had failed to send a Bangkok-based reporter up to Loei. The style of news-gathering employed by Matichon was essentially static: reporters and stringers were stationed in particular locations, waiting for news to come to them. When news did not come to them, or when it did not fit into the

Inside a political daily: Matichon 103 predefined, Bangkok-centred categories determined by the structure of news desks, news went unreported or incompletely reported. Matichon could not respond quickly and effectively to an ‘unusual’ political murder upcountry. The poor response of the paper in the coverage of the Pravien case testified to a serious paralysis in Matichon’s editorial department. It is especially ironic that Matichon, with its declared aim of serving a national readership,57 was scooped on this provincial news story by newspapers such as Siam Post, whose sales outside Bangkok were negligible. Thai Rath’s coverage of the case was even more minimal than Matichon’s, reflecting a conservative perspective unsympathetic towards NGOs and oppositional groups. Given that former Chart Thai MP Tossapol Sungkhasup was a leading suspect in the case, the Pravien murder was deeply embarrassing for the incoming Banharn government. Playing up the Pravien case would have the effect of undermining the credibility of the coalition and the new cabinet line-up, something which Thai Rath was reluctant to do. Assistant political desk chief Pattara cited the reporting of NGO protests – including the Pravien case – as a weak point of Matichon’s coverage.58

Election coverage Coverage of the July 1995 general election was characterised – both in Matichon and in other newspapers – by attempts to create discussion around policy-related themes.59 For the most part, the media refrained from investigative reporting and exposing the underlying political economy of the election. Instead, the popular press focused on personality issues and back-biting, while the quality press sought to make the election a ‘real’ contest between parties with different policy platforms.60 The media was less concerned with what the election was actually about than with what it believed the election ought to be about. By trying to engage in policy advocacy, the media was attempting to define a political role for itself, a political role which legitimated its function yet did not challenge the existing power-holders. Speaking at a seminar just after the 1995 election, academic and political talk-show host Chermsak Pinthong argued that, in retrospect, the attempts by the media to generate policy debate during the election period had proved a failure.61 When it came to the business of forming a coalition, seven parties were able to sink their supposed policy differences with unseemly haste on the very night of the election and throw themselves into the serious business of haggling for cabinet seats. By giving column inches and airtime to essentially spurious policy discussions, the media had helped politicians fool the public about the true nature of the election. In effect, the press had been covering the wrong general election. Matichon’s coverage of the 1995 election reflected weaknesses in the newspaper’s provincial reporting, especially concerning political issues. Although Matichon had written in general terms about the problems of vote-buying and abuse of the electoral system, it had not examined the realities of money politics in any specific districts or provinces. Pattara had proposed that reporters produce

104 Inside a political daily: Matichon special analyses of the electoral competition in different provinces, including the names of hired gunmen, governors and district officers, explaining which districts were within the spheres of influence of different prominent figures.62 He believed that Matichon could have obtained good information of this kind, presenting it in special columns such as ‘Peut tua hua kannaen khon dang’, ‘Revealing the canvassers of famous people’. Some of Matichon’s stringers might not have been able to write this kind of piece, since they were too close to or too afraid of influential figures in their areas. But all Matichon’s provincial stringers were ‘graded’ according to their reliability: the editorial department knew which reporters were reliable and which ones were not, so that where necessary Bangkok-based reporters could be sent instead. In the event, however, these suggestions were not taken up, and the newspaper did not report in detail on the real issues of the general election: the uses of money, power and influence in the provinces. In this, Matichon was no different from any other newspaper. Despite their criticisms of money-based politics, the Thai press continued to collude with corrupt politicians by not exposing their misdoings. The poor response of Matichon in the Pravien case illustrated this tendency of Bangkok newspapers not to tread directly on the toes of provincial politicians.

Strengths and weaknesses of Matichon’s political coverage Despite the shortcomings of Matichon’s internal organisation, the newspaper had an excellent record of winning awards from the Reporters’ Association of Thailand (the so-called Thai ‘Pulitzers’) for the best news stories. Political desk staff were proud of their work of numerous stories, such as the So Po Ko land reform scandal, the use of MPs’ personal development budgets, the issue of articles 198 and 199 on decentralisation (which had led to the withdrawal of the New Aspiration Party (NAP) from the Chuan administration in December 1994), the scandal over bidding irregularities for the Kuen Siyat dam, their coverage of the national budget process, and their efforts to force the Chuan government to stick to its original policy pledges. The strength of the paper was in the coverage of big stories about maladministration of the country,63 especially complex stories which involved very detailed scrutiny and exposition. The paper was at its best when these stories centred on national-level issues directly related to conflicts in parliament or within the cabinet. On these stories, Matichon could make use of its well-trained and hard-working reporters to dig out information. Where the story relied upon high-level tip-offs (such as the details of a cabinet reshuffle), Matichon found it difficult to compete with Thai Rath, since Thai Rath was better connected to the upper echelons of the various factions and parties. Matichon sometimes failed at the final hurdle of a long-running story. A clear example of this was on 19 May 1995. Despite Matichon’s excellent work on the land reform issue, they lost the story at the last minute, running a front-page headline saying that the NAP would enter the government.64 In fact, by the time many of the newspapers went on sale, Chuan had already dissolved parliament.

Inside a political daily: Matichon 105 Thai Rath (and most other newspapers) had announced the demise of the Chuan government in their headlines. Matichon’s front-page staff had put too much faith in a single source who insisted NAP would come to Chuan’s rescue. This was a case of ‘dead on arrival’ (tai ton jop).65 This lack of follow-through sometimes meant that Matichon did not receive due credit for its coverage of a story, and for the impact of that coverage. Rightly or wrongly, the land reform case was indelibly associated in the public imagination with the aggressive campaigning of Thai Rath, rather than the more balanced coverage of Matichon. In terms of political impact, personal connections were often more decisive than journalistic professionalism. The system of news meetings and rotating front-page editors used by Matichon also made it more difficult for the paper to wage systematic political campaigns. Whereas in 1995 a single individual – Chupong Maneenoi – was able to lock a key story such as land reform on to Thai Rath’s front page for six months on end, such a tactic was unthinkable at Matichon. Matichon’s commitment to more open and democratic editorial procedures weakened the paper as a political actor when compared with Thai Rath, or, for that matter, with Siam Post.

Summary The political role performed by Thai newspapers rests primarily on the internal structure, objectives, and power relations of each publication. Thai Rath offers one model of the Thai newspaper: highly personalist management structures, ad hoc organisation, a marked tendency to display political bias, and the ruthless pursuit of selected stories. Matichon offers an alternative model: a newspaper which sees itself as a ‘quality’ publication, run by a ‘democratic’ system of meetings, and with a decentralised power structure which leaves individual desk chiefs largely responsible for day-to-day decisions. Matichon started life in the 1970s as a progressive newspaper run by a group of friends, most of them writers. However, in 1989 Matichon was floated on the stock market, and its idealistic writers became well-off almost overnight. In 1995, Matichon was characterised by certain key features. There was a divide between shareholding senior staff and non-shareholding junior staff. The newspaper used a news meetings system which empowered front-page editors and desk chiefs and reduced the role of senior editors. There was a lack of continuity in running front-page stories, as a result of rotating front-page editors pulling in different directions. Low-intensity conflicts simmered between senior editors and middle-level editorial staff. Political coverage was principally characterised by enormously detailed stories. Matichon was in competition with Thai Rath to be running the current leading political story. The newspaper had high-quality political reporters compared with other news organisations, but weak personal connections between editorial staff and leading politicians – partly because many Matichon staff were more respectable and less senior than their Thai Rath counterparts. Matichon placed emphasis on ‘professional’ (that is, non-corrupt) dealings with news sources. Preferred

106 Inside a political daily: Matichon methods of building links with sources included the hosting of dinners for prominent figures. The newspaper’s news-gathering methods were good for gathering detailed information on salient issues, but often failed to obtain crucial scoops at important political junctures. Matichon suffered from a tarnished reputation with progressive readers over Khanchai’s former closeness to the National Peace-Keeping Council. As a result, the newspaper became very cautious in building relationships with other power-holders. The decentralised decision-making process led to conflicts between senior editors and middle-level staff. Senior editors accused middle-level editors of being too soft with their reporters; middle-level editors accused senior editors of failing to show leadership. There were problems of co-ordination between desks, and the weakness of senior editorial control led to a failure to respond effectively to certain stories, such as the Pravien murder. A lack of specialist knowledge by reporters and editors hindered quality reporting, especially of complex issues with an economic dimension. There were structural problems in the coverage of provincial news. Election coverage reflected a misleading preoccupation with spurious policy issues, when the real elections were about dumping money. In many respects, Matichon was a much better newspaper organisation than Thai Rath: its staff were more serious and more professional, it had a good system of meetings, and it aspired to produce a high-quality publication. Nevertheless, in a game of dominating the political agenda in which the main rival player was more ruthless, more cunning, better resourced and much better connected, Matichon was always floundering to keep up with Thai Rath. In terms of the fundamental dichotomies which governed Thai news-gathering (news versus comment, dek versus phu yai, Bangkok versus the provinces, and so on), Matichon was sticking to Thai Rath’s agenda, trying to play by Thai Rath’s rules, but with one hand tied behind its back. The progressive ideas that underlay Matichon had long since run out of steam, but the newspaper had been unable to replace those ideas with something more relevant and more effective. Reform of the newspaper to challenge the insidious dichotomies which underlay the structures of the Thai language press seemed to be beyond the leadership abilities of Matichon’s divided editorial team.

5

Investigative reporting? The strange case of ‘Dr S’

Introduction In the afternoon of 5 December 1995, a small team of senior staff from the Thai language daily Siam Post gathered in a meeting room to discuss a major new story. The newspaper had obtained a set of documents which would be highly embarrassing for the Banharn Silpa-archa government. The papers, which had been seized from Ban Phitsanulok1 at the time of the military coup of 23 February 1991, appeared to show that a member of the team of advisors then working for prime minister Chatichai Choonavan had been guilty of improprieties. Using a front company known as Match Cross International, one of the advisors had allegedly offered his services as a political lobbyist and ‘fixer’, arranging introductions and setting up deals in return for commissions. Many of the documents (which totalled more than a hundred pages) had apparently been sent by or from Weerasak Kowsurat. Several referred to Weerasak’s ‘boss’ figure, one ‘Dr S’. When Banharn Silpa-archa had formed his government in July 1995, he had named Weerasak as his deputy secretarygeneral, and a ‘Dr S’, Dr Surakiart Sathirathai, as his finance minister. This chapter is not directly concerned with the facts behind the allegations made by Siam Post. The following discussion should not be construed as implying any allegation of wrongdoing or inappropriate behaviour by Surakiart Sathirathai, Weerasak Kowsurat or any other individual. Rather, the purpose of the following discussion is to examine the ways in which a potentially damaging political story was handled by the Thai media, by relevant political actors and by other interested parties.

Background Siam Post was a Thai language newspaper established in 1992 by the Post Publishing Group, best known as the owners of the Bangkok Post, the wellestablished and widely respected English language daily. The Bangkok Post had long been locked into a circulation battle with its arch-rival, The Nation; one of The Nation’s competitive strategies had been to launch a business-focused Thai

108 Investigative reporting? language sister paper, Krungthep Thurakit. The two newspapers shared a common advertising section, an arrangement that helped boost revenues. The Post Publishing Group decided to follow the lead of The Nation, but chose to make Siam Post a politics-focused serious daily which could challenge Matichon and displace Siam Rath – which had been losing market share for several years. Roj Ngamman, formerly a prominent columnist with Thai Rath, was hired to head the editorial team. By 1995, Siam Post had achieved a circulation of around 60,000 (similar to that of the Bangkok Post), and was building up a reputation for incisive and critical political coverage. A popular boss with a genial manner, Roj created an excellent working atmosphere in Siam Post’s offices on an upper floor of the Post Publishing building in Klong Toey. However, there were tensions between the vision of a serious political newspaper nurtured by company executives and the tabloid tendencies of the front-page desk. Siam Post was often gaining attention by the use of damning headlines and overblown stories. Weerasak and Surakiart were not politicians in the conventional sense. Both were graduates of the Faculty of Law at Chulalongkorn University, Thailand’s oldest and most prestigious university. Surakiart’s rise through the academic profession had been meteoric: he had gained his PhD from Harvard before the age of thirty, rapidly become an associate professor (by-passing the rank of assistant professor) and subsequently assumed the position of dean of the Chulalongkorn University Law Faculty. His academic specialism, international trade law, was highly relevant to Thailand foreign policy concerns in the late 1980s and early 1990s, relating directly to issues such as copyright legislation and GATT negotiations. Weerasak was a young protégé of Surakiart, who later gained his master’s degree from Harvard. During the 1988–91 Chatichai government, Surakiart had been one of the premier’s advisory team; Weerasak had officially held the position of secretary to the president of Parliament, Van Chansue, but in practice had spent much of his time working at Ban Phitsanulok with Surakiart. Following the February 1991 coup and downfall of Chatichai, Surakiart had looked around for new political masters. He had served the shortlived Suchinda Kraprayoon government (April–May 1992) as an advisor to the prime minister. When Suchinda in turn fell, Surakiart became chief advisor to Chart Thai’s Banharn Silpa-archa, coaching the opposition leader in international affairs and accompanying him on an official visit to Australia in April 1995. It was events such as this trip which helped improve Banharn’s public image during the run-up to the July 1995 election, giving the impression that he was becoming better informed about regional issues. Both Surakiart and Weerasak exemplified the Thai academic-turned-political sidekick, a well-established phenomenon. While some academics sought electoral office in their own right (such as former Thammasat University lecturers2 Surin Pitsuwan, Abhisit Vejjajiva and Chumphol Silpa-archa), others served as ‘advisors’, ‘political secretaries’ or non-elected ministers. In an interview published just after the July 1995 election, Weerasak explained that he was not working as a politician himself, but was an ‘academic staff ’ member working along with politicians ‘to give Thai politics more substance’.3 Weerasak, who had

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never held a proper university position and had no track record of academic or policy achievements, nevertheless apparently regarded himself as a substantial intellectual asset to the Banharn government. Surakiart’s appointment by Banharn as minister of finance following the July 1995 election was greeted with surprise by many analysts and commentators. They argued that a technocratic insider from the banking community would have been vastly preferable. The appointment was generally regarded as a reward to Surakiart from Banharn for his loyal service in grooming him for the premiership. At the same time, Banharn clearly hoped that Surakiart’s academic standing would help improve the image of a cabinet composed mainly of provincial machine politicians. Banharn also believed that having Surakiart at the helm of the Finance Ministry would enhance his own control over the nation’s purse-strings; as an outsider with neither an independent political base nor substantive support among the financial community, Surakiart would have little freedom of action, and could easily be manipulated by Banharn himself.4 If substantiated, the evidence contained in the documents obtained by Siam Post had the potential to force Weerasak and even perhaps Surakiart out of office. This would have been a body-blow to Banharn: even his hand-picked academic advisors would have been discredited. However, dislodging Surakiart would not be an easy matter. First, was it possible to substantiate the charges? The documents obtained were almost all in English, and comprised mainly fax correspondence between Match Cross and various agents, brokers and companies, mostly based in Hong Kong and the US. Taken as a whole, the evidence was impressive, but it was difficult to summarise; there was no master document which set out the whole plot. The credibility, origin and meaning of the documents were likely to be challenged. Second, as a relatively small and new newspaper, Siam Post had no track record of producing major political upsets. In any case, Thai ministers almost never resigned. Furthermore, it was by no means certain that rival papers would support Siam Post, since lending backing to the campaign would strengthen the standing of the upstart paper. By running the story as an exclusive, Siam Post risked alienating other newspapers and so weakening the impact of the story. At the meeting on 5 December, executive editor Roj Ngamman, front-page editor Aryus Prateep Na Thalang and assistant front-page editor Krisakorn Wongkornwuthi explained the outlines of the story to editor Aroon Larnlua and the business editor.5 Roj had first shared the story with some key staff on 28 November, only a week before. In the meantime, Krisakorn (who had a degree in English) had been reading through the documents, familiarising himself with them and preparing notes and summaries. However, he had not made contact with any of the people referred to in the documents, nor had he attempted to gain any independent supporting evidence. A striking feature of the preparatory work done on the story was the lack of resources which had been assigned to it: one member of the front-page team had reviewed a pile of documents in his spare time, without any relief from his regular tasks as a columnist and political story-writer. Despite the fact that the political desk had a large number of

110 Investigative reporting? reporters engaged in routine news-gathering, none were reassigned to the ‘Dr S’ story. Editor Aroon voiced anxieties about the material, arguing that documentary sources alone were not sufficient and that there ought to be witnesses to corroborate the substance of the story. The business editor proposed that, before running the story, people should be contacted and interviews conducted. One possibility was that Thai businesspeople based in Hong Kong should approach one of the ‘brokers’ mentioned in the Match Cross correspondence with offers of a spoof deal. Both Aroon and the business editor favoured a substantial amount of preparatory investigative work before running the story. No one at Siam Post had any serious doubts about the authenticity of the documents.6 I was asked for my views, and said that although I thought the documentary evidence looked persuasive, I suggested they take legal advice before publishing. To this, Roj answered that both Aroon and Aryus were lawyers. In fact, they were lawyers only in the sense that they held degrees in law – not the same as being practising libel lawyers. Roj and Aryus were eager to run the story the very next day, despite the fact that no substantive investigative work had been done. Roj cautioned that great care should be taken in the drafting of headlines, since previous lawsuits had often been based simply upon the allegedly slanderous wording of headlines. Siam Post’s headlines were somewhat notorious; Roj was known to dislike the tone of many headlines, but was unable to control strongwilled subordinates on the front-page desk such as Aryus. Aryus was a veteran of Naeo Na, a small, combative newspaper with a reputation for sensational political stories. Roj anticipated that the story would provoke attempts from Chart Thai to interfere with the newspaper’s coverage, including lobbying senior figures in the Post Publishing Company. He believed that Siam Post was now the only really substantial political newspaper, since Matichon was too concerned with defending its business interests.7 This was the reason why the source had decided to give the ‘Dr S’ documents exclusively to Siam Post, rather than to another newspaper. Roj also explained that the Democrat Party had seen the data before, and did not want to use it in a no-confidence debate. They had left it for someone else. The circumstances were reminiscent of Banharn’s declaration regarding the Kockums affair8 (a scandal concerning bribery by a Swedish submarine company), which alleged that when he was in opposition there were various issues he did not raise: he appealed to a kind of honour among thieves, a tacit agreement that politicians did not reveal dirty secrets about their counterparts’ corrupt dealings. Passing the documents to Siam Post was a fallback plan, a more discreet alternative than embarrassing the government by parliamentary means. If the source had sympathy with (or was connected to) an opposition party such as the Democrats, leaking documents to the press would be a way of damaging Chart Thai while ‘containing’ a backlash against the opposition. The 5 December meeting was intended to inform senior figures at Siam Post about the plans for running the ‘Dr S’ story, rather than to make decisions. Roj had already decided to run the story the following day. Neither Surakiart nor Weerasak were informed, nor asked to comment. Nor were most of Siam Post’s

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political desk and economic desk reporters (including those based at Government House and the Finance Ministry) told that the story would be run. Only around ten senior people at Siam Post were aware of the bombshell which was about to burst.

The launch of the ‘Dr S’ story The first Weerasak knew about the story was when he was woken at around 7.00 a.m. by a telephone call from The Nation editor-in-chief Suthichai Yoon, who had immediately recognised the importance of the Siam Post scoop. The opening salvo in this Thai version of ‘death by a thousand headlines’ was a lead story headed ‘Revealing the secrets behind the “Dr S” scandal’, and sub-headed ‘Big brokers use government for income’ and ‘Abandon the past, take old team to work alongside Banharn’.9 These headlines did not locate the ‘scandal’ clearly in the Chatichai period, but sought to link it directly to the present Banharn administration. While they did not name Surakiart, there was only one ‘Dr S’ associated with Banharn. The ‘lead in’ read as follows: Not only do many ministers in the Banharn Silpa-archa government have image problems which are resulting in widespread criticism. Some information has come to light alleging that knowledgeable and capable individuals in the present government have behaviour which is highly untrustworthy. The story continued with an allegation that ‘sources have revealed that there are major worries about his previous background which raise concerns about the professional integrity of Weerasak Kowsurat, deputy secretary-general to the prime minister’. Alongside the story was a photograph of Weerasak wearing a suit in the grounds of Government House (specially taken the week before), with the caption: ‘Middleman? Mr Weerasak Kowsurat in his role as deputy secretary-general to Prime Minister Banharn Silpa-archa, a person linked to “Doctor S”.’ It went on to say that there was evidence to show that, five years previously, when Weerasak had held the post of secretary to the president of Parliament and worked with the Ban Phitsanulok advisory team, he had an especially close attachment to Mr Surakiart Sathirathai (one of the advisors) and Mr Pitak Intarawitayanunt, personal secretary to the prime minister. At this time, Weerasak had established a brokerage company, Match Cross International, to deal in all kinds of agency business. He was the managing director of this company. He had acted as an agent for large foreign companies, charging ‘influence fees’ (kha wingten) for sorting out problems with projects involving the state, including arms deals or communications projects. The 6 December story went on to note that Weerasak was not running Match Cross alone; someone referred to as ‘Dr S’ was involved, who apparently had an important role in the government at the time. Faxes from a large agent in Hong Kong asked Weerasak to check information with ‘Dr S’ and Mr P concerning a

112 Investigative reporting? decision on helicopter contracts. There were some references to ‘benefits’ to be gained by ‘Dr S’ through work. The agent involved in the helicopter deal had been in touch with them about various issues in 1990 and early 1991. ‘Dr S’ now held a ministerial position in the Banharn government. Weerasak was now deputy secretary-general to Banharn, and also worked in close co-ordination with Dr Surakiart Sathirathai, the minister of finance. Yet when Weerasak had been at Government House no more than two weeks, it was understood that there was some other clandestine business.10 The opening paragraphs of the 6 December story set out a broad range of charges against Weerasak. There were two main weaknesses in the approach, weaknesses which derived from the unsatisfactory nature of the research underlying the story. One was the failure to ‘nail’ Surakiart, the main target. Indeed, the article never actually specified that Surakiart was ‘Dr S’; this was repeatedly implied, but not conclusively established. This game-playing was a typical Thai newspaper strategy, creating a sense of intrigue by constructing ambiguities and deploying insinuations. Yet if the newspaper had evidence against Surakiart, why waste time with small fry like Weerasak? The second weakness was that although it was easy enough to allege in general terms what Match Cross had sought to do, and even to back this with detailed examples, it was more difficult to prove that Match Cross had actually received any payments for the services it may have performed. In fact, detailed scrutiny of the documents obtained by Siam Post (and published in various issues, 6–17 December 1995) suggests that most of the ‘projects’ allegedly being pursued by the company had not come to fruition by the time of the 1991 coup. The 6 December story was less of a news report (or even an investigative story) than an attempt to provoke public interest, and to alarm Weerasak and Surakiart, who could have no idea how much evidence Siam Post had to substantiate its general points. Some of Siam Post’s own junior political desk staff were critical of the story, arguing that its use of phrases such as ‘it is interesting that’ violated the basic principles of Thai newspaper writing, crossing the divide between news and comment.11 The head of the business desk was disappointed that the story gave details about Match Cross, believing that it would blow the cover on any attempt to set up a Hong Kong meeting with a broker named in the documents. She could not understand why the paper did not hold the story for a few days. During the day on 6 December, there were several developments. Weerasak himself phoned Siam Post and talked to Aryus at great length. Aryus secretly taped the conversation, during which Weerasak made no denial of the allegations and asked Aryus how he could ‘clear’ the problem. He insisted that he was not the main (principal figure) in Match Cross, and kept referring to the fact that he was a first-class honours student at Chula and had a degree from Harvard. He addressed Aryus, a fellow graduate of the Chula Law Faculty, as phi (elder brother). Weerasak sounded shocked and had no idea what to do. Aryus told him that, in all his years as a journalist, he had never known a case involving so much solid evidence of misdoings.

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Other developments included telephone calls to the newspaper from former prime minister Anand Panyarachun, one of the most respected figures in Thailand, and the president of the Post Publishing Company. He had been asked to call by Surakiart. Editors at Siam Post told him that they were very confident of the facts of the story. Another caller was MR Sukhumbhand Paribatra, a former member of the Ban Phitsanulok advisory team, who called to dissociate himself from the scandal and to explain that he had always had misgivings about Surakiart’s activities during this period. Day 2 of the scandal: 7 December 1995. ‘Get a big job, slurp commission’12 was the ugly headline at the top of Siam Post’s front page. Above this was the smaller headline: ‘Close to “Dr S” discloses Match Cross Chula Law Faculty clan claim to be big shot state advisors’. The lead-in mentioned that the Match Cross International company registration documents contained the names of people from the Chulalongkorn University Law Faculty, and that Surakiart was listed as a director of Match Cross. Alongside the front-page story, sections from three of the original documents were reproduced. The first of these was a paragraph from a fax from an international middleman to one of his contacts, which read: Dennis, I have just learned that Mr Weerasak Kowsurat is a lawyer; has a law degree from Harvard University;13 is Secretary to the President of the Thai Parliament; Member of the Advisory Board of the Prime Minister14 and that MCI is or represents the Senior Think Tank for the Thai Government. He is young but is respected by most parliamentarians in Bangkok. Beneath this (from a different document) were a few handwritten lines in Thai, listing the financial breakdown of a proposed deal involving a US company and the Express Transit Authority (ETA). Lower down on the front page was a large colour photograph of Surakiart in the parliamentary chamber, sitting next to one of his deputy finance ministers, Newin Chidchob. Newin was an extremely controversial figure who had been accused of vote-buying in his Buriram constituency. Ostensibly, this photograph was related to a second-string front-page story about the budget debate, but it had the effect of nicely reinforcing the ‘Dr S’ sleaze theme. The main story went into details about a case where an American company had allegedly sought to reach a rapprochement with the ETA concerning problems with the construction of the Rama IX bridge. The story described how three different intermediaries were allegedly conducting the negotiations, and how ‘Dr S’ was repeatedly referred to in correspondence between Weerasak and the other ‘fixers’ involved. It went on to discuss a series of commissions allegedly offered to Match Cross by an agent working for various aircraft and arms dealers: 1 per cent from Pratt and Whitney, 1 per cent from Sikorsky Helicopters, and 2.2 per cent for BAe 146 aircraft. The article explained how Weerasak had been dealing with a Hong Kong-based agent, Ambrous Young, who had sent a fax asking Weerasak to find out from ‘Dr S’ whether a decision had yet been

114 Investigative reporting? made on which make of helicopter would be bought by the Thai government for civilian use, as well as for the air force and navy. The story also mentioned faxes relating to various monetary payments. It concluded by summarising the contents of Match Cross International’s company records, held at the Ministry of Commerce. Registration records for 1992 listed six directors, including Surakiart, with Weerasak as managing director. At the shareholders’ meeting in 1994 a new board had been appointed: many of the names stayed the same, but Surakiart had become president and Kraisak Choonavan (son of former premier Chatichai Choonavan, and one of the Ban Phitsanulok advisors) had become a director. Weerasak remained managing director. In 1994, the company had expanded its activities, and Surakiart made a cash loan of 332,160 baht to Match Cross for the expenses involved in the new operations. These references to the continuing operations of Match Cross International helped relate the allegations to more recent political developments. There were eleven shareholders in the company, including Dr Borwornsak Uwanno, a professor of law at Chulalongkorn University who had been deputy secretary-general to Chatichai during his premiership and had worked closely with Ban Phitsanulok. However, his shares amounted to only 25,000 baht;15 the major shareholders were Weerasak (with shares worth 237,500 baht) and three holding companies: Match Cross Holdings (750,000 baht), Ideal Properties Limited (1,000,000 baht) and International Catering Services (285,000 baht). Both Weerasak and Surakiart were directors of Match Cross Holdings. The story noted that most other directors of Match Cross Holdings had graduated from the Chulalongkorn University Faculty of Law. In fact, several directors of both Match Cross International and Match Cross Holdings were former students of Surakiart’s, some of whom had worked as his secretaries and assistants at Ban Phitsanulok. Siam Post reported that Surakiart had refused to give interviews to the press the previous day, while Weerasak had admitted to the newspaper that he was managing director of the company, but claimed that it had engaged in very little activity. In an interview, Weerasak referred to his educational background, saying: Think about it: I graduated with first-class honours and graduated from Harvard, would I get involved with business which wasn’t appropriate? Match Cross started when I was around 23 or 24 years old, and got together with some friends, the group of us wanted to have a business of our own, so we set up this company.16 Weerasak’s explanation was far from a complete one; his educational attainments scarcely rendered him immune from ‘inappropriate’ temptations, and nor could his protestations of youthful enthusiasm and naiveté be readily squared with the realities of the international lobbying business. In answer to questions put by The Nation newspaper, Weerasak went even further, denying that he was ever part of the Ban Phitsanulok team (‘I had

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nothing to do with government affairs’)17 and that he had ever seen any faxes from a Hong Kong broker. The account presented in Siam Post’s 7 December story was not especially clear: the ETA case, some general material about Ambrous Young and the details of the shareholders and directors of Match Cross were thrown together into a single story. Again, there was no firm evidence that monies had been received, and nothing to pin any wrongdoings upon Surakiart himself. Nor was the story widely taken up by other newspapers. Although there was a small frontpage story in The Nation, for the most part the Thai language press adopted a wait-and-see strategy, largely because they lacked their own sources of information and were reluctant to quote Siam Post itself. Chart Thai had learned something from the recent Kockums scandal,18 and Banharn appears to have told politicians not to answer reporters’ questions about the ‘Dr S’ allegations. Many readers (including reporters and editors on other newspapers) assumed that there was a link between the Kockums allegations and the ‘Dr S’ story; The Nation even asked Weerasak whether he had any contact with the Swedish submarine manufacturer, something he was able to deny with great conviction. A problem of the ‘little by little’ strategy of progressive revelation adopted by Siam Post over ‘Dr S’ was that it produced speculation, confusion, and misunderstandings. This state of affairs could be exploited by Weerasak and Surakiart to their own advantage. Very late on the evening of 7 December, Siam Post’s team of political reporters were summoned to a meeting at the newspaper’s offices. This was the first time most of them had been given any detailed information about the ‘Dr S’ allegations. The reporters had been complaining for the previous two days about the difficulties of questioning politicians (and fielding questions themselves) without understanding the background of the allegations. Krisakorn showed them some of the documents and explained how Match Cross had operated, assuring them that there was very substantial evidence for the story. He explained the paper intended to reveal the story gradually, to sustain pressure on Weerasak and Surakiart. The decision not to inform the reporters from the outset about the ‘Dr S’ story reflected a desire by the editors and front-page team to keep the story ‘under wraps’; at the same time, it also highlighted the ‘top down’ management style at the newspaper, and the sense in which reporters were regarded as dek (kids). As the front-line ‘face’ of Siam Post in political circles, junior reporters had been placed in a difficult situation by the story. This was especially the case given the resentment felt against ‘scoops’ by reporters from other papers. The apparent determination of Siam Post to run the story as an exclusive irritated other newspapers. Even inside the editorial offices of Siam Post, there were tensions over the story. Editor Aroon was critical of the 7 December headline about the ‘Chula clan’, and Roj had to admonish Aryus yet again, asking him to be careful about the wording of headlines. On 8 December, the headline was ‘Surakiart: “Dr S” reveals himself ’, and the sub-heading read ‘Revealing evidence, documents and handwriting, company not limited, lobbying business defies political ethics’. Again, the story (referring to

116 Investigative reporting? an unspecified ‘source’, which did not make clear whether the information was coming from an individual or solely from documents) went into details about some of the deals which Match Cross had allegedly attempted to broker. The focus was on aircraft deals, drawing upon fax correspondence between Surakiart, Weerasak and Hong Kong broker Ambrous Young. Two of these faxes were reproduced alongside the front-page story, including one dated 5 September 1990 and addressed to Surakiart himself. In this fax, Young asked Surakiart to investigate the status of Sikorsky’s bid to supply the Thai air force. In fact, the fax to Surakiart was unusual; in later correspondence, the faxes were always addressed to Weerasak. In the second fax reproduced, Weerasak was the recipient. Young wrote: ‘Upon the request of Mr Pitak, I am coming to Bangkok this afternoon and staying at the Regent Hotel. I need to meet or discuss with both you and Dr S tonight.’ It was Young’s transparent device of referring to Surakiart by the appellation ‘Dr S’ which gave rise to the numerous ‘Dr S’ headlines used by Siam Post. It was noted that the fax number used by Young was the fax number of Ban Phitsanulok, and that he explicitly addressed one fax to Surakiart as ‘advisor to the prime minister’, demonstrating that he was familiar with Surakiart’s status. It also gave details of faxes sent by Weerasak to Young, some of them in Weerasak’s own handwriting. Prime Minister Banharn denied all knowledge of the ‘Dr S’ case, saying it was an old story, and that reporters should ask the Ban Phitsanulok team about it. Former premier Chatichai Choonavan insisted that Weerasak had never been one of the Ban Phitsanulok advisors and was not involved. But he admitted he knew about the Match Cross company, which had been set up by a group of lawyers. Surakiart and Weerasak had both denied the allegations; Surakiart had told Siam Post that the documents obtained by Siam Post might be genuine, but they could be explained, since he was acting as a representative of the government, and in working in the US had contacted many people, among them Ambrous Young, one of the leaders of the Chinese community in the US, who had a role in the Republican Party. Surakiart said that he was not aware – and did not believe – that Match Cross was involved in arms deals or was any kind of brokering agency. In a radio interview, Surakiart had denied everything, declaring that his former student Weerasak had set up the company prior to the Chatichai government, and that the company ran seminars advising on business law. For his part, Weerasak declared that if he had really received a lot of money from practices of the kind alleged, he would be rich by now. He would be happy to have his assets checked; at the same time, he insisted that he had never made any such requests or contacts, whether officially or otherwise, with any foreigners. Two columns on the left-hand side of the front page of that day’s issue of Siam Post were taken up by a reproduction of a contract, apparently made between Match Cross and Young Brothers, in which Young Brothers agreed to pay commissions to Match Cross, on the sale of various aircraft to the Thai government. These commissions had been described in the previous day’s (7 December)

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story, and the contract was only discussed in one paragraph of the 8 December story. The contract appeared to contain Weerasak’s signature and handwriting, but the document – which ran to at least three pages – was greatly reduced in size for publication purposes, making it difficult to read. Given that relatively few Siam Post readers would in any case read English with ease, the impact of the reproduction would be limited. There was an insufficiently clear relationship between the reproduced contract and the details of the story itself. On pages 2 and 3, Siam Post carried transcripts of radio interviews with Surakiart and Weerasak by leading broadcaster and Thammasat University economics lecturer Dr Chermsak Pinthong, which had been broadcast on Thai Sky 101 FM.19 In his interview, Surakiart declared that he was tired of this kind of untrue news story and denied all knowledge of the documents reproduced in Siam Post, which he said he had never seen before. He also denied having shares in the company, insisting that Weerasak had asked him to join the board in an advisory capacity, because the company ran a lot of legal seminars. He also claimed to have joined the board only in 1994 (a point contradicted by records at the Ministry of Commerce, which listed him as a director in 1992). Surakiart described Weerasak as a ‘good lad’ who was honest, trustworthy and principled. Asked what the faxes reproduced in Siam Post were referring to, Surakiart replied that they were ‘very blurred’. He argued that they did not necessarily imply any lobbying or arms dealing activities. He also claimed that some people had purported to be advisors to Chatichai during the Ban Phitsanulok period, but that the real advisors had never engaged in business dealings or improper activities. Weerasak20 denied that he had ever held a formal position at Ban Phitsanulok, but admitted he had been proud to be involved with the young, energetic team working there. However, he denied that he had been involved in any arms dealing, arguing that he was too young to be taken seriously by arms dealers and lacked either the position or the military connections to do such deals. However, he admitted that Match Cross had worked as a consultant for the US company Alcatel, giving advice about business conditions, office locations, summarising newspaper stories, and the like. He admitted receiving fees from them, but not $30,000 as alleged. Weerasak claimed that everything he had done had been done for the sake of the country. He reiterated that he had graduated from Chula with first-class honours and subsequently graduated from Harvard. He had the ability to earn an income from his profession without engaging in any illegal practices. Just because he had the ability to speak English did not mean he had been selling submarines. He admitted having been Surakiart’s personal secretary, and to holding both Surakiart and Pitak in great respect. Asked whether he intended to sue Siam Post, Weerasak did not give a direct answer, but expressed great reluctance to engage in any legal proceedings.

Attempts to clarify the story In the belief that the ‘Dr S’ story was creating confusion in the minds of some readers, executive editor Roj (under his pen-name of Plaeo Si Ngoen) used his

118 Investigative reporting? page 4 column ‘Rawang banthat’ (‘Between the lines’) to provide readers with some explanation. He explained that, to the best of his knowledge, there was no connection between the ‘Dr S’ story and the submarine case. Nor did the ‘Dr S’ story involve Prime Minister Banharn himself. ‘Siam Post has been running this story with no expectations, or hidden intentions that readers should make links between stories and figure out the meaning for themselves.’21 Roj wrote that when approving the running of the ‘Dr S’ story, editor Aroon had been asked by one of the editorial team whether running stories like this might not lead people to think that Siam Post was forcing people to sue it, and looking for stories to attack people with. Aroon had replied that if you believed in your own honesty and sincerity, but were afraid of being misunderstood by others, didn’t that mean you were biased and tricky? When he had given this reply and satisfied himself that the information was satisfactory, Aroon approved the running of the story. Roj stressed that whether or not Weerasak and ‘Dr S’ had done anything improper in their present positions, evidence of their former actions was important. When they were tainted in this way, it was difficult to justify appointing them to important government positions. When they worked for Chatichai, they had been working for the Chart Thai Party; the party leader had changed, but much else remained the same. ‘In all this, Siam Post is just the presenter of information, to allow the people to consider it, and decide for themselves, that’s all.’ The following day, the story continued with the headline ‘Coming across Austrian bank account’. The main themes of the story were Pratt and Whitney Engines, Sikorsky Helicopters and Weerasak’s account with an Austrian bank in Hong Kong, opened in 1990. Documents relating to the account were reproduced on the front page, including a letter from Weerasak requesting that US$27,000 be transferred to another account at the same bank, held in the name of ‘Sathir Art’ (apparently resembling Surakiart’s surname ‘Sathirathai’). However, the first part of the story included a line-by-line translation of the agreement between Match Cross and Young Brothers which had been reproduced on the front page of the previous day’s paper. Whereas on 8 December readers were treated to an English document without benefit of translation, on 9 December they could read the translation but had no chance of comparing this with the original (unless they happened to have saved the previous day’s paper). Despite Roj’s insistence in his column that readers were not being expected to work out connections and meanings for themselves, the scrappy and miscellaneous quality of the ‘Dr S’ front-page stories did lead to misunderstandings and misreadings. Although Roj claimed that Siam Post was simply the presenter of information, leaving readers to make their own judgements, the newspaper’s way of presenting information made it difficult for intelligent judgements to be formed, especially by busy readers who could not give over large amounts of time to deciphering the story. By Day 4, the ‘Dr S’ story was beginning to resemble a series of elaborate paper-trails. Roj’s column highlighted a central problem in the way Thai newspapers presented political stories: by declining to offer any analysis or explanation within news stories, newspapers left readers to work out the meanings for

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themselves, and make judgements accordingly. But the lack of pointers offered by the news stories encouraged readers to misconstrue them. While columns such as Roj’s could function as objective correlatives, filling in the blanks, not all readers of the front-page story would have the time or inclination to relate the day’s story to background information in the columns. When Siam Post spread its discussion on one core document over three issues, summarising the Match Cross–Young Brothers contract on 7 December, reproducing it on 8 December and only translating it on 9 December, the impact of the material was lost. The responses of Surakiart and Weerasak hardened as the story progressed. Whereas their initial reaction was to lie low wherever possible, hoping that the story would blow over, or to give vague interviews full of red herrings (such as denying any involvement in selling submarines), these tactics became more difficult as more details emerged about the nature of the allegations. On 8 December, Surakiart gave a radio interview22 in which he said that now, five years after the 1991 military coup, when soldiers had entered Ban Phitsanulok to carry out investigations, there was very good technology for faking documents. Even if Siam Post were confident of their information, there was no knowing where it came from or who produced it. Surakiart’s responses suggested that he was now aware that the ‘Dr S’ story was based upon documents confiscated by the National PeaceKeeping Council from Ban Phitsanulok in 1991. Given that the source for the story was documentary rather than human, Surakiart sought to discredit the story by focusing on the unreliable nature of the documents. Nevertheless, Siam Post noted that Surakiart had not offered the newspaper any explanation of his side of the story. Rather than dealing directly with Siam Post, giving them an interview or issuing a statement for them to publish, Surakiart was fighting an insurgent information war, giving interviews to radio stations (most of whose presenters did not fully understand the allegations in all their complexity) so as to put out his own version of the story. Interviewed by reporters on 8 December, Prime Minister Banharn claimed that he did not have to answer questions about the ‘Dr S’ case, since he could assure them that it concerned events from six years previously and had nothing to do with the submarine scandal. In flagrant violation of the conventional Thai distinction between political news and comment, Siam Post inserted a whole paragraph of direct commentary on Banharn’s remarks directly into the news story: In any event, this story has nothing at all to do with the submarine case, but concerns the previous conduct of important individuals in the government, so what Mr Banharn has to address is the appropriateness of people with this kind of behaviour assuming these positions.23 In dealing with a complex investigative story, the ‘news versus comment’ distinction was beginning to break down, since it offered two inadequate formats for the presentation of the issues involved. Without analysing and criticising the responses of the protagonists to the allegations, and presenting analysis in close

120 Investigative reporting? conjunction with information, the import and thrust of the story was lost. By Day 4, Siam Post staff were becoming increasingly frustrated by the ability of Surakiart and Weerasak to obfuscate the core issues: the conventional format of the Thai language newspaper was inadequate to nail down the allegations securely. On 8 December, Weerasak himself gave a press conference at Government House, denying the allegations, and issuing a six-page press release in his defence.24 Like Surakiart, he focused on the origin of the documents used by Siam Post, saying that he had discovered that they had allegedly been seized from Ban Phitsanulok by the NPKC. If this was the case, why had the NPKC not taken action against him when they investigated the documents? In the intervening four- or five-year period, how could anyone be sure that these documents had not been altered? Another tactic of Weerasak’s was to point out minor errors in the faxed documents: he had not graduated from Harvard at that time, he was not a member of the Ban Phitsanulok advisory team, and other details were inaccurate.25 For the first time, he mentioned explicitly the possibility of seeking to deal with the matter through the courts. In a radio interview with 97 FM given on 8 December, Surakiart protested that he had already denied the story. Why was Siam Post using an abbreviated form of his name (‘Dr S’) so as to imply that there was something fishy going on? At Ban Phitsanulok, there had been all kinds of faxes arriving every day. He had told his secretaries not to bring him any faxes which were not directly concerned with his work, so as not to waste his time. And he had definitely never seen the faxes reproduced on the front page of Siam Post. When they were appointed as advisors, it was made clear that they were not to have any involvement in security and military matters. However, Surakiart did again admit to knowing Ambrous Young (who had allegedly sent the fax in question), claiming that he had been introduced to him by then minister Korn Dabarangsi (a close associate of Chatichai’s). Young had been a political contact in the Republican Party, but Surakiart had never had any business dealings with him at all. He reiterated that it was well known that all kinds of strange faxes were always arriving at Ban Phitsanulok. ‘I don’t know whether this is an attempt to create an image for the purpose of damaging credibility, trying to destroy some image, in the way that attempts are always being made.’ Surakiart claimed that someone must have obtained these documents and supplied them to Siam Post; the real issue was who that person was. The interviewer conveniently offered Surakiart a conspiracy theory: was he implying that there was a group of people who had revealed the story? He replied that there must be, and that the media ought to interview Pansak, Borwornsak and Kraisak (who had worked with him at Ban Phitsanulok) to ask them whether anything of this kind had gone on. In the following day’s Siam Post, the front-page lead story was an interview with MR Sukhumbhand Paribatra, one of the seven Ban Phitsanulok advisors during the Chatichai government. Sukhumbhand, in late 1995 an associate professor in the Faculty of Political Science at Chulalongkorn University,26

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declared that he had always been uneasy about some of the goings on at Ban Phitsanulok. He cited the example of a case where it had been proposed that Premier Chatichai employ a personal lobbyist in Washington DC. This lobbyist had close connections with the Republican Party and was working for Pratt and Whitney. At this time, Thai Airways was considering the purchase of a large number of aircraft engines, and he felt there was an improper connection between the proposal that Chatichai hire this lobbyist and the possibility of Thai buying Pratt and Whitney engines. Sukhumbhand said he did not know the name of the lobbyist concerned, and could not confirm that it was Ambrous Young. When he later discovered that Thai had bought some Pratt and Whitney engines, he became even more uncomfortable. Asked who had proposed that this lobbyist be appointed, Sukhumbhand declared that the name of the person had been proposed by Surakiart. On Surakiart’s responsibilities at Ban Phitsanulok, Sukhumbhand alleged that whereas Surakiart was supposed to work on international trade issues, he tried to get to know about all kinds of issues, offering advice about foreign policy (Sukhumbhand’s own area of responsibility) and Thai Airways International as well. Underlying Sukhumbhand’s criticisms of Surakiart was perhaps a rivalry between the two men. Concerning the routine at Ban Phitsanulok, Sukhumbhand explained that not all of the seven advisors worked there every day: those who did were Kraisak, Pansak, Borwornsak and Surakiart. Asked whether it was true that the advisors were simply the personal advisors of the prime minister, Sukhumbhand denied this: they were established as a committee by a prime ministerial order, so they were officially constituted and received meeting allowances. It was neither a regular post nor a political appointment, because no one wanted to resign from public service (university lecturers in public universities are civil servants in Thailand). In addition, the advisors’ offices were housed in a government building. What Sukhumbhand did not mention was that in addition to their meeting allowances, the advisors and their staff received salaries (advisors were paid 20,000 baht per month) via Chatichai’s secretary Pitak Intarawitayanunt, who personally handed over their pay in cash every month from a brown bag.27 Pitak, a businessman, was apparently referred to regularly in the ‘Dr S’ documents, sometimes as ‘Mr P’. It was unclear whether the advisors and staff were paid by Chatichai, by Pitak himself, or from some other source. These cash salaries made the status of the advisors more ambiguous than Sukhumbhand had suggested; they occupied a curious hinterland between the official and the private realms. A second front-page story on the case examined some of the inconsistencies in Weerasak’s responses to the allegations. Weerasak had given a radio interview on 8 December, saying that the documents were forged. He also declared that Match Cross had been inactive for at least two years. But the story went on to point out that according to the company’s records, it had an income of 1,100,668 baht in 1994, along with expenses of 1,546,722 baht, resulting in a net loss. This was scarcely consistent with an inactive company; indeed, at the shareholders’ meeting held on 9 May 1994, plans to expand the company’s

122 Investigative reporting? activities were announced. The story went on to summarise Weerasak’s responses to questioning on Phujatkan Radio concerning his overseas bank accounts. Weerasak at first admitted only to having a US bank account dating from his time as a student there. When asked about his Hong Kong bank account, he was unable to give an immediate answer, saying he would have to check up first. Because of pressures of work, he had neglected his business. Often he had thrown faxes away because they were not correct or he had not been able to send them. He had not had the chance to write his signature carefully. As in the previous day’s story, the distinction between news and comment broke down, as the writer became more and more exasperated by Weerasak’s evasiveness: but as regards the faxes he sent for the Match Cross company, he didn’t say in detail where he sent them from, given that he was working as Mr Surakiart’s personal secretary before the Ban Phitsanulok team sent him to be secretary to the president of Parliament, although he still came to work at Ban Phitsanulok as before. Siam Post gave over most of pages 2 and 3 of this Sunday issue28 to a display of some of the documents. In all, nineteen faxes were reproduced, relating mainly to the Young Brothers and Shorts correspondence, along with about six pages of handwritten notes. Some of the handwritten notes were on Chulalongkorn Law Faculty notepaper; a page of headed notepaper from the office of the president of Parliament had also been used. Although the fax documents were clearly numbered 1–19, the short introductory explanation at the top of page 2 only referred to two of the faxes by number. The rest were simply reproduced without explanation. The introduction began, ‘If you make the effort to read the messages in these faxes between these three people [Ambrous Young, Surakiart, and Weerasak], it may help you to piece together a picture of what they were up to.’ Although one of the front-page stories drew on these faxes as evidence, there was no attempt to link the story and the documents by the use of the reference numbers. The faxes were old and generally faded, became significantly less clear when reproduced, had been reduced to a fraction of their original size, and were entirely in English. For all these reasons, only a small proportion of Siam Post readers can have made the necessary efforts to decipher their contents. The newspaper did not seek to use the evidence of the faxes to support a wellconstructed case against Weerasak and Surakiart. Rather, Siam Post sought to show off the documents (much as the Thai police during this period invariably showed off crime suspects with their hauls of ill-gotten gains for newspaper photographers and television cameras), displaying the extent of the evidence they could marshal. Although the presentation of around twenty-five documents in the newspaper was visually very effective, its impact in news terms was strictly limited. The newspaper handed over responsibility to its readers to ‘make the effort … to piece together a picture’ of the story. Although many of the fax documents had been drawn upon in news stories over the previous four days, the summaries and the evidence were presented separately. Even someone very

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familiar with the documents and the allegations would find the way the story was being presented quite perplexing.

The decline of the story On 11 December, Siam Post continued the story under the headline ‘Academics call for ethical behaviour’.29 The focus of the story was shifting away from the revelations specifically, and on to responses to the allegations both by Weerasak and Surakiart themselves, and by other people in the public sphere. It led with a series of quotations from Banharn, in which he firmly backed Surakiart and Weerasak. Pages 2 and 3 of the paper were given over to reproducing a series of twenty-two publicly available documents from Match Cross’s company records. These were intended to disprove Weerasak’s claims, repeated in another radio interview on 10 December, that Match Cross had been inactive for the past two years. Since the core allegations concerned the activities of the company in 1990 and 1991, the issue of the company’s current activities was largely irrelevant. However, Siam Post apparently wanted to demonstrate that if Weerasak could lie about one aspect of Match Cross, his other statements about the company were not to be trusted either. Furthermore, evidence that Match Cross was still trading may have been mildly embarrassing to the Banharn government. The news story continued with a series of quotations reacting to the case from nine different academics and political activists. None of the quotations was especially damning, since most of those quoted were second-tier commentators, of the kind from whom quotes were commonly solicited on Sundays by political reporters short of material.30 By Day 6, the ‘Dr S’ story was perceptibly running into trouble. The big guns were not firing: there had been no calls for Surakiart’s resignation from opposition leaders or from highly respected public figures. Despite the fact that substantial evidence had been presented by Siam Post, most other papers were not covering the story in their news pages (though some alluded to it in columns). The only support for the story was coming from the news-based radio stations, which had hours of airtime to fill and hence a colossal appetite for material. On 12 December, Siam Post led with ‘Wee sues Siam Post, insists it’s a professional forgery’.31 Weerasak had sued Siam Post the previous day, accusing the newspaper of falsely alleging that he had corruptly and improperly acted as a middleman for foreign companies, allegations that had harmed him and damaged his reputation. He sought the publication of a retraction by Siam Post, and to prevent the publication of further libellous articles about him in the newspaper. The same day, Surakiart had given an interview at parliament, declaring that the story was political in nature and that he had enough information to be sure that a professional had created it. He believed that Siam Post had no bad intentions in publishing the story; it was simply based on untrue information. The paper also reported a meeting of the law faculty at Chulalongkorn University, at which questions had been raised about the Surakiart case as well as about Ban Phitsanulok generally. The Rector of Chulalongkorn University had contacted Dr Borwornsak, the dean of the faculty, about the case.

124 Investigative reporting? Borwornsak had pointed out that Weerasak was not a lecturer at the faculty, whilst Surakiart was no longer dean there. He still had not seen any evidence for the accusations made. While he wanted to be fair to the media, who were seeking to perform their duty, he stressed that it was important to differentiate between the actions of individuals and the role of institutions. The ‘Dr S’ story had yet to take off. On 13 December, the paper continued with more ‘Dr S’ allegations concerning purchases of Pratt and Whitney engines by Thai International.32 On an inside page, Siam Post published an open letter from Kraisak Choonavan, son of Chatichai and a member of the Ban Phitsanulok team. Kraisak described how the advisory team had been set up: its members had been Pansak, Dr Narongchai, Dr Chuanchai, Dr Borwornsak, Dr Surakiart, MR Sukhumbhand, and himself. He defended the use of Washington lobbyists by the Thai government at this time, pointing out that Thailand’s Southeast Asian neighbours (Singapore, Malaysia and the Philippines) all used such lobbyists. He confirmed that Surakiart had overseen this lobbying, and insisted it had been a very effective way of promoting Thailand’s national interests. Kraisak pointed out that the advisory team had supported the liberalisation of Thailand’s press laws and the abolition of Decree 42. He went on to ask why, if they had found evidence of corruption at Ban Phitsanulok, the National Peace-Keeping Council had not prosecuted those concerned at the time. Much of Kraisak’s article was long on self-justification, describing the achievements of the Ban Phitsanulok advisory team rather than directly addressing and refuting the points raised by the Siam Post story. For example, no one was questioning the propriety of the Chatichai government’s having used a lobbyist to press its case on certain issues in Washington; the salient question raised by Siam Post was whether the same lobbyist then offered commissions to Ban Phitsanulok advisors to lobby for his own business clients in Bangkok. ‘Revealing 2 lobbyists for the nation’, ‘Richards, Young close to Pratt & Whitney’, and ‘Surakiart shifts, disputes signature’: these were Siam Post’s headlines on 14 December.33 Siam Post reproduced on its front page an old story from the Asian Wall Street Journal, of 4 June 1989, headed ‘Thai jet-engine switch confuses US trade officials’. This technique of reproducing articles from the international press reflected the techniques used by Siam Post in its coverage of the Kockums case. The story claimed that the Thai government had hired Richard Richards, a lobbyist, to represent Thailand in Washington on trade issues. Richards’ clients included Pratt and Whitney, and the newspaper quoted an executive of Thai International as claiming he had been told by then minister Korn: ‘because of government trade policy, we need help from the Pratt and Whitney lobbyists in Washington. We will have to use them again. Now they are asking for a favour in return. And we have to buy their engines.’ Kraisak was reported as giving an interview, defending Surakiart more explicitly than in his open letter, and saying that there were very few people capable of creating a story which would cause this kind of confusion. ‘I know straight away, this group of people is the one which has been overthrowing

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governments from the time of General Prem to the time of General Chatichai, now they’ve returned to their old ways again.’ Kraisak clearly ascribed the ‘Dr S’ story to a conspiracy by former or serving members of the military. Kraisak proposed that the Special Branch ought to investigate, claiming it was possible that the forger of the documents was a state official. He claimed that although this pressure might not be able to bring down the government, it was directly aimed at increasing bargaining power vis-à-vis the prime minister personally. In a full-page interview carried on page 3 of the paper,34 Borwornsak explained the distribution of duties among the advisors. While Borwornsak was seeking to defend Surakiart against the allegations published in Siam Post, the interview with Borwornsak failed to address certain questions: Did any business people ever come to Ban Phitsanulok? Did anything ever go on there about which he felt uneasy? What was Pitak’s relationship with the advisory team? Questions such as these might have been more difficult for Borwornsak – a very well-respected figure with a reputation for honesty – to answer directly. Ultimately, the Siam Post teams seem to have been reluctant to press him for hard answers. The next day, Siam Post continued with the Pratt and Whitney story;35 on page 3, the Asian Wall Street Journal story was again reproduced, this time accompanied by a full Thai translation. The front-page story contained a further interview with Sukhumbhand, in which he claimed not to know whether or not the allegations against Surakiart were true or untrue, but criticised the dismissive comments of Banharn and Sanoh as irresponsible. Sukhumbhand had become Siam Post’s only prominent ally in pursuing the story, and the newspaper was milking him for all it was worth. Nevertheless, the campaign was singularly failing to gain momentum. In his page 4 column, Roj quoted at length from two representative political columns in other newspapers: Matichon’s page 3 ‘Jotpai Matichon’ column, by ‘Wiphak Chaphan’,36 and Suravit Wirawan, writing the column ‘Business politics’ in Phujatkan Daily.37 Roj criticised these columnists (and similar, unnamed columns in other papers such as Krungthep Thurakit, Khao Sot and Naeo Na) for focusing on questions about Siam Post’s sources for the ‘Dr S’ story. Where did the information come from? How was it obtained? Who supplied it? What was the intention behind it?38 Roj insisted that fellow professional journalists ought to understand that they should not ask these questions, and that professional journalists such as those at Siam Post would not answer them. Professional journalists should concentrate on the real issue (ignored or set aside by these columnists): were the allegations true? Roj’s column reflected his frustration with other newspapers for failing to support the story, neatly illustrating the extent to which political columnists had an influence on public opinion and on the views of opinion-formers. For example, Roj described Matichon’s ‘Wiphak Chaphan’ column as one which ‘everyone has to turn to page 3 and read, so that it has become part of daily life’. When influential columnists sidestepped the core issue of an important news story, the impact of the story was greatly reduced.

126 Investigative reporting? The following day,39 Siam Post opened up the contents of yet another file from Ban Phitsanulok, this time correspondence relating to an electricity project involving EGAT, the American giant Enron and a Washington-based broker, Richard Childress. Some of the correspondence involved Chatichai’s secretary Pitak. On page 3, the newspaper carried a full-page interview with Sukhumbhand, the highlights of which had been published in the previous day’s frontpage story. This was the same technique used earlier in the week with the Borwornsak interview; to highlight and sustain the ‘Dr S’ story, the paper recycled essentially the same material on different days. ‘Banharn eggs on Mr Wee’ ran the next day’s front-page headline on Siam Post.40 The story went into further detail about the Enron allegations. Weerasak was quoted as saying that he was willing to give evidence to an investigation of the case, and was himself prepared to resign. However, he had been told to stay calm by Prime Minister Banharn, who had advised him that this was a normal matter and told him not to resign. He was going to answer no further questions about the case, which was now the subject of legal proceedings. The story also quoted at length from a panel discussion on the topic ‘Academics and acting as a political advisor’, broadcast on Friday 15 December on 102.5 FM. Three university lecturers had appeared on the programme, all of them speaking in very general terms without explicitly alluding to the ‘Dr S’ case. However, in a separate interview Chulalongkorn University engineering lecturer and democracy activist Dr Gothom Ariya had expressed the view that in a case like ‘Dr S’, there was no smoke without fire. On pages 2 and 3, twenty-one fax documents relating to the Enron–EGAT power plant allegations were reproduced, with an accompanying explanatory text. Again, Siam Post was seeking to display the quantity of evidence it possessed about the relationships between Match Cross and overseas brokers and companies. But the ‘Dr S’ story was still singularly failing to take off. Whereas front-page editor Aryus had predicted that this would be a bigger story than the submarine scandal,41 although the story was widely aired on radio and regularly mentioned in political columns, it was not a leading front-page story in any other paper. In part, this reflected the fact that Siam Post was running the story alone; other newspapers did not have the evidence, and in any case were reluctant to give Siam Post credit. Another problem was that the government was keeping quiet about the story; unlike in the Kockums case, ministers were starving reporters of the political oxygen of daily comments which could be recycled into new stories. Even opposition politicians were wary of the story; since it involved the Chatichai government, the Chart Pattana Party42 would not make use of it, and politicians generally felt a shared interest in not letting the case become too big, since they were all involved in shenanigans of this kind. Roj43 compared the story to a cancer eating the government. You might not be able to see the effects yet from the outside, but it could easily prove fatal. The Kockums submarine story was more like punching the government in the face, which looked very spectacular (and everyone rushed to join in) but would not actually lead to its downfall. Asked why Siam Post did not simply make copies of the documents and

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make them available to other newspapers, Roj argued that to do so would be seen as intending to undermine the government. Even if it was done with the purest of intentions, this sharing of information would be seen in a negative light by other people. At the same time, Roj’s argument was not completely persuasive: it seemed clear that Siam Post had no intention of giving the original documents to other newspapers, since this would have undermined its own position as the ‘owner’ of the story.

The story dies On 18 December, Siam Post published a letter from a reader who said that the English handwriting in the documents allegedly written by Weerasak bore a very close resemblance to the Thai handwriting of Weerasak on the lawsuit against Siam Post. The reader, who signed himself ‘not an academic’, suggested that the handwritings be compared. A Siam Post front-page editor, replying to the letter, wrote: Mr Surakiart and Mr Weerasak, Please fax your handwriting to Siam Post urgently. The people are calling for it. You won’t receive a percentage for doing this, because it’s a matter for the nation, not a matter for Banharn! In fact, 18 December marked a turning point for the ‘Dr S’ story. A decision was taken to stop publishing any more documents; from here onwards, the story would be pursued by trying to find people to speak out and substantiate the allegations. An ‘investigative’ story based on hard evidence had failed to deliver the goods. After reproducing around sixty-six pages of original documents, the paper was now falling back on the more familiar Thai press tactic of publishing stories composed of comments and assertions by interviewees. After twelve days of hard campaigning, Siam Post was more or less resigned to its failure to create a krasae, a strong current of opinion and pressure. Not only was Surakiart still in office, but even Weerasak, a minor figure with no independent power base, against whom there was apparently reasonable evidence of misdoing, had not been obliged to step down. This was a sorry state of affairs for a newspaper that had successfully obtained some extremely incriminating documents, which could have been the scoop of the year. One interesting development was the publication of an article by well-known political scientist Chai-Anan Samudavanija, in Phujatkan Daily.44 Chai-Anan’s article hinted at the source of the incriminating documents, and was somewhat critical of Surakiart while coming out in strong support of Weerasak. Also on 19 December, Siam Post led with ‘Prawase supports interrogating “Dr S” ’,45 quoting the ‘elder statesman’ Dr Prawase Wasi as saying that the government ought to set up a committee to look into the allegations, rather like the Franks Commission which had looked into the Falklands War. As he was one of the most respected figures in the country, Prawase’s proposal carried a good deal of

128 Investigative reporting? moral force, but without the backing of any political party or major interest group this was insufficient. On 21 December, the newspaper was reduced to asserting that Ambrous Young had visited Thailand more than forty times, and another broker more than ninety times (apparently citing immigration service computer records). Khunying Supatra Masdit, who had been mentioned in the Chai-Anan article, said she knew nothing about the ‘Dr S’ documents: her husband was the one who had seen them, and they should ask him. Chai-Anan himself refused to give an interview to Siam Post, saying he wanted nothing to do with that publication, but if another newspaper wanted to interview him that would be a different matter. Meanwhile a spokesman for Lieutenant-General Ayuphun Kanasut, the former director of army intelligence cited by Chai-Anan as his main source about the ‘Dr S’ documents, issued a press statement saying that although it was true that he had spoken to Chai-Anan about the documents, some points made in the article were inaccurate, especially as regards Surakiart and Weerasak. This ambiguous response did nothing to clarify ChaiAnan’s ambiguous article: did this mean that Chai-Anan was wrong to say that Surakiart’s name had been forged? Or that Chai-Anan was wrong to imply that Surakiart had acted improperly? The story was still going nowhere. On 22 December, Siam Post reported that the Democrats were calling for the case to be investigated, though a closer reading of the story revealed that the proposal came from party spokesman Abhisit Vejjajiva, a progressive young Bangkok MP, rather than from any of the party’s ‘big guns’. Abhisit declared that he was sure that, unlike the submarine story, this issue would not simply go quiet. In the Thai context, this statement by a party spokesman lacked the weight of a similar statement by its leader. On 24 December, the paper carried an interview with Supatra’s husband, Major-General Pathomphong, who confirmed that he had seen some fax documents which had been seized from Ban Phitsanulok after the coup. He had told his subordinates to have them translated, and had subsequently learned that the documents related to business transactions. However, he could not confirm that these were the same documents obtained by Siam Post. On 25 December 1995, Surakiart, in his capacity as finance minister, ordered the dismissal of stock exchange chief Ekamol Siriwat. The dismissal, which met with a storm of protest, engulfed the already beleaguered Surakiart in a new controversy which refused to die down. Siam Post seized the opportunity to highlight the irony of an official being dismissed for allegedly improper conduct by a minister whose own reputation was also being questioned. On 27 December, Siam Post reproduced three examples of Surakiart’s signature – one at the bottom of a 1990 fax, another from the company records of Match Cross International, and a third from an official document about the Ekamol case issued on 26 December. The signatures were circled to highlight their similarity. The Ekamol case appeared to confirm the thrust of the ‘Dr S’ charges, raising questions about Surakiart’s integrity and his suitability for high office. At the same time, it had the effect of overshad-

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owing the ‘Dr S’ case; given an up-to-date controversy which related directly to Surakiart’s current performance as finance minister, why harp on about a fiveyear-old story? In the same issue, Siam Post reproduced an article by leading academic historian and commentator Nidhi Aeusrivongse, from Phujatkan Daily, 26 December 1995. In this article, Nidhi commented on the ‘Dr S’ case and the question of middle-men. This reflected a continuing attempt to engage in an ongoing dialogue with leading columnists, a tactic also seen in the 26 December issue, in which Siam Post had reproduced a second article by Chai-Anan from Phujatkan Daily about Ban Phitsanulok.46 In this article, Chai-Anan noted that he had never expected his previous article to generate so much interest and be picked up by Siam Post. While Chai-Anan professed to be irritated by Siam Post’s excessive interest in the story, he also seemed to appreciate the attention. In an interview in Phujatkan Daily,47 he suggested that Surakiart might have to step down from his ministerial position temporarily while allegations against him were investigated. Meanwhile Democrat leader Chuan Leekpai made critical noises about the ‘Dr S’ and Ekamol cases, saying that just because the opposition was not in the news over the issue did not mean that it was not taking any action.48 This was a classic Chuanism, adopting the moral high ground while standing aloof from the political cut and thrust. But the weakening of the ‘Dr S’ story was illustrated by the front page of Siam Post on 29 December, on which the lead story was about the Ekamol case rather than the Ban Phitsanulok allegations. This was the first time since 6 December that Siam Post had led with a non-Ban Phitsanulok story. While headlines over the next few days regularly used the phrase ‘Dr S’, the stories below them generally focused primarily on the Ekamol case rather than the Ban Phitsanulok issues. Meanwhile, other publications continued to demonstrate an inability to distinguish between the Ban Phitsanulok allegations and the Swedish submarine story; in one wildly inaccurate story, Than Sethakit linked Surakiart directly to the Kockums scandal.49 Misinformed comment of this kind helped Surakiart’s attempts to play down the Match Cross allegations. On 4 January 1996, Siam Post ran a front-page story quoting editor Aroon as saying that Surakiart had been orchestrating a vigorous lobbying campaign to get the newspaper to drop the story. Siam Post was receiving telephone calls on a daily basis from senior people, ranging from government ministers and the leader of a coalition party to leading business figures, the owner of a famous department store, and people close to Surakiart’s family.

Parliamentary investigation The first major development in the ‘Dr S’ case since its outset was a hearing held by the House of Representatives Finance Committee on 11 January 1996. The hearing was a preliminary investigation of the allegations made by Siam Post about Surakiart’s activities during his time at Ban Phitsanulok. The committee sought to ascertain the nature of the allegations, and of the evidence which Siam

130 Investigative reporting? Post held. Aroon Larnlua, the newspaper’s editor, was called to appear before the committee and explain the paper’s position. Aroon had never been completely happy with the way the story had been run, but as editor he was obliged to defend the newspaper in public.50 He had wanted the front-page team to corroborate the documents with witnesses before running the story, and was also afraid that there was insufficient evidence in the documents to prove wrongdoing by Surakiart. Under Thai law, using documents from official sources was problematic; the documents might all be seized by the authorities if it became clear how they had been obtained. Aroon felt that answering questions about the coverage would be very difficult, given the way in which the documents were released bit by bit, in a way which was very confusing for readers to understand. He had felt very awkward when people – including reporters on the newspaper – asked him about the story, since he did not really know much about it. At one point, he asked me if I knew where the documents came from. The front-page team had insisted on running the story, and on writing very strong headlines and leaders which were not backed up by the substance of the story. When Siam Post was sued, it was usually because of the way the headlines and leaders were written. He had urged that the paper take legal advice on the ‘Dr S’ story, and even set up an appointment with Thongbai Thongpao, but no one had listened. Now there were letters coming in from the public criticising the newspaper for taking a negative stance, criticising people too harshly and unfairly. He agreed with these letters himself, but what could he do? He sent one batch over to the front-page desk, but one of the front-page team wrote a reply attacking the writers of the letters. According to Aroon, some staff did not understand their proper function, which was to respond to public sentiment. They were not prepared to listen to the views of others. Aroon felt that the real target of the Surakiart allegations was Banharn, whom the editorial team wanted to destroy. But this was not an effective way of destroying Banharn. At the 11 January 1996 meeting of the House Finance Committee,51 the chairman, Democrat MP Pichase Panvichatikul (who ironically had sued Siam Post himself in May 1995 over another allegation), declared that the nub of the matter for the committee was first of all whether or not the ‘Dr S’ of Siam Post’s headlines referred to the present finance minister, Surakiart Sathirathai.52 If it did, the matter came under the remit of the committee, and an investigation could proceed. Pichase then asked Aroon a series of questions, all aimed at getting him to confirm that ‘Dr S’ and Surakiart were the same person. Rather than replying directly, Aroon pontificated about the public good, and called attention to the front page of that day’s Siam Post, which reproduced a three-page 1991 report from the National Peace-Keeping Council about the evidence from Ban Phitsanulok. This official report appeared to show that the ‘Dr S’ documents had been scrutinised by the military, who had believed there was a case to answer. Aroon told the committee that they could find out all they needed to know by reading the stories and documents which had appeared in Siam Post. Aroon insisted that the documents were not forged, and that the sources were believable. He said that they had an editorial meeting before publishing the

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documents, and agreed that they were genuine. He agreed to hand over copies of a large number of documents, and to let members of the committee compare them with originals. This was done on the spot: 109 pages of documents altogether were submitted, along with seven issues of the newspaper. Aroon was criticised by Sunai Chulapongsathorn, a Chart Pattana MP for Nakhon Sawan, who disagreed with the conclusions in the NPKC summary. He wanted to know what kind of consultation took place inside the newspaper before deciding to run the story, and who had made the decision to run the NPKC report in that day’s issue. These were actually very salient questions which went to the heart of the matter: the distribution of power inside Siam Post. The chairman responded that the committee did not have to fall under the influence of anyone’s summary. Aroon defended himself at length and with great dignity, talking about the public interest and telling the committee that it was up to them what they chose to believe. Aroon’s whole stance rather resembled Chuan Leekpai’s defence in the May 1995 no-confidence debate that brought down his government. It could be summarised as follows: ‘Whatever you think about the case in hand, I’m a good person of great integrity.’ It was an impressive performance, and people in the room applauded at the end. Asked where the documents came from, Aroon did not answer directly, but said that they were given to Siam Post by people who sympathised with the paper’s stance during the submarine story. He pointed out that he had more than 200 luknong (subordinates), was not a dictator and could not force his staff to write in a particular way (this was the closest he came to admitting he had limited control over the newspaper’s editorial content). Aroon said that monks had sent him amulets to help protect him; he was a frequent visitor to temples. The new editors obtained the documents from a source. They had not been received in a series of instalments, but in one or two batches only. Asked why they were given to Siam Post, he said that the decision must have been based on the perception of the source as to which newspaper would use them fully. Anurak Jurimat, a Chart Thai MP from Roi-et and political secretary to Surakiart at the finance ministry, pressed Aroon to summarise the key points of Siam Post’s coverage of ‘Dr S’. Aroon rather legalistically argued that he could not perform that function; the newspaper’s duty was to verify and report the news and disseminate it; the interpretation depended upon the reader. This exchange went to the heart of the problem with Thai newspapers: were they simply passive transmitters of information, or did they have a duty to explain, summarise and analyse the information they presented? It was clear from the session that Anurak and other MPs were unfamiliar with the details of the ‘Dr S’ story, and did not really know how to conduct an investigation into it. The publication of the NPKC report on the front page of the newspaper represented an attempt to undermine claims by Surakiart and Weerasak that Siam Post’s coverage of the affair was based on insufficient evidence, or on forged or amended documents. The three-page report did not only deal with the Match Cross affair, however; it also discussed Kraisak Choonavan’s activities at Ban Phitsanulok, accusing him of trying to influence the Chatichai government with

132 Investigative reporting? his ‘socialist’ ideology, and meddling in government matters relating to Cambodia and Vietnam. This facile analysis reflected the narrow Cold War mentality of the military, and thus significantly undermined the credibility of the report as a whole: if the military intelligence officers working on the case had misinterpreted Kraisak’s role so badly, could they be relied upon to understand the Surakiart documents correctly? The publication of the report was a mixed blessing, serving to confuse as much as to clarify the ‘Dr S’ issue. Kraisak detected a conspiracy: ‘I think the mastermind is an insider, a coalition politician. It must be someone who has access to and can control [the military], otherwise such a document could never have been leaked.’ 53 As with the Kockums case, some people were convinced that the scandal was being manipulated by New Aspiration party leader, Deputy Premier and Defence Minister Chavalit Yongchaiyudh, despite the complete lack of evidence for this dubious interpretation. The House Finance Committee’s investigation announced its conclusions the following month, declaring that the documents used by Siam Post in the ‘Dr S’ stories were authentic and did refer to Surakiart. However, Surakiart refused to supply the committee with a specimen of his signature, and so the committee was unable to rule on whether Surakiart’s handwriting on some of the documents was genuine.54 The failure of the committee to rule on this point may also have represented a closed-door compromise, a political deal. As with the investigation by the House Committee on Foreign Affairs into the Kockums case, this investigation illustrated the weakness of parliamentary committees in the Thai system, which had no powers to compel witnesses to attend, or even to supply such a simple piece of evidence as a handwriting sample. The principal value of an investigation by a parliamentary committee was that it allowed the media to keep up the pressure, to sustain the krasae, or current of opinion. But in the ‘Dr S’ case, a battle waged almost entirely by a single medium-sized newspaper, the parliamentary investigation failed to open up the debate more widely. The main effect of the investigation appeared to have been inciting Surakiart to launch his own lawsuit against Siam Post, in which he sought a record 100 million baht in damages. Not only did he sue the newspaper company and the editor: he also named two pen-named columnists, front-page editor Aryus and executive editor Roj. It seems likely that once Siam Post had laid all its cards on the table by presenting the complete set of documents to the House Finance Committee, Surakiart felt confident that none of the documents was sufficiently incriminating to prove that he had behaved improperly. Despite the failure of the ‘Dr S’ story to force Surakiart from office, a combination of the Ban Phitsanulok case and the Ekamol controversy left Surakiart looking vulnerable. Since Banharn had given Surakiart the finance post precisely to lend his lacklustre administration a more respectable and credible image, Surakiart had begun to outlive his usefulness to the prime minister. Surakiart was the target of severe criticism in a May 1996 parliamentary no-confidence debate, and was ousted from the finance ministry by Banharn a couple of weeks later.

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In February 1996, Siam Post was sold by its owners, the Post Publishing Company, to a wealthy aristocrat, businessman and self-styled philanthropist M.L. Tridhosyuth Devakul. Siam Post had lost around 100 million baht since its launch in August 1992, and was sold to Tridhosyuth at a bargain price of only 95,000 baht.55 The sale was the subject of much speculation; one rumour was that Tridhosyuth – said to be close to elder statesman Prem Tinsulanond – wanted to put an end to provocative stories such as ‘Dr S’ and the Kockums case, which were destabilising the government and harming people close to the palace. Although Siam Post’s editors declared publicly that they supported the change of ownership, and claimed that Tridhosyuth wanted Siam Post to continue running hard-hitting political stories, Tridhosyuth himself stressed that he was interested in seeing Siam Post become a more family-oriented newspaper, stressing environmental and social issues. At the end of June 1996, Roj and four senior political editors resigned from the newspaper, claiming that they had been subjected to an excessive amount of interference from the new owner.56 Asked whether he had been put under pressure by his staff at the paper, Tridhosyuth replied tellingly that no one but General Prem could tell him what to do. In November 1996, the old Siam Post team (along with most of the same reporters) launched a new newspaper, Thai Post, which aimed to continue with the same hard-hitting political traditions as Siam Post. Tridhosyuth’s ownership of Siam Post proved short-lived; he sold the newspaper to another owner, Pacific Intercommunications’ Piya Malakul, in mid-1997, but at the beginning of 1998 Siam Post ceased publication, citing huge losses.57 The financial problems of Siam Post place the coverage of the ‘Dr S’ story in a new light. One explanation for the lack of thorough research, preparation and investigation prior to the running of the ‘Dr S’ story was that Roj knew the sale of the newspaper was imminent, and wanted to run the scandal before it was too late. In the event, the ‘Dr S’ case was to prove Siam Post’s final fling.

Summary and conclusion In November 1995, Siam Post obtained an unusual scoop: substantial documentary evidence which appeared to imply past financial wrongdoing by the current finance minister. Well handled, it might have proved political dynamite. But the story was not well handled, and the dynamite failed to explode. Mistakes made by the newspaper included: failing to consult expert libel lawyers from the outset; trying to monopolise the story rather than sharing it with other newspapers; confusing the issue by making irrelevant criticisms of the private lives of those accused of political and financial wrongdoing; failing to check the story with those accused, and failing to give them a right of reply before publication; publishing too hastily, without thorough background research, thereby ‘blowing’ any chance of further investigative reporting; bombarding readers with very detailed and confusing information, and expecting them to piece together the story for themselves; revealing information bit by bit in different issues of the newspaper, and so confusing readers; and making insufficiently clear the

134 Investigative reporting? connections between English documents reproduced in the newspaper and stories relating to them. Underlying many of these mistakes was the uncertain distribution of power within Siam Post: as with most Thai newspapers, the nominal editor was not in day-to-day control; real power was apparently vested in the hands of an executive editor, but his benevolent leadership style made it impossible for him to rein in an over-zealous front-page team. The result was a lack of clarity about the best strategy to be adopted in pursuing the story. Fundamental weaknesses of the story were: using tactics of insinuation rather than making clear allegations; relying upon documentary sources without strong supporting evidence; focusing allegations on a minor figure rather than a senior minister; and lack of evidence that improper payments had ever been received. The strategy of the newspaper relied upon trying to create a strong political krasae, a current of public interest. But this failed to materialise, largely because other newspapers failed to support the story, and some of those involved used their political contacts to try to reduce or to tone down coverage. Ultimately, the failure of the ‘Dr S’ story to have the required impact testified to structural shortcomings in the way the Thai language press covered political news. While Roj (in his column of 8 December 1995) denied that readers were being left to work out hidden meanings for themselves, in the same column he noted that Siam Post was simply the presenter of information for readers to consider and evaluate. On 10 December 1995, two pages of documents were reproduced, along with an introduction suggesting that if readers ‘make the effort to read the messages in these faxes, it may help you to piece together a picture of what they were up to’. Giving evidence to the House Committee on Finance in January 1996, editor Aroon similarly argued that newspapers only had a duty to disseminate information: interpretation was up to the reader. Yet where the significance of information was not self-evident, the reader was at a loss. Thai newspaper practitioners argued that they had no responsibility to explain complex political stories to their readers. Here was the nub of the whole problem. Serious investigative reporting could not be carried out under the narrow rubric of the rigid distinction between news and comment. Such a rigid distinction made proper news analysis impossible, and thus directly empowered unscrupulous politicians and unaccountable elites. Compared with press coverage of other major scandals, such as Matichon’s coverage of the Bangkok Bank of Commerce affair in 1996, or Thai Rath’s coverage of the land reform controversy in 1994–5, Siam Post’s coverage of ‘Dr S’ was singularly unsuccessful. The inability of the newspaper to generate other sources of information from important players such as Thai International, the ETA and the Royal Thai Air Force was crucial, as well as its failure to make an undercover approach to Young Brothers in Hong Kong. The team had not obtained the simplest pieces of supporting evidence. The story lacked a clear target: was the aim to force out Surakiart or, as editor Aroon believed, to bring down the Banharn government? Instead of concentrating on clearly presenting the evidence in hand, the front-page team overplayed their hand by resorting to crude, exaggerated headlines and sub-headings. In doing so, they undermined

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the complicated and confusing ‘Dr S’ story, reducing it to the level of a slangingmatch. The ‘Dr S’ story run by Siam Post in December 1995 clearly illustrated the limitations of Thai language newspapers in pursuing their own news agendas. The news-gathering systems of Thai newspapers made it difficult for them to assign resources to investigative journalism. Even when they had an outstanding story, backed by impressive documentary evidence, newspapers could not count on being able to create the necessary krasae (current of opinion) to influence political events. In particular, there was no tradition of resignation by politicians, and the parliamentary committee system was ineffective. The use of libel actions by politicians gave them a powerful weapon with which to threaten newspapers, and once a libel action had been initiated a politician could evade reporters’ questions about a sensitive issue on the grounds that the matter was sub judice. Well-connected public figures could lobby newspapers to have embarrassing stories dropped or toned down. Most important of all, newspapers failed to act cohesively over scandals and public interest stories; competition between newspapers, and resentment against smaller papers carrying scoops, helped questionable politicians remain in office. The ‘Dr S’ story was an heroic failure, a story which might have led to the prompt ousting of a controversial minister but instead contributed to the downfall of a crusading newspaper.

6

The power of the political columnist

Thai newspaper columnists come in many shapes and guises. This chapter will examine the following questions: Who are newspaper columnists? What kind of columns do they write? For whom do they write? For whose benefit do they write? What political roles do they serve? What political agendas are they pursuing? Broadly speaking, Thai political columnists may be divided into three categories: popular columnists, writing in a highly opinionated style for a mass audience (and sometimes on behalf of a powerful patron); professional writers (nakkhian), many of whom had their roots in the 1970s tradition of ‘committed’ journalism, writing for a more educated audience; and ‘public intellectuals’, often university lecturers or freelance academics who supplement their income and their influence by writing for newspapers, and appeal to a well-educated readership. Popular columnists might best be described as ‘lobbyists’, advocates of particular partisan interests. Writer columnists might be broadly characterised as ‘moralists’, who were concerned to highlight the shortcomings of Thailand’s politics and politicians, and to advocate higher standards in public life. ‘Public intellectual’ columnists sought to present themselves as philosophes, academics who stood above the day-to-day political fray, preparing grand critiques and advancing new perspectives and proposals. In practice, however, the distinctions between these three types of columnist were not hard and fast. The idea of the columnist as a moral commentator and social critic was so pervasive that many popular columnists sought to conceal their partisan character by employing the rhetoric of moralism. A tone of righteous indignation is almost de rigueur for the Thai columnist. Most Thai columnists of the popular and nakkhian variety wrote under pen-names, a long-established practice which partly reflected the possible dangers of revealing a columnist’s identity during periods of authoritarian rule.1 In practice, there are often close personal ties between politicians and columnists, ties which sometimes bring financial and other benefits to the columnists concerned. Some columnists – like two of the three political rewriters at Thai Rath – are also senior figures inside the newspaper, holding positions on the political desk or the front-page desk, or as editors. Others work full-time for the newspaper, but are responsible solely for their columns, while a third group are regular freelance contributors. These include some prominent people, such as

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the late Sangchai Sunthornvut, director of the Mass Communications Organisation of Thailand, who wrote a daily foreign affairs column for Thai Rath until he was murdered in March 1996, and well-known academics like ChaiAnan Samudavanija, who wrote regularly for Phujatkan Daily. Sangchai and ChaiAnan exemplify an alternative model of the columnist as consummate insider, straddling the inside world of the newspaper and the inside worlds of politics, the bureaucracy and academia. The political column is an institution in Thailand. Given the highly literal and incompletely informative character of political news stories, Thais are reliant upon political columns for guidance as to the significance of news items and hints as to what is actually going on. At the same time, political columnists are unreliable narrators. Just as political news stories are simply compilations of the opinions of others, political columns are simply the opinions of columnists, many of who set out to write in an entertaining, declamatory fashion which is brazenly partisan. The model for most political columnists was MR Kukrit Pramoj, founder of the Social Action Party and prime minister from 1975 to 1976. In the daily ‘Soi Suan Phlu’ column which he wrote for Siam Rath, the newspaper he founded and owned, Kukrit would sound off about political developments in an over-blown fashion. The column contributed to Kukrit’s larger-than-life political persona, and exemplified the model of columnist as consummate political insider, using the inside page of a newspaper to initiate controversies, leak information, start rumours and speculation, reproach political opponents and generally cause trouble. One study summed up the stance of the early Siam Rath as follows: ‘Its barbed comments on programmes and personalities stung deep, but what amused readers most was the deft manner in which it stepped away from direct confrontation while scoring telling blows.’2 Other politicians have themselves written columns – examples included Samak Sundaravej, who for many years wrote under the pseudonym ‘Nai Mo Di’ for the now-defunct Daily Mirror; Prasong Sunsiri, closely associated with Naeo Na; and Chamlong Srimuang, who wrote for Siam Rath, Daily News and the Santi Asoke publication Rao kit arai. Samak argued that, in the past, politicians who doubled as columnists had gained an advantage over other political figures, and used their writing to make themselves politically successful.3 By the 1990s, however, this pattern was largely obsolete: politicians had numerous other outlets for their views, including parliamentary debates, media interviews, radio talk shows and television programmes.

The columnist as lobbyist For the most part, politicians lacked the time or talent for journalism but had great need of the oxygen of publicity. This led to the establishment of mutually beneficial arrangements between politicians and columnists. Politicians might make expensive gifts to columnists (perhaps a luxury car or even a house) in return for favourable coverage; in some cases this extended to offering columnists regular ‘salaries’. According to former prime minister Chuan Leekpai, one

138 The power of the political columnist columnist had admitted in court to receiving 40,000 baht for writing articles defaming him.4 Given the low pay which pervades the journalistic profession in Thailand – senior political staff at Thai Rath in 1995 were earning in the region of 15–20,000 baht per month, and some other papers paid less – many newspaper staff were understandably susceptible to the temptations of such offers. Despite poor salaries, many newspaper men drove expensive cars and maintained minor wives, who were sometimes employed within the newspaper’s offices. However, a comfortable lifestyle illustrated by ownership of an expensive car was not necessarily a sign that a particular newspaper columnist had compromised his journalistic integrity. Like many middle-class Bangkok Thais, most newspaper writers derived the greater part of their income from secondary sources such as playing the stock market and land speculation. Columnists, especially popular and widely read ones, could also be the beneficiaries of largesse from their newspaper owners. For example, the late Kamphol Wacharaphon, founder-owner of Thai Rath, was well known for rewarding favourite columnists with cars and other benefits.5 Manit Suksomchit, a senior editor at Thai Rath who often served as the respectable public face of the newspaper, admitted to a Bangkok Post reporter in 1993 that a few columnists in his company took bribes because they were not sufficiently well paid, though Manit claimed that anyone caught taking such payments could be instantly dismissed.6 The most well-known group of columnists associated with a leading politician was the so-called ‘18 orahan’, or ‘18 knights’,7 many of whose members were formerly journalists on Banharn Silpa-archa’s newspaper Ban Muang. By 1995, they had partially dispersed to other newspapers, including Thai Rath (reputed to employ eight or nine of them), Daily News and Naeo Na. Most politicians and ministers sought to build up circles of supportive journalists. The means they used varied; whereas politicians such as Chamlong Srimuang cultivated reporters who had considerable personal and political faith in him,8 and Chuan Leekpai maintained contacts with a circle of friendly journalists over many years, other less scrupulous politicians showered reporters and columnists with favours. Unlike reporters, who were largely limited to faxing in material to the political rewriters, columnists had considerable licence to comment on issues of the day. The voices of columnists on the inside pages of newspapers competed with the voices of politicians and other important figures quoted extensively in front-page stories. Whereas reporters were largely powerless bit players, columnists (especially those writing well-known columns in big-selling or influential papers) were political actors in their own right. Conversation among politicians, government officials and journalists would often turn to the latest column by Chalam Khiao (Thai Rath columnist Weerajak Konthong), Plaeo Si Ngoen (Siam Post executive editor and former Thai Rath columnist Roj Ngamman), Wiphak Chaphan (‘Jotpai Matichon’, page 3 of Matichon Daily) and Than Khun Noi (Siam Post columnist and founder of Athit Weekly Chatcharin Chaiyawttn). Many columnists were public figures who mixed constantly with leading politicians; others had a

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more private existence, but maintained close contacts with important sources, sometimes mainly by telephone. Many columnists sought to use their writings to demonstrate ‘inside knowledge’ of the workings of politics. In some cases, this meant using allusions and cryptic references which were beyond the comprehension of many readers. A master of this style was Phujatkan Daily editor Khamnoon Sitthisamarn, whose ‘Rambutree 516’ column was so incomprehensible that Phujatkan reporters were sometimes asked by government officials and politicians to explain what their editor was writing about. During periods of military rule (such as the Sarit and Thanom–Prapat eras which lasted from 1958 to 1973), newspapers had been constrained by censorship or the threat of force from commenting explicitly on some political developments. This led to such absurdities as the publication of stories in Siam Rath describing the number of windows and doors in the Ministry of Defence building, stories calculated to baffle and infuriate censors looking for non-existent hidden meanings.9 Journalistic spoiling tactics of this kind contributed to a culture of obfuscation in sections of the Thai press. Thongchai Winichakul is worth quoting at some length on the subject of the intimacy which columnists are assumed to enjoy with the reading public: Thai political actors respond to the public as it is represented by the media. To get subtle political messages and to measure the public from Thai newspapers is an art. Quite often the columnists send messages in code which is no secret but requires some experience to read. Whenever there is an issue within the interest of a political actor/group, the news and commentary must be carefully read for wording, tone and between-the-line messages to detect or evaluate public sentiment on the issue. Any response or action intended for public communication on the issue must be prepared carefully regarding wording, tone and any hinted messages designed to create impact on the public. On the following day, the effect of such an action on the public will be evaluated, of course by examining the media report of the issue. This ongoing process is based on either the very innocent assumption that the media really has access to and knows the public well, or the very cynical one that the public is entirely manipulable by the media. In any case, what is in the media and what the public is assumed to be are identical.10 In other words, Thai newspaper columnists are adept at presenting themselves as ‘in the know’ on salient political issues, possessing both insider information about news stories and a capacity to represent the views of the public about those stories. This gives them a special standing in the Thai political order, a powerful and distinctive form of political influence.

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Thai Rath columns and the Chuan Leekpai government: Chalam Khiao For the mass circulation press, columns are generally written in an extremely clear and lucid style which can be easily understood by a popular readership. They typically present a ‘point of view’, an angle on political events and issues. One of the leading exponents of this style is Thai Rath’s Chalam Khiao, whose page 3 columns always focus on a specific political argument. Chalam Khiao is one of a number of highly opinionated columnists writing for Thai Rath. Other well-known columns in the newspaper included page 3 political gossip columnist Bunchuay Singkhorn (known in real life by the nickname ‘Dave’), page 4 gossip columnists ‘Typhoon’, ‘Krasunthong’ and ‘Ramsun’, and page 5 columnists ‘Sum’, ‘Chai Rachawat’ and ‘Lomplianthat’.11 While the methods and practices of a newspaper such as Thai Rath are sometimes questionable, much of the writing in the newspaper is very professional. The following translation of a sample ‘Chalam Khiao’ column12 illustrates the style and content of Thailand’s most widely read daily political column: We can’t do that A while ago there were signs put up everywhere cursing Thai Rath and urging southern people not to read Thai Rath among bushes and trees along the highways and roads, or more daringly placed on police sub-stations – which we still regard in a positive light, as something done simply to please superior officers. But today Mr Chuan Leekpai, leader of the Democrat Party, opened his mouth and directly urged southern people not to read Thai Rath. Having heard this, it’s very pleasing that the head of the movement has come out into the open. From here in on, we don’t have to make any secret of it. Mr Chuan Leekpai said that he had stopped reading Thai Rath a long time ago. Never mind. We’d still therefore like to talk this matter over, to make clear exactly what’s what. In the past, Thai Rath newspaper strongly cheered Mr Chuan Leekpai, saying that he was the most suitable person to be prime minister of Thailand – look at the issue seven days before the election.13 Thai Rath wrote that under conditions when the country was covered in wounds after the events of Black May, there was only Mr Chuan who could compromise, taking the middle path, the only appropriate person to unite and heal the wounds of the nation’s people. But not long after that, Thai Rath was accused of rebelling to bring down the government. We would like to state directly that as regards the news about So Po Ko 4–01 which is shaking the throne of Mr Chuan Leekpai back and forth today, at first we didn’t know that it was wrong to give out land rights to millionaires and close associates in Phuket; we ran this story because of a feeling telling us that this land should have been for poor people instead.

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After we had run the story, a movement of various informed individuals sent more information pouring in and a legal ruling was issued saying that this was not proper; it was illegal, because the agricultural land reform legislation only allowed for the distribution of land to poor people who had no land from which to make a living. We published this news: when people said the land distribution was wrong, we published that news; at the same time, when the Democrats said it was correct, we published their views too. And ultimately we are comfortable in ourselves that we didn’t aim to bring down the government of Mr Chuan Leekpai, because the Juridical Council, which can give legal advice to the government, issued a decision that land rights under So Po Ko 4–01 had to be awarded to people who did not have other land from which to make a living, or had insufficient land to earn their livelihood. The belief of Thai Rath that the giving of So Po Ko 4–01 to millionaires was not right, and was illegal, was agreed by the government’s legal advice organisation. So what does Mr Chuan Leekpai want us to do: reverse our stance, and write news stories and essays saying that Mr Chuan Leekpai, Mr Suthep Theuksuban and the Democrat Party have done the right thing? or what? We can’t do that. Thai Rath is part of the mass media. We have a boss; our boss is the masses, the people to whom the country belongs. Our duty is to reflect the truth so that the people will know about it. So should we betray our duty, turning round to cheer and praise, saying that Mr Chuan Leekpai is a wonder-worker, a celestial being, who must be taken care of, who must be defended so that he can stay in power for a full four years – is that what we should do? We can’t do that. His Excellency the Prime Minister Chuan Leekpai, do you or don’t you know? The political tactics which your government is using at present are extremely dangerous for the country in various respects: one, they are becoming dangerous for the democratic system; two, they are starting to divide the country. The most dangerous aspect of all is inciting and fomenting friction among southern people. The starting point of the column is the overt hostility expressed towards Thai Rath by many southerners, a direct consequence of the newspaper’s criticism of the Democrat Party over its handling of the land reform issue. Chalam Khiao refers to a statement by Prime Minister Chuan Leekpai criticising Thai Rath, and saying that he has not read the newspaper for a long time. There is no context for the statement: we are not told where, or under what circumstances, the remark was made by Chuan. The columnist links the remark to the anti-Thai Rath poster campaign in the south, suggesting that posters had only been placed on police stations to please superiors (police chief Pot Boonyajinda had long

142 The power of the political columnist been in conflict with Thai Rath, while the police department was overseen by Interior Minister and Democrat party secretary-general Sanan Kachornprasat, who was in turn accountable to Chuan, the party leader and premier). Chuan’s remarks critical of Thai Rath ‘revealed’ the truth: that opposition to the newspaper came from the highest levels of government. By implication, criticism of the newspaper was not arising at the grassroots level among ordinary southerners. The public interest was represented, not by the government, but by Thai Rath as a ‘mass’ media organisation. Thai Rath could lay claim to the moral high ground in any conflict with the Democrats; the newspaper had supported Chuan for the premiership prior to the September 1992 election, but now had no choice but to criticise the party’s handling of the land reform issue. Chuan’s exploitation of regionalist sentiment, setting southerners against other Thais, was dangerously divisive. Chalam Khiao’s account of the relationship between Thai Rath and the Democrats over the land reform issue was in many respects simplistic and selfserving. He sought to use southern opposition to Thai Rath as a means of laying claim to the land reform case as a Thai Rath campaign. The fact that other newspapers had covered the story in similar detail (and arguably with more genuine concern for the public interest) was ignored. The character of the antiThai Rath campaign in the south was simplistically portrayed as elite-led. Similarly, his claim that relations between Thai Rath and the Democrats quickly worsened as a result of the land reform case was a little glib; in fact, relations were poor from very early on in the Chuan government, and the land reform case – which arose after two years of Democrat-led rule – offered the first big opportunity for the newspaper to pursue its grievances against the government. Whatever its logical weaknesses, the argument presented in the column was superbly crafted, and succinctly expressed in language which every literate Thai could readily understand. The column was one of many that Chalam Khiao had written upon precisely the same themes: the corruption of the Democrats, Chuan’s unfitness to govern, and the sterling work of Thai Rath in serving the interests of the people. Coupled with the thrust of Thai Rath’s headlines and political stories (for which Chalam Khiao was one of the three rewriters), and the Sunday political analysis (typed up each Thursday night by the very same Chalam Khiao), the message of these columns was a powerful voice in the land. Like other popular columnists, Chalam Khiao was sometimes accused of having unusually close connections with political figures. In July 1994, he was reportedly arrested at a gambling den along with a Chat Thai MP and some leading figures in the Thai underworld, including Chat Taopoon, a jao pho from Bangkok’s Dusit district14 – whose support was seen as very important for anyone seeking election in his area. The columnist strongly denied having been at the gambling den on the night in question, and sued four newspapers over the claims. By doing so, he broke with precedent; by tradition, newspaper people did not sue one another.15 While Chalam Khiao had denied gambling himself, he did not deny being an associate of Chat’s; in a previous interview with Matichon Weekly, Chat had explained how his connections with the columnist went back

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more than ten years.16 Matichon news editor Bunlert Changyai, in a book on corruption in the Thai press, argued that Chalam Khiao’s personal connections with Chat had an influence on his columns, especially at election times.17

Thai Rath’s Sunday ‘political analysis’ Thai Rath’s weekly full-page ‘political analysis’ column, which appeared in the newspaper on page 3 each Sunday, signed ‘Thai Rath political news team’, was an immensely influential column. Often brilliantly crafted blends of insinuation, opinion, anecdote and bile, these articles set themselves the explicit task of influencing the political agenda. The following example offers a typical illustration of the style of the column, at the height of Thai Rath’s campaign on the land reform issue: ‘Political team’ examines the direction of 50 years of the Democrats under the leadership of Chuan Leekpai18 It is not a normal matter for any political party to reach the age of 50 years under such splendid and favoured circumstances as the Democrat Party. It is not a normal matter that any political party finds a way politically to survive the difficult journey under the uneven, winding, democratic system which has both deep chasms and dead ends, and involves making detours – and is able to proceed until achieving its objective. But today the Democrat Party has now demonstrated that it is capable of making its way along the long road to half a century, to reach the sweet success of being the leading government party, retaining that position and preparing to go forward. ‘The Thai Rath political news team’ wants to use the opportunity of this Sunday, to join in celebrating the success of this political institution which stands alongside the democratic system of Thailand, and is only ten years younger than that system. We have to understand reality by turning back to the past before returning to the present, in order to know what to expect in the future. During more than sixty years on the stage of democracy, beginning from the change of government of 24 June 1932, we have seen the emergence of more political parties than we can count, but there has been no other political party which has breathed as long as the Democrat Party, which was created by young, progressive-minded people, who got together with the idea of creating a party which was based upon the principle of being a party for the real Thai people, with a truly Thai way of doing things. These young, progressive people comprised Mr Khuang Aphaiwong, Mr Boontheng Thongsawat, Mr Yai Sawitchat, Mr Suvit Phantaset, Mr Tongdi Issarachiroen, Mr Liang Chaikarn and Mr Chote Khumphan.19 Mr Khuang Aphaiwong was the first leader, and MR Seni Pramoj the secretary-general.

144 The power of the political columnist At least the dream of this group of people came true, since the Democrat Party, as well as having been politically active under the democratic system for a long time, is also a political university which has produced politicians of many generations, many levels, of many styles – and these people have gone off and set up new political parties to participate on the political stage of Thailand, playing various roles. The veins of the Democrats are invisibly implanted in all parts of Thai politics; when the first group of people faded away, a new group immediately replaced them; leading figures broke away from the Democrats and formed new parties which continue to this day, such as the Social Action Party of MR Kukrit Pramoj, the Prachakorn Thai Party of Mr Samak Sundaravej, the Solidarity Party of Mr Uthai Phimchaichon, and the Muanchon Party of Police Captain Chalerm Yubamrung. Apart from this, in the pulse of Thai politics, there are still Democrat alumni who have infiltrated every party, whether it be Mr Wira Musikphong who is setting up the Damrong Thai Party, not to mention Mr Prachuab Chaisarn, Police Lieutenant Chaowarin Latthasaksiri, Mr Sermsak Karun, Mr Thawin Chanthraprasong, Mr Thawil Phaison, Mr Den Tomina, Police Captain Surat Osathanukhro, Mr Sawat Khamprakob, Mr Wan Muhammad Nor Matha, Mr Khunthong Phupiewdeun, and many, many others. The Democrats are a party which has seen its fortunes rise and fall, having experienced both prosperity and decline, having seen both unity and division. In the course of fifty years there have been five leaders of the Democrats, comprising Mr Khuang Aphaiwong, MR Seni Pramoj, General Thanat Khoman, Mr Bhichai Rattakul, and Mr Chuan Leekpai. The Democrats have gone through all sorts of conditions, having expanded to the point where they had 114 MPs in 1976 at the time when MR Seni Pramoj was party leader, and fell to the lowest point in 1979 when they had 35 MPs, at the time of General Thanat Khoman. ‘The Thai Rath political team’ has been an active observer of the Democrat Party throughout; we keep an eye on the movements of this group of people. We want to declare that the Democrat Party is a party like no other, and there is no other like it. They are strong in pursuing political strategies, strong in verbal skills, strong in climbing onto car roofs to address crowds of voters. Every time the Democrats are in opposition, they are a fierce, tenacious opposition which makes even a military government apprehensive. The selling point of the Democrats is their veteran struggle against dictatorship; their appeal lies in their skill at insulting, their fiery speaking, their disputing without backing down. The weak point of the Democrats is that they like to bite themselves; they have bitten themselves countless times; they bite until they are in tatters, bite

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themselves until they can’t stay together, to the extent that Thai people used to call this party at one time the Demo-bite-ic Party.20 And there’s also another hidden inferiority complex: that is that every time someone from the Democrats becomes prime minister, he tends to experience the troubling fate of a military coup, and on every occasion has had to flee from office. The Thai Rath political team prays that in this period, when Mr Chuan Leekpai holds the Democrat leadership, he will not experience the old fate encountered by his Democrat ancestors. The reason we hope this is that in present era, interference by the irregular seizure of power has now entirely ceased, especially military power which used to determine Thai politics in all periods; today, military power won’t be able to return to haunt us any more. Mr Chuan Leekpai is the head of the Democrat Party who has the most good fortune, because the killings of the people on Rachadamnoen Road were politically rewarded after the events of black May, in his position as the first head of a fully democratic government. His way ahead has been clear throughout; he has received support from public opinion within the country, and backing from international opinion. It is the pinnacle of the Democrat Party’s good fortune. To this day, Mr Chuan Leekpai has carried out the duties of prime minister for two and a half years. It is a record length of time that the Democrats have held power. And he is not simply going to be prime minister for this period. He still wants to set a new record by being a democratically appointed prime minister who sees out his full four year term, in order to have the honour of someone who is willing seek power through election, as has never before been the case in the history of politics in this country. ‘The Thai Rath political news team’ would like to see the day when a government which has come from popular election is able to see out its term, for the sake of political progress, under circumstances where there is freedom from interference by extraneous sources of power. It would have an effect on the confidence of the people. Confidence in the democratic system. So it would have a positive effect on the political atmosphere, and a positive effect on the economic and investment climate, especially in conditions where the world is entering into a trade war, in which (according to the theory) each country is competing for market share, amassing the maximum benefits for itself. But ‘the Thai Rath political news team’ can’t paint this pretty picture, overlooking the reality of Thailand under the leadership of Mr Chuan Leekpai. For over the past two years, at the same time as the country has derived a profit from the longevity of the government, we have also had something which runs counter to the theory. That is the enormous loss of profits.

146 The power of the political columnist The confidence of the people ought to increase when the government has been in office for a long period, but it has reversed again, because the government’s image has been harmed, because its members have been so caught up in biting each other, playing political chess games with each other. It is not only the general public which lacks confidence; business people and investors are lacking confidence as well, especially foreign investors. We can observe the situation where money is being moved from all over the world to Thailand’s neighbouring countries, whether it be China, Vietnam, Malaysia or Singapore. This is an appalling lost opportunity which we are experiencing. All the strenuous efforts to extend the life of the government to its maximum duration are turning out to have negative consequences, because the picture we see today contains only wrecked principles. There is just a covering up of dreadful wounds, disputing through verbal skills, using political tactics to retaliate against rivals – and not just in struggles with political opponents, but even among the government coalition parties themselves. ‘The Thai Rath political news team’ would like to say that the dark, degenerate, worn out conditions which we see around us completely destroy the elegance of the anniversary of the Democrat Party’s half century. Because a political party which has gone through rough and smooth over fifty years is an old-established political institution, it is a milestone for democracy. The Democrat Party ought to be the most dependable hope for the administration of the country. But why is there only disappointment? From the lot of them, we would not single out any one for punishment other than Mr Chuan Leekpai, as the principal defendant. We would like to declare that at present the political atmosphere, with the eradication of interference from extra-legal power, and from other supporting organisations, is the most supportive atmosphere for Mr Chuan Leekpai to perform his duties in administering the country with the maximum success, having shifted power more than in any other era or any other government in the past. But it is a pity that Mr Chuan Leekpai lacks the leadership qualities of a national leader, lacks the vision to open his eyes and ears to listen to criticism; and the greatest pity is that he refuses to shoulder the responsibility for the problems of the nation, like a good leader. He just wants to punish other people; he is only good at putting burdens on other people’s shoulders. The distinctive qualifications which Mr Chuan Leekpai displays are that he is diligent, hard-working, and creates the image of being a really determined leader. But he is not able to distinguish between being leader of the government, leader of the country, and leader of the Democrat Party. This results in his vision of administering the country being narrow, because he insists on sticking primarily to the interests of the Democrat Party.

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Mr Chuan Leekpai would be able to do this if the Democrats were a single party government, but serving as the prime minister of a coalition government, when he only breathes for the benefit of the Democrat Party, means that the co-ordination of a five party government does not work smoothly. This is because each party thinks and acts similarly for its own benefit. In any case, today the Democrat Party has passed the 49 year mark and is entering its fiftieth year, we can look back at the Democrat Party in the time of our fathers and grandfathers, who established this political party with the intention of making the political parties of the country become parties which represented people from all of its regions. But the Democrats today are under the leadership of a prime minister who is the son of ordinary villagers from Trang province. That centre of gravity has already changed; from being a national party it has become a regional party. From being a party which had its electoral heart in Bangkok, and established branches to compete in constituencies all over the country … Today the Democrats have contracted; what remains is simply a regional party of the South. This position is not the kind of political evolution which a party half a century old ought to have attained, and if Mr Chuan Leekpai continues to mark time, satisfied with his Southern stronghold, then as far as his splendid dream of forming a Democrat government consisting of only one party is concerned … there will never be a day when that dream becomes true. Political team As discussed in Chapter 2, the Sunday political analysis column was a collective effort by senior members of the Thai Rath political news staff. At the same time, the dominant voice was that of deputy head of the editorial section Chupong Maneenoi, who dictated the bulk of the text to political rewriter and columnist Weerajak Konthong (‘Chalam Khiao’). As the example illustrates, the resulting columns were highly colourful, highlighting a particular topical event, but using that event to press home a predetermined agenda. The example begins by going through the motions of a serious discussion, purporting to want to ‘join in celebrating’ the success of the Democrat Party after fifty years of its existence, and briefly reviewing its history. However, within a few lines there are glimmerings of a hostile intent behind the ‘analysis’. The founding fathers of the Democrats are presented uncritically as ‘young, progressive people’ who sought to establish a popular political party. This account resonates with some of the publicity material put out by the Democrats themselves. At the same time, it does not withstand a critical scrutiny: the Democrats were essentially an elite party, founded by conservative aristocrats

148 The power of the political columnist and their associates in an attempt to shore up a power base for themselves in the changing political conditions following the end of the Pacific War. Yet the Thai Rath team plays along with Democrat hyperbole about the early idealism of the party, colluding with a distorted account of the party’s origins. Rather than criticise the pretensions and confusions of the Democrats’ own account of their history, the column goes along with the idea of a political party with a long, progressive, popular tradition. Indeed, the authors of the column do not scruple themselves to give an accurate factual account of the origins of the Democrat Party: even their list of Democrat founding fathers contains notable errors and omissions. Facts are a second-order priority in this account; the point is to play along with a positive image of the Democrats, to construct a straw man in readiness for a later conflagration. Hints of what will follow emerge when the column describes the strong points of the Democrats: what loom largest are their skills at the hustings, and their expertise in trading insults. There are no references to progressive thinking, visionary policies, political integrity or administrative competence. Even the ferocity of the Democrats in opposition is presented as a stock-in-trade, a technique to gain political advantage, rather than a positive means of promoting liberalism at the expense of tyranny. The column indulges in ‘damning with faint praise’. The account of the Democrats’ weak points, beginning with the party’s propensity for tearing itself apart, brings out the negative aspects of the Democrats’ expertise in fiery speaking and disputing without backing down, implying an unreasoning stubbornness which underlies these superficially positive traits. Slowly but surely, the column starts to round on its subject, cornering the Democrats, and seeking to use the party’s long history and dubious claims to a progressive character as important weapons against it. Whatever one thinks of the argument made by the column, it is a masterly piece of writing which tugs the reader inexorably towards a damning conclusion. In another ambiguous presentation of the facts, the column goes on to argue that incumbent Democrat prime minister Chuan Leekpai owes his position to ‘good fortune’, a political reward which he reaped from the killings which took place in May 1992. Yet this ‘highest pinnacle’ of Democrat fortunes is an opportunity which the party has squandered, presiding over a loss of confidence in the economy. The party has sought to use its political skills to maximise its term of office, when there is widespread disillusionment with the government. Curiously, the column chooses to focus on lack of investor confidence (and especially the confidence of foreign investors) as the primary indicator of the failings of the Democrat administration. No specific details of their lack of confidence are given: no figures, no examples, just vague references to overseas investors shifting their business elsewhere. Given the fact that most international media and financial agencies rated the Democrat economic team highly, and that there was never any discernible foreign pressure for a change of government, this was a curious charge. But by criticising the Democrats on a general level for Thailand’s widely perceived economic decline (which must be seen in the context of the boom period of the 1980s and early 1990s), the column

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tapped into widespread feelings that the economy was in poor shape. The argument of the column was predicated upon a political atmosphere in which the Democrats were coming under heavy criticism. Although partly trying to create hostility towards the Democrats, the column benefited from an already existing public sense of dissatisfaction with the performance of the party. As such, it could articulate and support that sense of dissatisfaction without actually offering any concrete reasons for criticising the government’s performance. The column operated by alluding to, rather than describing or examining, known grievances against Chuan and the Democrats. As such, it was not an analytical piece based upon reasoned argument. In its final sections, the column singled out Chuan Leekpai (whom Chupong told me was the ‘main target’ of the article) for sustained personal attack. Given Chuan’s consistent tactic of citing his own impeccable character and high moral standards in seeking to refute all criticisms of the Democrats, the Thai Rath political team sought to home in on Chuan himself. Interestingly, the entire column made no direct reference to the principal political issue of the day, the So Po Ko 4–01 land reform scandal which formed the whole basis of Thai Rath’s attacks on the Chuan government. While the land reform issue served as a kind of sub-text to the whole article, the authors of the column sought to impugn Chuan on grounds which were not directly contingent on the land reform question. The central charge against Chuan was that he was an unworthy inheritor of the progressive, popular tradition of his party. His failings were illustrated by his arrogance and refusal to listen, his propensity for blaming other people (here the column clearly refers to Chuan’s refusal to accept any personal responsibility for the actions of his ministers over the land reform debacle) and his inability to distinguish between party and public interests. Above all, they were illustrated by the narrow regionalism of the Democrats, which led to the concerns of the south being put before those of the country as a whole. The moral of the article was, in effect: ‘Quite apart from the land reform scandal, Chuan has betrayed the vision of the founding fathers of the Democrat Party.’ Nowhere in the piece are any ‘objective correlative’ questions raised, such as: ‘how do the achievements of the Democrats compare with those of other Thai political parties?’ (answer: pretty favourably), ‘how would foreign investors really view a change of government?’ (answer: with some dismay),21 ‘how is a prime minister with a “clean” image supposed to handle relations with sleazy regional power brokers in his party?’ (answer: probably much as Chuan tried to), and ‘if the Democrats never really were progressive or popular in the first place, isn’t Chuan very much in the party tradition of ideological and political fudging?’ (answer: yes). The column is concerned neither with facts nor with analysis, but with running a particular ‘line’ on Chuan and the Democrats, hardening readers’ opinions in readiness for an impending no-confidence debate. This task is brilliantly accomplished, with a colourfully worded, seamless and highly persuasive account. The column is deeply partisan and dedicated to the task of undermining and discrediting the Chuan government. Columns such as those of

150 The power of the political columnist Chalam Khiao and Thai Rath’s Sunday political analysis are typical of the ‘lobbying’ columns found in the popular press, especially in top-selling newspapers such as Thai Rath, Daily News and Khao Sot, as well as in downmarket but low-circulation dailies such as Ban Muang and Naeo Na. They seek to reduce political issues to light entertainment, on a similar level to the blow-by-blow accounts of soap-opera plots also carried by the same newspapers. Pajaree Tanasomboonkit, in her master’s thesis based on an analysis of editorials and columns from Thai Rath during the May 1992 events, argued that: This researcher concludes that Thai Rath newspaper played politics during the political conflict, by taking the side of, or by not opposing the [Suchinda] government – but was not a mouthpiece of the government like the state media, which only presented the government side of the news. However, Thai Rath newspaper had tactics which were more effective than the state media in showing its non-opposition to the government.22 These techniques included:23 Using the diversity of regular columns to give a variety of views, but broadly in keeping with the government and military sides, in supporting General Suchinda Kraprayoon to be prime minister, and defending the protest groups of the people for political reasons – and avoiding showing disagreement with the government side, by not referring to economic matters and to human rights.24 In other words, newspaper columnists functioned as political actors, seeking to influence the course of events in a partisan and less-than-transparent manner.

Nakkhian columnists as moral adjudicators of news stories One of the most interesting political news stories of 1995 was the ‘Dr S’ scandal’, in which Siam Post accused then Finance Minister Surakiart Sathirathai of having been involved in lobbying activities during his time as an advisor to former premier Chatichai Choonavan.25 Despite the fact that Siam Post had pulled off a major coup with this exclusive story, other newspapers refused to acknowledge the story’s importance. Although the case was barely covered in the news pages of the Thai language press, there were allusions to it in numerous political columns. Rival newspapers sought to use their columns to discredit the story by hinting that it was not well founded. The case neatly illustrated the kinds of political function served by columns. Frustrated by the attitudes and actions of other columnists, ‘Plaeo Si Ngoen’ (pen-name of Siam Post managing editor Roj Ngamman) devoted his popular page 4 column on 15 December 1995 to a revealing critique of their stances. Roj cited two representative political columns

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in other newspapers: Matichon’s page 3 ‘Wiphak Chaphan’ column,26 and Suravit Wirawan’s ‘Business politics’ column in Phujatkan Daily, pointing out that they had failed to address the core question of whether the allegations concerned were true. This lack of critical focus by these important columns in other newspapers undermined the Siam Post story. The lack of hard information which these columns contained, and their preoccupation with providing an opinionated ‘angle’ on a story which had not been properly covered elsewhere in the newspaper, made them ideal vehicles for misrepresentation, deflecting attention from salient issues. Attempts to extinguish (dap) particular stories, or to defend (len protek) certain individuals or groups, were commonplace among newspaper columns, sometimes because particular columnists had close ties with those under attack (for example, Pansak Vinyaratn, former head of Ban Phitsanulok, was a senior figure in the Manager Media Group, so that Phujatkan Daily columnists could be expected to play down a story hostile to Surakiart and Ban Phitsanulok), but often also because they wanted to prevent another paper from reaping the benefits of a major scoop (which partly explains the stance of Matichon over the ‘Dr S’ case). Roj directed his criticisms at certain members of a particular group of columnists: not the hired hacks such as Chalam Khiao, nor the academicturned-columnist ‘public intellectuals’ so praised by Chetana, but serious columnists who were professional newspapermen and writers, rather than scholars. Pre-eminent among this group were Roj himself, Chatcharin Chaiyawttn (at the time the author of a column on page 4 of Siam Post as well as various columns in Athit Weekly), ‘Wiphak Chaphan’ of Matichon (probably the most widely read serious column) and Khamnoon Sitthisamarn of Phujatkan. Each of these columnists had their own followings among more educated readers. Chatcharin and ‘Wiphak’ shared with many of the public intellectuals the status of ‘old leftists’; Chatcharin had once been imprisoned for publishing an interview with the secretary-general of the Thai Communist Party, while ‘Wiphak’ had been in the jungle after 1976. Most of these columnists were best described as nakkhian, writers (some of whom wrote poetry and fiction as well as journalism); most wrote for serious newspapers such as Matichon and Siam Post. Roj, or ‘Plaeo Si Ngoen’, was the most gentlemanly of the serious columnists, writing in an avuncular fashion which imitated closely his own manner of speaking. Many of his written sentences contained the polite particle krap, used by men in conversation. Plaeo’s style was that of a moral homily, an appeal for understanding and righteous behaviour. As someone from a poor background who had only completed the first four years of primary school27 and lived for several years as a ‘temple boy’ in a local Buddhist monastery, Plaeo saw himself as the spokesman of the common man, standing up for decency and common sense against the tide of immorality and corruption. Roj believed it to be essential that, whatever position a columnist held within a newspaper’s editorial department, he or she should have an independent stance guided by some basic principles, rather than simply following the krasae, or current of events.28 A

152 The power of the political columnist columnist also needed a sense of social responsibility, and to write always with the reader in mind. Sathit Yuwanathakarun, who undertook a detailed analysis of Roj’s Thai Rath columns for his master’s dissertation at Chulalongkorn University, argued that Roj was animated by six principles which underlay his political analysis:29 acceptance of differences and disagreements over ways of thinking; insistence that the wishes of the majority should provide the way forward in deciding conflicts and problems; demanding that all sides should stick to the agreed rules of the political situation; adherence to a sense of responsibility towards his own role and duties; making the benefit of the majority of the people the basis for problem-solving; and considering political problems in a way which was appropriate to the realities of Thai society. These rather vague principles, with their emphasis on mutual understanding and the avoidance of overt conflict, have Buddhistic overtones and echo many themes common in Thai popular discourse. In an interview with Sathit, Roj argued that readers would not accept newspapers running meaningless stories which had been paid for by certain people, as was done previously by some politicians who owned newspapers. The readers would pass their verdict on this kind of investment. As for columnists ‘cheering’ their friends or their own businesses, this was harmless enough; but columnists who were completely ‘bought’ were quite another matter. As I’ve said, different newspapers started out as a result of different factors, and there is nothing to guarantee the pure quality of newspaper people. Those who are seeking to benefit from their positions are only one group, and there’s nothing to stop readers going elsewhere. Good people don’t join that group. Newspapers are not completely perfect. People who work for newspapers are human. Even sasonjak, or governments two or three hundred years ago which saw themselves as pure and clean, and believed that those holding government office had to have clean hands, established governments which were dirty although you couldn’t easily see it, and the civil servants were highly corrupt. And what can you expect from newspapers, which started out from the funding of investors, who are all different? And if you ask people honestly, ‘Have you ever bought a newspaper to read or not?’, for the most part, they have hardly ever bought one. And given that they’ve never really supported newspapers, they are demanding more from newspapers than they are going to give them. And how can newspaper owners get the money to hire good people to come and work for them? Good people have to be offered a higher salary … SATHIT: One point which is very often raised in criticisms of the writings of columnists concerns the information sources which form the basis of their perspectives. Especially in the case of political columnists, the information always tends to have a ‘political’ character associated with it; information therefore comes from many sources, both reliable and unreliable. This is because those who supply the information about politics often have incenROJ:

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tives to give information in a roundabout rather than a direct fashion, so it is often contended that columnists are in a position where they can become the tools of politicians, and at the same time, are capable of being … ROJ: I have no sources of information. I have no news sources of the kind who are in circles other than our own, none at all. At the most I just read the news, and listen to interviews given on the news. So you see that most of our writing is an expression of our opinions, which doesn’t require any sources of information. If we used sources, it wouldn’t be a pure expression of our opinions, would it? We would be analysing the situation based on reasons: that if such and such is the situation, such and such ought to happen, wouldn’t we? If we waited to get information from sources, what kind of instruments would sources try to make us? … But this is entirely a personal matter for me. As far as other columnists are concerned and what news sources they have, that depends on what methods they have for dealing with their sources.30 This last point was typical of Roj’s style of explanation: asked to comment on a controversial issue (whether columnists have improper relations with their sources), he responded by stressing his own personal integrity. He was reluctant to engage in any direct criticism of other people, including other journalists. He liked to use simple analogies to explain complex issues and, although he adhered firmly to a set of principles, rarely descended to personal attacks in his columns. Rather, he sought to appeal to his readers’ sense of right and wrong. A loyal monarchist, his political stance was in many respects conservative; he was, however, dedicated to challenging abuses of power. As such, his column (published for many years in Thai Rath) had a strong appeal to less educated readers, while his clear, graceful and lucid prose style won the admiration of many intellectuals. Plaeo was able to bridge the gap between the populist formulae of mass-circulation columnists and the more sophisticated writings of writer columnists and academic columnists. His essential stance was that of a moralist, a judge or a referee of the Thai political game. Matichon’s page 3 column ‘Jotpai Matichon’, by Wiphak Chaphan (pen-name of Sathian Janthimathon), was arguably the most widely read ‘serious’ column in Thailand, with a daily readership of several hundred thousand (Matichon probably sold around 120,000 copies, but each copy would be read by an average of three or four people). Sathian’s approach was to focus on a specific issue, usually an event of great topical importance, beginning by laying out some factual information and then discussing and analysing the implications. Often using numbered points, he would break down an issue into its principal component parts, frequently citing his sources (mainly relevant newspaper stories) in brackets in a quasi-academic fashion. Having explored the issue he would arrive at a conclusion, often a very pointed critical one. Sathian’s columns were eminently readable and, although much more substantive than the highly opinionated tirades of popular columnists such as Chalam Khiao, did not contain the pomposity and abstraction typical of public intellectuals. Perhaps

154 The power of the political columnist more than any other Thai newspaper column, Sathian’s articles did seek to bridge the gap between news and comment, trying to produce well-thought-out, rational expositions. Nevertheless, Sathian himself expressed dissatisfaction with the columns, explaining that he wanted to improve his way of writing them, to raise their quality (yok radap) and write in a deeper fashion.31 His real aspiration was to write essays (botkhwam) rather than commentary, and he feared that unless he was able to get away from his present style of column-writing, his work would become out of date. Trying to think of new ways of writing his column was a constant preoccupation with him during regular vacation trips to England. Sathian’s sense of dissatisfaction with his own column reflects the difficulties experienced even by very senior and extremely able newspaper practitioners in changing longestablished ways of organising news and comment. Reforming political columns could not readily be achieved without the reform of the whole news-gathering structure, but Sathian preferred the role of writer to that of editor. As a former leftist who had been in the jungle, Sathian disliked holding formal positions, preferring to exert influence indirectly, on the basis of respect. Although the de facto editor of Matichon Weekly, his name was nowhere to be found on the magazine; although arguably the most suitable person to become a transforming editor of Matichon Daily, Sathian consistently declined the job. By the 1990s, ‘writers’ (nakkhian) from the 1970s, such as Sathian – who, though mostly ‘progressive’ rather than conservative, were in the great writer-columnist tradition of Kukrit Pramoj – were gradually being displaced as political commentators by academic columnists, or public intellectuals. Sathian’s desire to upgrade his column reflected a desire to emulate the standing of public intellectuals. One 1970s ‘writer’ whose output was generally considered comparable with the new wave of public intellectuals was Chatcharin Chaiyawttn, the foundereditor of Athit Weekly. Chatcharin, who briefly attended Ramkhamhaeng University (majoring in anthropology) but never graduated, began writing for newspapers at the age of 17. He co-founded Athit in November 1977 when he was only 19, a month after the right-wing Thanin government was ousted by a military coup. The magazine’s slogan was ‘A force for rationality’,32 and it sought to sustain the radical, critical tradition of political weeklies during the 1973–6 period. The magazine underwent a series of name-changes during its history, first to Siam Nikon, then to Matiphum, Siam Mai, Khletlap, Wiwat, Khao Phiset and then back to Athit. These name changes were Chatcharin’s way of dealing with the repeated closure of the magazine when it fell foul of successive governments: he would simply start publishing again under a new name. Athit was never a profitable venture (one Thai Rath reporter who had worked for the magazine in the early 1980s claimed that he sometimes went unpaid for three or four months on end, and was obliged to live on noodles because he could not afford rice),33 and in March 1995 only around 2,000 copies a month were being printed; of the 1,129 subscribers, only 590 paid for their copies, while around 1,000 copies were sold on news-stands. In an interview with Siam

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Post, Chatcharin explained that he ran the magazine out of love, and that it was more like an NGO than a business.34 Nevertheless, the magazine was widely read by politicians, activists, NGO practitioners and journalists, and thus had an influence far beyond its immediate readership. A reader survey carried out by the magazine’s circulation department in 1994 revealed that Chatcharin’s own column, ‘Jut fai nai nakhon’, was by far the most popular column in Athit, and was ranked among their favourite columns by 68 per cent of respondents.35 Chatcharin argued that a central principle of Athit was its determination to cover the issues which the magazine wanted readers to know about, rather than the issues which readers themselves wanted.36 To cater for popular demands would mean becoming involved in the abuses of the capitalist system and fitting in with the needs of advertisers, which might lead to publishing risqué pictures and running stories focusing on sex and crime (Chatcharin appeared to be alluding to the marketing strategies of rival magazines, such as Matichon Weekly, which often featured such images and stories on its front cover). It was important for at least one publication to stand out against this trend, and hold out the hope that socialism or some religious principles might offer a way of helping society. Chatcharin sought to concentrate on structural problems and issues: industrial pollution, for example, or the shortcomings of institutions such as the Buddhist sangha.37 He was less enthusiastic about ‘corruption’ stories which focused on individual abuses of power, believing that such stories diverted attention from core issues.38 His political columns, especially ‘Jut fai nai nakhon’ (in Athit) and ‘Na 4 Siam’ (page 4 of Siam Post), tended to focus on serious social and moral questions. For Athit, he wrote long, dense essays; for Siam Post, he developed sometimes quite elaborate analogies which he would use to explore the dimensions of a problem, occasionally using a series of two or more consecutive columns to develop his argument. For example, he might compare hunger striker Chalard Vorachat with Jesus Christ; the popularity of politicians with the Grammy Awards;39 or the internecine warfare of Thai party politics with the intractable civil war in Bosnia. ‘Na 4 Siam’ used a format of around ten separate paragraphs, divided by rows of dots, which built up to a conclusion; as such, it was much more readable than the two or three pages of doublecolumned prose which typically comprised a ‘Jut fai nai nakhorn’ piece. Like ‘Plaeo Si Ngoen’, Chatcharin wrote his columns almost entirely on the basis of scanning the morning papers: he had very few other news sources. Every day a secretary would take eleven daily newspapers into his windowless back-room office.40 He would skim the papers for between one and two hours, scanning for information, and actually reading only two or three important stories or columns in each newspaper.41 Chatcharin would then begin typing his own columns on a manual typewriter, typically producing between four and six articles a day. Besides his political columns for Siam Post and Athit, these included features for a variety of magazines (such as GM), and short stories, often published under pseudonyms. By writing about a hundred articles a month, he was able to generate a reasonable income, and so indirectly subsidise the unprofitable operations of Athit.

156 The power of the political columnist An unusual feature of Chatcharin’s writing was his preoccupation with questions concerning the role of the monarchy. Chatcharin believed that political debate – and thus the character of political journalism – in Thailand was seriously distorted by the impossibility of open discussion concerning the royal institution.42 Chatcharin regarded the conspiracy of silence concerning the monarchy as dangerous for the future of Thailand, and problematic for the creation of a truly democratic society. While recognising that he had to operate within the limitations imposed by Thailand’s strict lèse majesté laws, Chatcharin sought nevertheless to raise the issue of the monarchy wherever possible, pushing the restrictions as far as he dared. For example, in March 1997 he took advantage of debate concerning constitutional reform to write a piece for Athit entitled ‘The future of the monarchy’.43 Writing on such topics reflected Chatcharin’s perspective as a radical social critic, in the tradition of Pridi Phanomyong, Puey Ungpakorn and Sulak Sivaraksa. Roj Ngamman, Sathian Janthimathon and Chatcharin Chaiyawttn, for all their political and personal differences, represented a style of columnist which flourished in more serious newspapers. These writer columnists did not crudely serve the interests of particular politicians or groups (though they were by no means free from partisan behaviour), but sought to present themselves as independent commentators and social critics, highlighting abuses of power and structural problems in the Thai political order. Despite their seriousness of purpose, they wrote in a highly accessible style for a wide readership.

Public intellectuals: columnists as philosophes Phujatkan – a business magazine with ‘a reputation for muckraking’44 founded in the early 1980s by Sondhi Limthongkul – was the seed of what later became the Manager Media Group. His company thrived and greatly expanded during the ‘Chatichai boom’ of the late 1980s, and Sondhi established excellent political contacts with the government of the day. When Chatichai was ousted by a military coup in February 1991, Sondhi saw his opportunity to create a focus of opposition to the National Peace-Keeping Council. Given the close personal ties between the leading political daily Matichon and the leaders of the coup group, intellectuals and commentators needed a new platform to advance their views, and to press for constitutional reforms and a return to democratic politics. Sondhi offered these commentators a home at Phujatkan Daily, and into the bargain paid unprecedentedly high rates for freelance political columnists. Founded only in 1990 as a business daily with no significant political coverage, in 1991 Phujatkan Daily became an unusual combination of a ‘straight’ business paper and a partisan political powerhouse. This split was reflected by the physical division of the paper into sections. Before long, university lecturers and intellectuals were flocking to write for, and to subscribe to, Phujatkan Daily and other Manager publications. Phujatkan’s reputation peaked in May 1992, when the newspaper was one of three briefly banned at the height of the antiSuchinda protests. Pasuk and Baker argue that:

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Phuchatkan’s success came from combining business news with the political commentary and some of the investigative reporting associated with Thai Rath. More than any other journal, Phuchatkan reflected the new, younger urban generation’s demand for a mixture of business information and sophisticated commentary on politics and society.45 A rosy view of what might be termed the ‘Phujatkan school’ was offered by the distinguished Thai academic Chetana Nagavara, in a conference lecture given in London at the Fifth International Conference on Thai Studies in 1993.46 Chetana described the newspaper writings of Pichit Likitkijsombun (a Thammasat economist),47 Kasian Tejapira,48 Nidhi Aeusrivongse and Suvinai Phoranavalai, as offering ‘glimpses of a new enlightenment’: the recent academic encroachment upon journalism may be viewed as a boon to both the public and academia. On the one hand, the public benefits from the solid information base of academia, with its critical tradition and theoretical underpinning; on the other hand, university dons now have a chance to communicate with a large readership. The process can be mutually enriching. It can be said that the age of virtuosic and versatile journalism represented by Kukrit Pramoj has perhaps come to an end. In his place has come a group of academics, more professional, more analytical, more intellectual, and more patriotic even, but with limited experience.49 Chetana compares the quality of writing by this group with that of French Enlightenment authors such as Rousseau and Voltaire, pausing only to reprove the new Thai enlighteners for their Eurocentrism. Members of the group (apart from Nidhi, who was older than the others) had several points in common: they published in Phujatkan newspaper, had links back to the 1970s generation of radical student leaders, in some cases had joined the communist-led insurgency in the jungle after 6 October 1976, and were often affiliated with Thammasat University (near the newspaper’s offices on Phra Athit Road), either as former students or as lecturers. Chetana was distinctly sniffy about Phujatkan itself, observing in a footnote: The newspaper Phuchatkan caters primarily for the business and commercial world. I am in no position to vouch for its professional integrity on all fronts. What interests me is that it is prepared to provide a forum for these young intellectuals to express themselves.50 Chetana appreciated the work of this group of scholar columnists despite, rather than because of, the forum in which it appeared. His remark called attention to an implicit tension between the enlightenment project with which he credited his young intellectuals, and the material and commercial world within which they operated.

158 The power of the political columnist In a paper which appeared deliberately to postulate a radical and critical response to Chetana’s arguments, Thongchai Winichakul has argued that there are serious problems with the kind of political discourse which characterised the output of ‘public intellectuals’ in such forums as the columns of Phujatkan. He notes that since universities such as Chulalongkorn and Thammasat were founded as training establishments for the bureaucracy, much of Thailand’s intellectual life has long flourished outside universities.51 Intellectuals such as Supha Sirimanonda, Jit Phoumisak and Kulap Saipradit were journalists rather than scholars by calling. The situation changed in the 1970s, when university expansion and the rise of radical political ideas led to universities becoming ‘a public space where the state had relatively loosened its control over what can or cannot be said’, ‘an intellectually liberated zone’. Although the radicalism of this period declined after 1976, universities continued to enjoy special status as relatively liberal places. As Thongchai observes, this may be partly because ‘The desire among intellectuals to have influence on the public, once got used to, may never be relinquished’.52 He identifies the appetite of intellectuals for power and influence as an important component in the role of public intellectuals. In the late 1980s and early 1990s, and especially after the 1992 May events, most ‘public intellectuals’ were university academics rather than journalists or freelance writers. Although making much of their income from writing columns, they derived their status and credibility from their university positions: ‘They are “guest” columnists because they have regular full-time jobs at universities, and more than anything else because they have intellectual authority with their academic positions as the seals of approval.’53 Newspaper editors and proprietors saw the role of these columnists as to ‘upgrade the overall quality of the newspapers in the eyes of the educated, business people’.54 Thongchai also raised important questions about the nature of the ‘public’ addressed by public intellectuals. He argued that the Thai public for whom intellectuals write in the serious Bangkok print media was in fact an ‘imagined public’, comprising the ‘educated, Westernized, middle to upper classes’ who are ‘knowledgeable, presumably rational, and socially concerned’, with prodemocracy and anti-bureaucratic political perspectives.55 In addressing this imagined public, public intellectuals were seeking to create a ‘rational, responsible Thai bourgeoisie’.56 Thongchai was sceptical about the goals of this project, arguing that it may be based upon fundamentally faulty assumptions: in particular, those reading the output of public intellectuals may not be interested in reaching out to the lower classes, addressing such core issues as the growing economic, social and political inequality of contemporary Thailand. In other words, there may have been a fundamental gap between the self-image of public intellectuals (who regard themselves as a force for progressive political and social change), and the real aspirations and perspectives of their readers (who align themselves pragmatically with ‘pro-democratic’ ideas when it is in their economic interests to do so, as in May 1992, but are essentially individualistic and fragmented in outlook). Reading and writing columns with a quasi-leftist, quasi-progressive stance may offer a substitute for serious political and social

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action; to parody a little, ‘the point is not to columnise the world; the point is to change it’. Thongchai’s notion of the ‘imagined public’ may be further developed if one assumes that the readers of columns in newspapers such as Phujatkan Daily were themselves operating on more than one level of reality. Just as public intellectuals ‘imagined’ themselves as progressive thinkers (even if they had actually long since sold out to the interests of domestic and international business), so their readers sought to derive a sense of mild radicalism and watered-down leftist sentiment from the columns, which made them feel that they were still capable of being intellectually engaged and socially concerned. At the same time, the main thrust of the newspaper, with its emphases on matters such as business, stocks and shares, property markets, cars and lifestyles, accorded with their core preoccupations of materialism, consumerism and the pursuit of economic gain. Thus public intellectuals, who were paid extremely well to turn out columns for such newspapers, served as the suppliers of an important cultural ‘product’, a tasteful serving of social concern, which helped to assuage the mild guilt of Bangkok’s high-spending middle and upper classes. Both the intellectuals and their public had actually been corrupted, colluding in their own exploitation and manipulation, a corruption which was daily reinforced by the acts of reading and of writing for Phujatkan and other publications. Although Thongchai did not spell out all these criticisms of public intellectuals, many of them seem implicit in his analysis. As an academic who shared the background of many Phujatkan columnists (student activist from the 1970s, formerly in the jungle, Thammasat connections) but held a university post in the United States, Thongchai was well placed to comment on Thai public intellectuals from the dual perspective of an insider and an outsider. Kasian Tejapira, himself a leading public intellectual and regular contributor to Phujatkan from 1992 to 1996, produced a paper in 1996 which seemed to respond to Thongchai’s criticisms of Thai academics-turned-columnists. Kasian’s main goal was to break down Thongchai’s sweeping general characterisations of public intellectuals, illustrating the difference which existed between them in terms of important political and social debates. By singling out a number of key public intellectuals for close scrutiny, he demonstrates the differences which existed between two broad schools of thought, ‘globalisers’ and ‘communitarians’. Kasian argued that there were four main types of middle-class intellectual in Thailand during the early 1990s: ‘state economic and technical technocrats’; creative executives from the private business sector; ‘intellectuals working in various kinds of media, cultural, educational and academic institutions, both public and private’; and NGO-affiliated intellectuals.57 He noted that after their successes in waging ‘communication guerrilla warfare’ against state misinformation during the May events, intellectuals from these groups had made use of published articles, radio and television to promote different visions of social and political change and reform. He went on to observe that Thailand was characterised by ‘the preponderance, overexposure and perhaps overexploitation

160 The power of the political columnist of university scholars in the print and electronic media’,58 noting that many academics had their own weekly columns in newspapers or magazines, while others regularly gave interviews or appeared on radio and television talk shows. There was a discernible trend for academics to move ‘further and further away from the classroom and ivory tower into the studio and media circus’.59 This trend could be explained by reference to four main factors: market demand (involving a belief that analyses of rapidly changing domestic and international social, political and economic conditions were ‘beyond the capacity of existing media personnel to deliver and require the specialised knowledge of nakwichakan or academics’);60 pay (contributors could easily earn $80 for each column, whereas state universities paid newly completed PhDs around $400 a month); publicity; and politics (the desire to offer ideas and solutions in a society plagued by all manner of political problems). By examining the views of six public intellectuals in detail, Kasian demonstrated that they did not constitute a homogenous group. ‘Globalisers’ such as Suvinai Paranavalai, Anek Laothamatas and Chai-Anan Samudavanija offered a much more conservative perspective than such ‘communitarians’ as Chatthip Nartsupha, Saneh Chamarik and Nidhi Aeusrivongse. Kasian criticised the attempts of Thirayuth Boonmi and Chai-Anan to reconcile the two perspectives, declaring that they ‘could not be but a premature and ineffectual exercise in verbal acrobatics’ given the vast differences of economic interests which existed between urban and rural communities. Kasian was critical of those who refuse to address what he saw as the central issue: ‘Someone will have to sacrifice: the question is who?’ Temperate in tone, Kasian’s paper carefully refined and focused Thongchai’s cruder, more passionate allegation that Thai public intellectuals were dedicated to serving the needs of a rational, responsible bourgeoisie, suggesting that it is necessary to scrutinise the arguments of individual public intellectuals, rather than lumping them all together.

The inner circle: Phujatkan as self-referential media Chetana’s view of the post-May 1992 period as a flowering of a new Thai enlightenment, with a thousand flowers blooming in the columns of the quality press, grew increasingly problematic in the years that followed. By 1992 Phujatkan was the newspaper with the best-known serious columns (including those by Chai-Anan, Sukhumbhand, Rangsan, Nidhi, Kasian and Seksan). According to editor Khamnoon (another former student leader from the 1970s, and a prominent columnist in his own right): We emphasise ideas. Most political columns just contain criticisms and personal opinions; we want to have vision, new ideas, perspectives which are different. It’s not that I did it from the beginning, it emerged naturally from the outset. It’s near Thammasat, it’s like that, there are thinkers, when there are new ideas put forward, there’s a stage which is a meeting point for intel-

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lectuals who are often quite removed from the daily situation, which I see as good.61 The formula of Phujatkan as a quasi-academic forum worked well during the May crisis, but thereafter came increasingly to seem specific to a particular time and a particular political situation. According to one insider, the inner circle of the Manager Group was full of people who regarded themselves as very extraordinary, as having an original mission of some kind. Sondhi would go off on a trip abroad, and on returning would give some wise words of advice, which were then written up by editor Khamnoon in his column. Khamnoon co-ordinated the different columns so successfully – most of the columnists were his personal friends – that columnists formed a particular clique, writing for each other, quoting each other and writing articles for themselves to read. Khamnoon’s own idées fixes, notably an obsession with the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical Les Misérables, and a constant preoccupation with political reform and ‘constitutionalism’,62 recurred in his own columns daily and often spilled over into other columns as well. Khamnoon’s approach violated the basic principles of journalism that a newspaper must be addressing a popular audience, a readership broader than its writers and their immediate circle of friends. A typical example could be seen in the 9 October 1995 issue,63 in which Kasian devoted his column to translating some excerpts from Les Misérables which Khamnoon had published in two of his own columns the previous week, while Khamnoon himself engaged in yet another discussion of Les Misérables. When public intellectuals became megaphone-wielding private bores, the end of the new Thai enlightenment and the terminal decline of Phujatkan were inevitable. This cliquishness compared unfavourably with other newspapers (such as Thai Rath or Matichon) which typically featured different people expressing different views in the same issue of the paper. Phujatkan was putting all its eggs in the same small basket. Chai-Anan’s my-autobiography-in-instalments columns in Phujatkan Weekly further illustrated the self-absorption so typical of Phujatkan columnists. The column ‘Phujatkhuan’ (page 2) was written by deputy army spokesman Major-General Banchorn Chawalsilp, a former pupil of Prasert and close to Chavalit, like Khamnoon. Khamnoon’s problem was that he cut his journalistic teeth writing for old-style political weeklies64 in a ‘read between the lines’ Cold War style, at a time when the press could only hint at what was really going on. Khamnoon could not transcend his origins, his preoccupation with the 1970s generation and his tendency to write for an ‘in’ clique. Sondhi was fully aware of the problems, and was believed to have said, in a meeting circa 1994, that he found some of the columns in the Daily immature, a comment which upset Khamnoon greatly. Once Thai politics returned to business as usual, Phujatkan began to look down on day-to-day events and developments, regarding them with a kind of contempt. The newspaper’s stance might best be described as game tam bluff: pretending to have much better cards than you do, acting big based on nothing

162 The power of the political columnist substantial. Rumours abounded that leading academic columnists such as Seksan, Nidhi, and Kasian were disillusioned with Phujatkan, continuing to write for the newspaper for a combination of financial and sentimental reasons. Sondhi had never been regarded as a progressive figure, and his aggressive business expansionism during the 1992–5 period, including diversifying into non-core businesses such as a chain of hotels in Indochina, had the effect of alienating many public intellectuals. Increasingly, they became bored with Phujatkan’s special discourse, which was not-really-academic, not-really-leftist: in short, a self-referential discourse. To some extent, boredom with Phujatkan reflected boredom with themselves, a frustration on the part of intellectuals at their inability to frame a coherent response to Thailand’s deep social and political problems. When internal conflicts at Phujatkan grew acute in late 1996, culminating in the ousting of editor Khamnoon, all of the newspaper’s leading columnists stopped writing their regular pieces. Sondhi’s media empire began to teeter on the brink of bankruptcy.65

Public intellectuals in action as ‘insider traders’ of political information: Chai-Anan and the ‘Dr S’ case At the height of public interest in the ‘Dr S’ scandal, well-known political scientist Chai-Anan Samudavanija published a column on the issue in Phujatkan Daily.66 Chai-Anan, in an article that mixed reminiscences with commentary in an ambiguous and somewhat self-serving fashion, raised several issues. After some rather irrelevant anecdotes about his relationship with former coup leader and prime minister General Suchinda Kraprayoon, he explained how he had been told that the National Peace-Keeping Council had uncovered evidence of corruption in files seized from Ban Phitsanulok after the February 1991 coup. He had been informed of this by a senior figure in the military, ‘Uan’, or Lieutenant-General Ayuphun Kanasut, who had been at school with him. Uan was the director of intelligence who had seized the documents from Ban Phitsanulok. Uan claimed that the documents relating to Pratt and Whitney showed that three people were centrally involved: a businessman, and two people from inside Ban Phitsanulok. However, Surakiart and Weerasak were only go-betweens. Uan said he understood that Surakiart’s name had been substituted for that of the businessman. Uan’s information confirmed news Chai-Anan had heard from various people, that suspicious material had been uncovered at Ban Phitsanulok. Sources for these stories included Aew (Khunying Supatra Masdit), a leading figure in the Democrat Party. She told him that the army had all the evidence to show what had gone on in Ban Phitsanulok, and that her husband Pae (Pathomphong Kesornsuk) knew all about this and had seen the documents. Chai-Anan did not spell out the point that Pathomphong was an army officer, or mention that he had been among the team of soldiers which had searched Ban Phitsanulok after the coup, but to political ‘insiders’ the hint was clear: Supatra’s husband could well have been the source of the ‘Dr S’ story.

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Chai-Anan went on to say that several of the advisors at Ban Phitsanulok, including Kraisak, were very naive about politics and about the world, and so could very easily be made use of by businessmen who got close to them: ‘These days, bad and unethical deeds have become the legacy of Ban Phitsanulok kids, especially the Surakiart–Borwornsak group, which was very close to businessmen.’ Chai-Anan noted that Sukhumbhand was not part of this group, and nor were the senior technocrats Narongchai and Chuanchai. But in his position as finance minister, Surakiart would have lots more opportunities to meet business people. If Surakiart were Sukhumbhand, he would have resigned by now. What was the point of Chai-Anan’s column? The main purpose seemed to be to demonstrate his own position as the consummate academic turned political insider, his superiority to Surakiart, Sukhumbhand and the rest. He wished to show that he knew the truth about the ‘Dr S’ case. He was not, however, willing to share with the reader exactly what he knew. He gave strong hints as to the source of the documents, and suggested that he regarded many of the advisors as naive and Surakiart as capable of unethical behaviour. But he also implied that Surakiart’s name had been forged on some of the documents, thereby supporting Surakiart’s line of defence. And in a throwaway line near the end of the column, he declared, ‘I just pity Mr A [Weerasak], whom I understand had nothing to do with them.’ If the documents had been tampered with, and Weerasak was innocent, little remained of the ‘Dr S’ story. Chai-Anan did not once mention Pitak, yet his references to ‘businessmen’ could be seen as implying that he regarded Pitak as the main culprit. Although the insider could gather that Chai-Anan was fingering the likely source of the documents and identifying the real main behind Match Cross International, this would not be clear to the average reader. Chai-Anan’s column was a classic piece of obfuscation, which sought fully to protect Weerasak (len protek) and partly to defend the reputation of the Ban Phitsanulok group, including Surakiart. Nevertheless, Siam Post duly reprinted it on 19 December, since the value of the article lay in the fact that a prominent public figure (and one closely associated with a rival newspaper group which had nothing to gain from the story) had paid so much attention to the scandal. Political game-playing was not solely the province of hack columnists such as Thai Rath’s Chalam Khiao: even highly respected university professors who sought to present themselves as ‘public intellectuals’ were perfectly capable of indulging in mud-slinging, the selective leaking of information, and general scandal-mongering. While Phujatkan editor Khamnoon sought to differentiate between ‘his’ columnists, who dealt in political reform and other big ideas, and the columnists of other newspapers, who did little more than trade tittle-tattle, the fact was that the gap between public intellectuals and shadowy rabblerousers was not always very large. Some of the most vociferous academic supporters of ‘globalisation’ were actually intensely and parochially Thai in their domestic political machinations. In part, the guise of ‘public intellectual’ was an advantageous self-designation for ambitious and interventionist academics.

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Conclusion Thai political columnists may be divided into three overlapping categories: popular columnists writing for a mass audience, who are often extremely partisan (and sometimes directly in the pay of politicians); serious columnists, many of whom regard themselves as ‘writers’ and typically use their columns to advocate higher standards in public life; and academic columnists, who write for an educated audience in a more intellectual style. Many columnists are political insiders, who use their writings in an explicit attempt to influence political developments and debates. Some columnists deliberately cultivate a cryptic style of writing, hinting at considerable inside knowledge. Their status gives them a special kind of influence in the political order. Popular columns, such Thai Rath’s Chalam Khiao or Sunday political analysis, were superbly written and crafted, made compelling reading and could have a significant impact on public opinion. Thai Rath’s ability to co-ordinate its headlines and columns to press home a particular issue was a strong suit of the newspaper. At the same time, Thai Rath’s pages always contained diverse views, creating the impression of a liberal forum rather than a monolithic entity. Writer columnists such as Roj Ngamman saw themselves as more professional than popular columnists, and typically emphasised issues of public morality. They functioned as judges or adjudicators of high-level political disputes, and as social critics and commentators whose views were nevertheless easy for readers to understand. However, in the early 1990s these columnists faced a new challenge from an emerging group of academic columnists, many of them university lecturers. Many of these ‘public intellectuals’ wrote for Phujatkan Daily. Public intellectuals, who were generally better educated and more international in outlook than more traditional newspaper columnists, used their academic training to produce erudite analyses of social and political issues, typically arguing for various kinds of structural reform. Their writing style was sometimes difficult and inaccessible; increasingly, their discourse became self-regarding and self-referential. Some public intellectuals were actually little different from popular columnists in their partisan attempts to influence day-to-day political events. There are many varieties of political columnist in Thailand, some with greater claims to the status of moralist or philosopher than others. The distinction between news and comment has the effect of liberating columnists from such petty restrictions as the obligation to be balanced or accurate in their presentation of information. Columnists are able to function as free-floating sources of political opinion, and are subject to all manner of temptations. These range from monetary incentives to cheer or to denounce particular politicians (as with the ‘18 orahan’), to heady urges to indulge in displays of inside knowledge and power (as with Chai-Anan on ‘Dr S’). They include the desire to settle scores, to push forward the boundaries of free expression (Chatcharin on the monarchy), to set the record straight (as with Roj’s piece on ‘Dr S’) and the simple wish to discuss their own obsessions (Khamnoon and Les Misérables). Above all, the Thai political columnist is an authorised contributor to public

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debate, who is widely seen as a licensed voice of public opinion. At crucial junctures such as the May 1992 upheavals or the 1995 no-confidence debate against the Chuan government, popular columnists exert an important influence, contributing to the tide of public opinion and lobbying on behalf of particular interest groups. Writer columnists seek to exert a positive moral influence on the political scene, while public intellectuals serve as advocates for new ideas such as political, economic and social reform. While the style of columns varies widely, the aim of virtually all Thai political columns is the same: to influence (and wherever possible alter) the prevailing political order. Thai public intellectuals have a tendency to take themselves too seriously, a tendency which undermines the effectiveness and credibility of their writing. On the whole, journalistic writing and commentary is probably best done by professional journalists. The fact that underpaid university lecturers have usurped the traditional domain of writer columnists in the Thai press testifies to two weaknesses in Thai society: a weak academy, in which serious research is undervalued and pontificating self-promotion is deemed an acceptable alternative to genuine intellectual activity; and a weak journalistic profession, which has failed to produce enough young writers capable of engaging critically with serious issues. These weaknesses illustrate deep-rooted problems in Thai society.

7

Conclusion

This conclusion seeks to answer some central questions about the Thai language press: What sort of political role does it perform? What kinds of political power and influence does it have? How does ownership affect its political stance? It also examines the impact of the economic crisis of the late 1990s upon the Thai press, and discusses moves to reform the media which culminated in the establishment of the Press Council of Thailand in 1997.

What kind of political role does the Thai language press perform? The Thai language press performs an important political role. At salient junctures, such as the May 1992 protests against the Suchinda government, or the May 1995 no-confidence debate which brought down the Chuan government, the media can play an important role in informing the public about political developments, or in tipping the balance of popular opinion. On occasion (as in May 1992), this role may correspond closely with that of an advocate of the public interest. At other times (as in May 1995), it may more reflect the partisan interests of elements of the press themselves. Hence the media is an essentially unreliable and fickle political actor, an unpredictable ‘trickster’. The unreliability of the Thai press is deeply rooted in its history, organisational culture, news-gathering system and working practices. It reflects the origins of newspapers in Thailand; the press has long functioned as a political space in which different elite groups have sought to advance their interests and views. The restrictions on open expression which existed during the period of absolute monarchy were continued during later periods of authoritarian and military rule, especially during the Cold War. The press was not concerned with presenting factual accounts of events; still less was it interested in offering systematic explanations and analyses of developments. On the contrary, the press was often dedicated to obfuscation, mystification and the sowing of confusion. The core material of the press was neither facts nor analysis, but opinion. The existence of a politically powerful monarchy which was effectively off-limits for open discussion in the media served to reinforce the culture of rumour, and undermined any serious analysis of the Thai order. This does not

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mean, however, that the press was supine and uncritical. Far from it. Thai newspapers often were aggressive and outspoken, hiding their lack of substantive critical bite behind a noisy facade of vociferous bark. What began as obstacles to a spirit of free journalistic inquiry (the monarchy, the Cold War, the threat of closure by an authoritarian regime) became institutionalised into the working practices of the Thai press. The political sections of newspapers were largely written by two types of practitioner: reporters, who collected the opinions of ‘big shots’ in the political world, and columnists, who were themselves big shots and sounded off opinions of their own. In the Thai language press there were very few journalists, people whose job it was to write balanced stories explaining and analysing political developments. According to the Thai theory of news-writing, there was an absolute distinction between news and comment which effectively precluded the press from ‘guiding’ the reader about what was happening. The result of this halfbaked theory was that the hapless Thai reader was left largely in the dark, forced to try and piece together clues from rambling, incoherent, front-page political stories which consisted of nothing other than quotations. Small wonder that Thai newspapers had such low sales. The Thai press also reflected the hierarchism which was such a pervasive feature of Thai society. Only phu yai (senior people) counted; ordinary people were irrelevant, unmentioned and voiceless. Political news was gathered at national-level locations, especially Government House and parliament; there was no proper coverage of political events outside Bangkok. Outside Bangkok was simply the provinces, where nothing of political significance was deemed to occur, unless the prime minister or some other phu yai deigned to make an upcountry visit. The overall effect of the garbled and incoherent political coverage in the Thai press was simply to reinforce a deeply dysfunctional political system. Domestic criticism of the Thai press often focuses on front-line political reporters, who are criticised for their lack of professionalism. This is typical of the Thai tendency of phu yai to blame their subordinates for their own shortcomings, and is on a par with an organ-grinder blaming the monkey for the atrocious sound produced by his instrument. Although it is true that most Thai political reporters are largely untrained, usually hunt in packs and often ask facile questions of news sources, the blame for this rests upon phu yai who should know better: the editors who send untrained reporters into the field with instructions to collect inane quotations from any passing politician, and the politicians themselves who are flattered to be quoted anywhere, any time, on any topic – rather than making use of structured opportunities to talk about those matters on which they could speak with some authority. Another focus of domestic criticism concerns allegations of corrupt practices by reporters and columnists. While there is ample evidence that some such practices exist, the fundamental weaknesses of the Thai press are structural ones rather than matters of individual ethics. Blaming the shortcomings of the press on the supposed immorality of some newspaper staff diverts attention from the core

168 Conclusion issues of dysfunctional political coverage, in much the same way as news stories about corrupt politicians may distract attention from underlying problems in the political order. The shortcomings of political coverage in the Thai press reflect organisational problems within Thai newspapers, problems such as: internal strife between different factions within editorial departments; weak systems of news meetings; poor co-ordination between desks; conflicts of interest involving the personal connections of owners, editors and columnists; loss of editorial credibility because of such connections; tensions between desk chiefs and senior editors; lack of specialist knowledge by newspaper staff and consequent inability by the press to follow complex developments, especially those which crossed the traditional divide between business stories and political stories; and a poor system for covering provincial news. Such problems affect even well-established, top-selling newspapers, and are even more acute lower down the ladder. Such shortcomings mean that even when presented with a politically explosive story backed by solid evidence, a Thai newspaper can easily seriously mishandle it. The desire of Thai newspapers to monopolise important stories is often counter-productive; instead of a struggle between the press and the political establishment, in which the press unites to expose wrongdoing, a struggle may emerge between rival newspapers, one trying to expose wrongdoing, and the rest trying to kill off the story. Thai newspapers lack the capacity for proper investigative reporting, relying instead upon information leaks from important sources. They are generally unable to substantiate such leaks with their own supplementary investigations or research. In presenting a complex story involving allegations of wrongdoing, Thai newspapers lack the mechanisms for explaining their allegations clearly: stories of this kind cannot be separated out into parcels of ‘news’ and ‘comment’, but require an integrated analysis and explanation which is inimical to Thai theories of press coverage. If a newspaper fails to generate sufficient momentum of interest in its story, the story may be destined to degenerate into a pile of aggressive headlines and seemingly random insinuations. The all-pervasive ‘news’ versus ‘comment’ distinction reduces political stories to their lowest common denominator, making serious analysis or the exposition of complex issues almost impossible. Investigative journalism can scarcely be said to exist in the Thai language press. This limitation restricts the political role of the press, which can harass and terrorise political figures, but cannot examine detailed issues in any depth.

What kinds of political power and influence do the media have? Given that reporters are largely powerless in the Thai context, the political power and influence of the media rests largely in the hands of columnists, editors and owners. Columnists, in particular, typically set out to influence political developments, by advocating certain courses of action, by supporting one political figure against another, by calling for greater fair play or political

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morality, or by advocating political or social reform. Where a group of columnists pull together (as with the demands for constitutional change advanced by Phujatkan Daily columnists, or the calls for the Chuan government to step down over the land reform scandal which appeared in Thai Rath), they may have a direct influence on a given outcome. More commonly, columnists have a more subtle influence, helping to shape and direct the popular krasae (tide of opinion) on a given question. Columnists come into their own in times of political crisis, when the krasae may determine the fate of a government or the composition of a new cabinet. The most influential columnists are those who write for widely circulated newspapers (such as Thai Rath or Matichon), or those whose newspapers are widely read by opinion-formers (such as Phujatkan and Siam Post). Columnists were at their most effective when their views were synchronised with the news headlines on the front pages of the papers for which they wrote. The Thai press was quite adept at bringing down governments (in league with other elements of Bangkok civil society), and played a leading role in ending successively the Suchinda (1992), Chuan (1995), Banharn (1996) and Chavalit (1997) administrations. When a prime minister needed to be kicked out, sections of the press were always on hand to put the boot in. The larger problem was with the political role of the press in peacetime, when no big crisis was at hand, and the newspapers had to do the more mundane job of analysing and explaining the government’s performance and articulating the views of different interest groups, including the marginalised and dispossessed. Always angling for a fight, the press was largely inept at the day-to-day business of scrutinising Thailand’s politics. The comment-based news-gathering system, and the polemical character of most columnists, was designed to provoke slanging matches rather than expose politicians and interest groups to serious critical scrutiny. Superb at generating political heat, Thai newspapers largely lacked the capacity to generate light. In other words, the power and influence of the press was largely situational: considerable at crucial junctures, but much reduced at other times. Since political crises enhanced the power and influence of the press, columnists and editors had a vested interest in promoting a sense of crisis in order to empower themselves. The enthusiasm of the press for generating crises was one factor underlying the frequency with which Thai cabinets and governments were replaced. While the ousting of inept premiers such as Suchinda and Banharn might seem a legitimate use of press power, the ousting of Chuan in 1995 was more questionable, and the instability and continual flux produced by almost annual changes of government was not necessarily in Thailand’s best interests.

How does ownership affect the political stance of the media? Ownership is an important factor in determining the political stance of individual newspapers, as was abundantly shown during the 1991 military coup

170 Conclusion and the 1992 May events. Despite their protestations to the contrary, owners do interfere in matters such as editorial content, the tone of headlines, and decisions on whether or not to run stories considered critical of certain politicians or interest groups. There was evidence of partisan behaviour related to ownership at all the publications where I did fieldwork. Some owners seek to use their newspapers to support or to remove particular prime ministers. Even where owners do not make any explicit requests to editorial staff concerning coverage of particular issues, editors often make decisions with the known opinions, preferences and connections firmly in mind. A good Thai subordinate does not need to be told who his newspaper should or should not criticise: he already knows. Thus the character of newspaper ownership has a significant effect on shaping political debates in Thailand. The proliferation of newspapers and newspaper owners during the 1992–6 period helped contribute to a widening of political perspectives. At the same time, conventional understandings of media partisanship are not adequate for an understanding of the Thai case. Rather like Thailand’s ‘flexible’ foreign policy – often characterised as ‘bamboo diplomacy’ – Thai newspapers tend to adopt a multidirectional or omnidirectional political stance, reaching out to different power-holders and politicians in different columns of the same issue. Because there are typically around ten significant political parties at any one time, and all governments are composed of multi-party coalitions, no Thai newspaper can survive by supporting a single party. An important recipe for success in the world of the Thai press is the capacity to ‘support’ a number of different parties and politicians simultaneously. Because individual senior editors and columnists are often locked into mutually beneficial relationships with politicians (sometimes based on straight financial incentives for the columnist to give favourable coverage to a particular politician), newspaper ownership operates on two different levels: formal and informal. Formal owners are the legal owners of the newspaper, those who hold shares in the company. Informal owners are the senior figures or prominent columnists who exercise personal control over particular pages or spaces in the newspaper, and are often relatively unsupervised. These informal ‘owners’ are effectively able to ‘sublet’ or rent out space in the newspaper to ‘sponsors’ who provide them with cash or favours. In effect, the system of powerful columnists creates considerable opportunities for rent-seeking behaviour.

Meeting their match: newspapers in crisis Having themselves contributed to the creation of numerous political crises, it was perhaps poetic justice that Thai newspapers began to experience a crisis of their own from 1997 onwards. The dramatic decline in the value of the baht, following its effective devaluation on 2 July 1997, precipitated a wave of calamities for the Thai economy. With the financial system awash in bad debt, advertising budgets declined, newspaper sales plummeted and lay-offs of reporters became inevitable.

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The late 1980s, a period of rapid economic growth in Thailand, had seen a burgeoning of new newspapers. Because the real estate and communications sectors were growing very rapidly, these companies had large advertising budgets which supported the expansion of the print media. Matichon, Manager Group, Nation Multimedia Group and Wattajak were examples of the media organisations which grew very quickly.1 Popular images of the reporter as an idealistic, hard-working and hard-up individual were displaced by a new breed of wellpaid journalists, some of whom owned shares in the companies for which they worked. Working in the media suddenly became a desirable occupation; lots of jobs were available, and promotion could be rapid.2 Mass communication became the most popular undergraduate major among Thai students.3 When the economic decline began to bite, the newspaper business was one of the most hard hit. On average, 60–70 per cent of the income of newspapers derived from advertising by the property sector, and collapse of this sector had severe adverse effects. At the same time, newspaper sales themselves dropped by 30 per cent.4 Many people who had previously bought two or three daily newspapers were obliged to cut back to one. As newspapers experienced declines in circulation, advertisers reduced their expenditure based on declining ratings. At the same time, paper costs increased by 40 per cent following the baht devaluation.5 Ineffective management during the bubble period had contributed to the problems of the media sector. The salaries of employees in this sector had risen by 40 to 50 per cent in the previous five years. Investment in training programmes had failed to produce a new generation of highly capable newspaper staff; methods of news-gathering remained labour-intensive and location-based, and during the boom news organisations had tended to add ever-increasing numbers of staff to their teams. Managers had paid too little attention to investment plans, costs structures and market strategies. Media companies such as the Manager and Nation groups had over-diversified, for example entering the real-estate sector where they had little expertise, and indulging in ill-conceived speculative deals that eventually collapsed.6 Other factors which had facilitated the rapid expansion included low-cost bank loans, the end of Decree 42 in 1990, and increased consumer spending power. Thai newspapers faced two options: to completely restructure their operations and downsize, or to close down entirely.7 Those that survived had to cut costs in all areas, reduce the number of pages in their newspapers, reduce the amount of colour, cut bonuses and salaries (sometimes to token levels) and lay off staff. Some newspapers followed a policy of constructive dismissal, putting staff under so much pressure that they eventually resigned of their own accord.8 By the end of 1997, ten newspapers had closed down, shedding 3,500 workers including 1,500 reporters. Industry sources predicted that only eleven or twelve newspapers would survive the crisis.9 One of the most dramatic falls was that experienced by Manager Group owner Sondhi Limthongkul, who had borrowed heavily to launch a new regional newspaper, Asia Times, and a satellite concession over Laos. He had even made

172 Conclusion attempts to buy the American-based wire agency (UPI). As one of Thailand’s most over-extended media enterprises, the Manager Group was badly hit by the crisis. Sondhi attributed his failure to his lack of strong connections with politicians10 and unwillingness to make under-the-table payments. Sondhi had to close down various publications, laying off staff until only around a hundred remained to run his flagship Phujatkan Daily. By laying off around 1,700 workers, he reduced salary costs from around 20 million baht monthly to a mere 600,0000 baht.11 At one point, staff facing redundancy were invited to take away office equipment or furniture in lieu of other compensation. The Nation group also underwent severe retrenchment: the number of employees was reduced from 1,400 to 600, and the price of Krungthep Thurakit increased from 10 baht to 15 baht. Most importantly, in order to raise capital, The Nation sold more of their stock to foreign businesses, so that foreign ownership of ‘Thailand’s independent newspaper’ increased from 35 per cent to 49 per cent.12 Even newspapers such as Matichon, Thai Rath and the Bangkok Post, which had never previously made staff redundant, were obliged to initiate lay-offs. Some newspapers collapsed completely. Wattajak closed down in September 1999 with colossal debts, including 20 million baht in workers’ salaries, 30 million baht in redundancy payments, and 180 million baht in taxes.13 Siam Post was closed down in early 1998; no notice was given to laid-off staff, and no redundancy payments were made.14 In January 1998, the business newspaper Khu Khaeng Daily was forced to close because the company was unable to service its debts.15 Four other business newspapers, Financial Day, Thai Thurakit Financial, Sua Thurakit and Thai Financial, also subsequently closed down. In March 2000, Ban Muang – a newspaper with a 28-year history – announced that it was closing ‘temporarily’. The newspaper was owned by Chart Thai party leader Banharn Silpa-archa, but had long suffered from low sales, and had been little more than a vanity publication for many years. There were now only seven general-interest Thai language dailies left in circulation – Thai Rath, Daily News, Matichon, Khao Sot, Siam Rath, Naeo Na and Thai Post – of which only the first four were considered profitable. Only two daily business newspapers survived: Krungthep Thurakit and the struggling Phujatkan. Once the English language dailies The Nation, the Bangkok Post and Business Day were added to the list, there were indeed only twelve daily newspapers remaining.

Reforming the Thai media From 1994 onwards, pressure for reform of the Thai political system mounted as dissatisfaction with vote-buying, electoral manipulation and abuses of political power became widespread.16 Dissatisfaction with the performance of the media17 was also expressed by leading social critics such as Dr Prawase Wasi, who headed an official committee to propose political reform in 1994–5. Prawase urged that the media should undergo reform as part of a wider process of socio-political transformation. In 1997, a new constitution was drafted which included a clause calling for the establishment of a press monitoring council.

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This was a delicate issue at the time: the Chavalit government, exasperated by persistent media criticism, had set up a media monitoring centre at the Ministry of Interior, to examine the political coverage of both the print and broadcast media. The media industry feared that a permanent press monitoring council could be subject to political interference and manipulation. In an attempt to head of the creation of such a body, they proposed an alternative, self-regulatory model. The Press Council of Thailand was established in August 1997 with the support of virtually all newspaper owners and editors.18 Article 41 of the new constitution did include provision for a panel of media experts to monitor the ethics and professionalism of broadcasters. The new Press Council had twenty committee members, comprising five newspaper owners or managers, five members of the editorial staffs of member newspapers, three reporters and seven experts from various fields. The Council existed to maintain standards of journalistic behaviour (based on a thirty-point code of conduct) and to investigate complaints from people making accusations of mistreatment at the hands of the media. From the outset, there was considerable scepticism about the effectiveness of a self-regulating agency, from critics who feared that the Press Council would turn out to be toothless.19 The feeble response of the Press Council in addressing the cases brought before it in 1998 and 1999 tended to support these fears. Of thirty-four cases dealt with by the Press Council, one was of particular significance.20 This was a case put forward in a petition concerning journalistic corruption signed by sixty-eight reporters from Government House and parliament. While the petitioners did not actually specify any particular case, they enclosed an article from Siam Rath Weekly,21 reproducing an unsigned leaflet alleging corruption by two Government House reporters, who were said to have received illegal payments from a well-known minister. The article included a copy of the personal accounts of the minister concerned, listing two payments to reporters. Somchai Meesaen – a Bangkok Post reporter – was said to have received 150,000 baht towards the purchase of a new car, while an unnamed Thai Rath reporter was said to have received 100,000 baht. At the same time, the Press Council also investigated the case of a Bangkok Post Pattaya bureau reporter, who had allegedly taken 400,000 baht from the wife of German businessman Wolfgang Ulrich, supposedly to secure the release of a yacht. Somchai Meesaen argued that he had simply asked the minister to place his name on the waiting list in order to secure the car more quickly, and had always intended to return the down-payment. The Bangkok Post carried out an internal investigation of the case.22 In its ruling, the Press Council declared that ‘the PCT cannot find proof that any politician paid for the car booking fee or the car for the reporter’. However, the Press Council stated in general terms that ‘a reporter who uses his or her profession to ask for favours or privileges or assistance from any person is violating article 21 of the ethics code’.23 Somchai was suspended by the Bangkok Post during the investigation; he subsequently resigned, and was promptly re-hired by the Thai language newspaper Naeo Na. Naeo Na had strong connections with the ruling Democrat Party, and Somchai continued to enjoy a

174 Conclusion close relationship with the minister concerned.24 Somchai gave a radio interview on 4 February, claiming that some of the reporters at Siam Rath Weekly had wanted to discredit him, criticising him for adopting an insufficiently critical stance towards the government.25 Several other political reporters were reshuffled by the Bangkok Post at the same time.26 The unnamed Thai Rath reporter denied the accusations against him, and the political party concerned denied having allocated funds to pay reporters in this fashion. Thai Rath conducted an internal investigation and acquitted the reporter of any wrongdoing, because of lack of evidence. The Press Council declared that it was unable to give any ruling ‘because there is no accuser in this case’.27 In the case of the Bangkok Post Pattaya bureau reporter, the Press Council did not bring forward any charges. An internal investigation by the Bangkok Post found that the money concerned was a legal fee rather than a bribe, but criticised the reporter’s actions as inappropriate. Both the reporter concerned and the Pattaya bureau chief subsequently resigned. The Press Council confined itself to noting the actions of the newspaper. The Press Council’s responses in this case were extremely feeble. Despite the clear-cut evidence available – and Somchai’s admission that he had taken money from the minister – the Council failed directly to censure either the reporters or their newspapers concerned, instead doing little more than rubber-stamp the results of internal investigations by their organisations. A founding member of the PCT, Samarn Sudto, had declared in 1997 that ‘Our aim is to get rid of the black sheep in our profession and to serve the readers better’.28 Yet, following this investigation, both of the two reporters accused of taking money from a minister continued to work in front-line positions. While the Bangkok Post appears to have acted promptly and with some decisiveness, the Press Council took no action when the reporter was re-hired by Naeo Na. Ironically, during the early phases of the case Naeo Na published a moralising editorial, calling for media organisations to keep ‘wayward newsmen’ in check, and criticising the ineffectiveness of the existing system of self-regulation.29 The Press Council’s response in the Thai Rath case was especially weak-kneed; the statement that ‘there was no accuser in this case’ was distinctly legalistic, in view of the evidence published in Siam Rath Weekly and the sixty-eight signatures on the petition. The Press Council called no witnesses in the Thai Rath case, relying instead on letters from the leader and secretary-general of a political party, and the results of the newspaper’s internal investigation. It is difficult to escape the conclusion that the Press Council was (perhaps understandably) reluctant to take on the most powerful newspaper in the country. Bangkok Post editor Pichai Chuensuksawadi expressed his reservations in an article published just after the Press Council announced its rulings. He noted that ‘there was a feeling among certain quarters that the Council was taking too long to reach a conclusion. Suspicions, even among the press, ran deep.’30 The suspicions to which he alluded must have related to concerns that the Press Council was under pressure to whitewash Thai Rath. He went on to lament the fact that most of the Council’s members appeared not to be prepared to publish

Conclusion

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the Council’s rulings. Under the terms of the charter, all members were obliged to publish rulings affecting their newspaper within seven days of their announcement. The fact that a newspaper was unwilling even to publish such an anodyne ruling as this one raised serious concerns about the credibility of the Press Council and the sincerity of members’ commitment to effective selfregulation. Another alarming feature of the cases was the extent to which individual reporters and newspapers were singled out for criticism. There was no substantive criticism or further investigative coverage of the politician implicated in the Government House case. This may testify to the success of some Thai politicians in securing favourable media coverage by a variety of means. Newspapers seemed more interested in exploiting the discomfiture of rival publications (especially the sometimes holier-than-thou Bangkok Post) than in examining the underlying structural problem of murky relationships between journalists and their sources.

Lost opportunities? In retrospect, the period of my fieldwork (February 1995 to February 1996) turned out to have been the heyday of the Thai language press. The ‘new enlightenment’ hailed by Chetana Nagavara turned out to have been a shortlived phenomenon, a brief flowering of talent followed by a harsh winter of economic recession. Here was an opportunity for the Thai press to adapt and to reform. The old news-gathering system of location-based reporters was extremely labour-intensive and could scarcely be afforded in the new climate. This was an ideal time to shift from stationary reporters to roving reporters, to break down the old bureaucratic distinctions between desks, and above all to abandon the absolute distinction between news and comment. For the economic crisis was more than simply a problem for the press: it was an indictment of the press. Thailand’s fourth estate, besotted with the self-interested opinions of phu yai, had failed to engage with the structural weaknesses in the economic and political order which allowed the financial meltdown to take place. The reporters, columnists and editors had failed to notice the declining efficiency of the bureaucracy, the abuses of power by ministers, and especially the colossal build-up of bad loans which had brought about Thailand’s calamities. The Indonesian media could justifiably complain that its capacity to report on the abuses of the Suharto family was limited. But what was the excuse for Thailand’s leading newspapers? Why had they failed to notice what was going on, failed to blow the whistle? The fact was that most of Thailand’s journalists were no more critical, detached or perceptive than the second-rate politicians and businesspeople whom they interviewed each day. Speaking at a seminar in Hong Kong in June 1998, Thanong Khanthong (assistant editor of The Nation) made the following defence of the Thai media’s failure to notice structural economic problems which culminated in the 1997 financial meltdown:

176 Conclusion In Thailand, local journalists have more advantages in getting closer to government sources while foreign journalists tend to rely more on market sources. We have the advantage of reading the foreign reports and also listening to the comments from the officials. We were led into believing that [officials] knew what they were doing. As it happened, they didn’t know what they were doing, and the market was right … The officials are supposed to be the authoritative source. They have all the figures in their hands, and we trusted them.31 Despite market evidence to the contrary, reporters, columnists and editors continued to display a naive faith in the utterances of supposedly ‘authoritative’ government officials. The media mediocrity produced by a flawed system of news-gathering, coupled with a systematic failure to analyse and to explain developments, had nicely complemented and serviced the mediocrity and incompetence so rife in the business sector, in the bureaucracy, and above all among the politicians who allegedly ran the country. To date, there seems little evidence that either the bitter lessons of the economic crisis or the establishment of the Press Council of Thailand has helped significantly to improve the quality of critical coverage in the media.

Conclusion The Thai language press is one of the liveliest and most provocative in the world. Thai newspapers have contributed greatly to the openness and dynamism of Thai society. The openness of the Thai press contrasts sharply with the often turgid print media in neighbouring countries (such as Malaysia and Singapore) where indirect censorship and self-censorship are the order of the day. Thailand has its own distinctive culture and characteristics; no one would wish to see Thai Rath turn into something like the Financial Times, or Matichon become a Thai version of the Asahi Shimbun. Nevertheless, the dubious distinction between news and comment which characterises the political coverage of the Thai language press is a major obstacle to journalistic professionalism. Overcoming such obstacles will be an important challenge for Thai newspapers in this new century (see Appendix). The Thai public need more than mere opinions: they deserve explanations. Students of the Thai media need to adopt a sceptical and questioning stance, never assuming that an open and vigorous media necessarily amounts to an effective and critical media. A close study of Thailand beautifully illustrates the fact that a country’s press may be simultaneously unfettered, dynamic, vigorous, unprofessional – and deeply untrustworthy.

Appendix Reforming the political coverage of the Thai language press: some proposals

1 • • •

•

• 2 •

•

• • 3 • • •

Replace Bangkok newspapers with national newspapers The concept of ‘provincial news’ could be abandoned. Local stringers could be largely replaced by full-time professional reporters, usually covering several provinces. Stories could be reporter-driven rather than location-driven: reporters could be trained to seek out stories where they occur, rather than waiting for news to happen locally. Investigative teams of experienced reporters could be based in Bangkok, ready to be deployed at short notice anywhere in the country when a major story breaks. ‘Provincial’ news desks could be abolished; reporters working on stories outside Bangkok could liaise directly with the relevant desk editors. Quote less, explain more The distinction between news and comment in political stories could be dropped, in favour of writing political stories that analyse and explain developments. Political news stories could be shorter and more focused, pointing out the significance of developments, and highlighting possible reasons for controversies and proposals. Political columns could be more factually grounded, and less based on sheer assertion. Political reporters and columnists would need retraining to adopt new ways of writing. Gather news differently Reporters in Bangkok could reduce their preoccupation with passively ‘watching’ centres of power, and spend more time seeking out stories. Reporters could distance themselves from power-holders more explicitly. Newspapers could send some of their best staff back out into the field, making use of their seniority and contacts to pursue important stories.

Notes

1

Introduction: politics and the media in Thailand 1 For a comparative study, see A. Mehra (ed.), Press Systems in ASEAN States, Singapore, Asian Mass Communication Research and Information Centre, 1989. 2 In 1995 there were two other English language dailies in Thailand, the low-quality Thailand Times (reputed to have only thirty paid subscribers) owned by the Wattajak Group, and Business Day, a financial paper with a policy of not covering politics. Business Day first appeared in January 1995, and was a joint venture of Thai Premier Publishing, United Cinema Holding and Management Company of the Crown Property Bureau, and Singapore Press Holdings (publisher of The Straits Times and Business Times). Thailand Times ceased publication in 1997. 3 See Chapter 3. 4 See Chapter 6. 5 For a discussion, see Chapter 4. 6 The Nation and Phujatkan Daily have made efforts to establish regional bureaux in cities such as Chiang Mai and Khon Kaen, though these bureaux complement rather than replace traditional ‘stringers’. 7 Siam Post, 19 April 1995. 8 Interview with Chatcharin Chaiyawttn, 27 March 1995. 9 J.L.S. Girling, Thailand: Society and Politics, Ithaca, Cornell University Press, 1981, p. 172. 10 Despite the importance of Sondhi’s personal interests and connections in influencing the anti-NPKC stance of Phujatkan in May 1992, there was also a strong ideological dimension to the newspaper’s opposition to the Suchinda government, and many Phujatkan staff quite genuinely opposed the regime. 11 Boonrak Boonyaketmala, ‘Thailand’, in J.A. Lent (ed.), Newspapers in Asia: Contemporary Trends and Problems, Hong Kong, Heinemann Asia, 1982. 12 M.P. Copeland, ‘Contested nationalism and the 1932 overthrow of the absolute monarchy in Siam’, unpublished PhD thesis, Australian National University, 1993, pp. 15–16. 13 Copeland, ‘Contested nationalism’, pp. 17–18. 14 Copeland, ‘Contested nationalism’, p. 37. 15 Boonrak, ‘Thailand’, p. 337. 16 For details see Copeland, ‘Contested nationalism’, p. 38n. 17 Copeland, ‘Contested nationalism’, p. 54. 18 Copeland, ‘Contested nationalism’, pp. 56–62. 19 Copeland names sixteen such newspapers established from 1920 to 1924, ‘Contested nationalism’, p. 58. 20 Boonrak, ‘Thailand’, p. 337. 21 Boonrak, ‘Thailand’, p. 340.

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22 Boonrak, ‘Thailand’, p. 341. 23 Wasant Paileeklee, ‘Interactions between the press and politics in Thailand from 14 October 1973 to 23 February 1991’, London, School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London, unpublished MA dissertation, Area Studies (South East Asia), 1992, pp. 6–7. 24 Boonrak, ‘Thailand’, p. 342. 25 Boonrak, ‘Thailand’, p. 344. 26 Boonrak, ‘Thailand’, p. 345. 27 Wasant, ‘Interactions between the press and politics’, p. 8, citing an interview with Suthichai Yoon. 28 Wasant, ‘Interactions between the press and politics’, p. 8. 29 Boonrak, ‘Thailand’, pp. 354–5. 30 Matichon, 18 July 1990. 31 Cited by Wasant, ‘Interactions between the press and politics’, p.12. 32 Wasant, ‘Interactions between the press and politics’, p. 14. 33 Benedict Anderson, ‘Withdrawal symptoms: social and cultural aspects of the October 6 coup’, Bulletin of Concerned Asian Scholars, 1977, vol. 9, 3, p. 24. 34 Wasant, ‘Interactions between the press and politics’, p. 38. 35 Wasant, ‘Interactions between the press and politics’, p. 39. 36 Wasant, ‘Interactions between the press and politics’, pp. 39–40. 37 Wasant, ‘Interactions between the press and politics’, p. 42. 38 J.S. Ockey, ‘Business leaders, gangsters, and the middle class: societal groups and civilian rule in Thailand’, unpublished PhD thesis, Cornell University, 1992, p. 329. 39 Wasant, ‘Interactions between the press and politics’, p. 24. 40 Ockey, ‘Business leaders’, p. 335. 41 Siam Rath, 18 July 1990, quoted in Wasant, ‘Interactions between the press and politics’, p. 43. 42 Matichon, 25 July 1990. 43 Thitinan Pongsudhirak, ‘Thailand’s media: whose watchdog?’, in K. Hewison (ed.), Political Change in Thailand: Democracy and Participation, London, Routledge, 1997, pp. 222–4. 44 For arguments along these lines, see Thitinan, ‘Thailand’s media’, pp. 224–5; D. McCargo, ‘The buds of May’, Index on Censorship, April 1993, pp. 3–8; and Ubonrat Siriyuvasak, ‘The development of a participatory democracy: raison d’être for media reform in Thailand’, Southeast Asian Journal of Social Science, 1994, vol. 22, pp. 101–5. 45 On Chamlong’s role in the May events, see D. McCargo, Chamlong Srimuang and the New Thai Politics, London, Hurst, 1997, pp. 239–74. 46 On the May events, see W.A. Callahan, Imagining Democracy: Reading the Events of May in Thailand, Singapore, Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 1998. 47 Banthukyiaokhao na sanamrop ratchadamnoen (Journalists’ Record: Ratchadamnen Battlefield), Bangkok, Reporters’ Association of Thailand, 1992. 48 Ubonrat, ‘Participatory democracy’, p. 105. 49 Interview with Chavarong Limpattamapanee, 6 February 1996. 50 The Nation, 23 October 1992. 51 Matichon deputy political editor Pattara Khumphitak expressed irritation at the praise of Phujatkan’s actions in the May events (such as giving away special issues free), and pointed out that during the demonstrations Matichon dropped all advertising, published a sixteen-page newspaper (which lost money) full of news, and reported all the events in full. Interview, 4 August 1995. 52 Pajaree Tanasomboonkit, ‘Nangsuephim Thai Rath kap kankamnotwarasan khwam khatyaeng thang kanmuang nai hetkan phrutsapha 2535’ (‘Thai Rath newspaper and the agenda-setting of political conflict in the May crisis 1992’), unpublished MA thesis, Faculty of Communication Arts, Chulalongkorn University, 1995.

180 Notes 53 Pasuk Phongpaichit and C. Baker, ‘Power in transition: Thailand in the 1990s’, in K. Hewison (ed.), Political Change in Thailand: Democracy and Participation, London, Routledge, 1997, pp. 33–5. 54 Thitinan, ‘Thailand’s media’, p. 226. 55 Fieldnotes, 11–23 July 1995. 56 Abhisit Vejjajiva, interview, 31 January 1996. 57 Thai Rath, 14 May 1993. 58 To be precise, the only outsider apart from the author. Fieldnotes, 22 April 1995. 59 The newspaper’s ‘enemies’ might have included some southern Democrat MPs, such as former Deputy Agriculture Minister Suthep Theuksuban. 60 In the event, Matichon won the RAT prize for the best environmental story of 1994 for its coverage of the land reform case; Thai Rath’s treatment of the issue was generally seen as too biased. 61 Bangkok Post, 3 May 1995. 62 The Nation, 20 May 1995. 63 Chatcharin interview, 7 February 1996. 64 On relations between the media and the Banharn government, see G. Fairclough, ‘Free to air’, Far Eastern Economic Review, 16 November 1995. 65 Similar arguments are made by Wolferen about the Japanese media. See K. van Wolferen, The Enigma of Japanese Power, London, Macmillan, 1989, pp. 93–8. 66 A. Hamilton, ‘Video crackdown, or the sacrificial pirate: censorship and cultural consequences in Thailand’, Public Culture, 1993, vol. 5, p. 530. 67 Suthichai Yoon, Ma fao ban (Watchdog), Bangkok, Nation Publishing, 1995. 68 Thitinan, ‘Thailand’s media’, p. 218. 69 See Chapter 4 for a relevant discussion. 70 Boonrak, ‘Thailand’, p. 361. 71 Boonrak, ‘Thailand’, p. 362. 72 In Thai, klang. 73 For a more detailed discussion of the Thai media and policy advocacy, see D. McCargo and Ramaimas Bowra, Policy Advocacy and the Media in Thailand, Bangkok, Institute of Public Policy Studies, 1997. 74 S.J. Pharr, ‘Media as trickster in Japan: a comparative perspective’, in S.J. Pharr and E.S. Krauss (eds), Media and Politics in Japan, Honolulu, University of Hawaii Press, 1996, pp. 24–36. 75 J.G. Blumler and M. Gurevitch, The Crisis of Public Communication, London, Routledge, 1995, pp. 64–5. 76 These newspapers contained little more than translations of domestic items from the Thai press, and verbatim Chinese items from news agencies in the PRC or Taiwan. See V. Combe, ‘Chinese newspapers: dwindling readership’, The Nation, 30 September 1991. One report suggested that even the best-selling Chinese newspaper enjoyed a circulation of only around 20,000 (Bangkok Post, 26 September 1994). 77 Ockey, ‘Business leaders’, p. 325. 78 Ockey, ‘Business leaders’, p. 326. 79 Ockey, ‘Business leaders’, p. 327. 80 On the stock market boom, see P. Handley, ‘More of the same? Business and politics 1987–96’, in K. Hewison (ed.), Political Change in Thailand: Democracy and Participation, London, Routledge, 1997, pp. 100–1. 81 Handley, ‘More of the same?’, pp. 100–1. 82 Chatcharin interview, 27 March 1995. 83 During my fieldwork, for example, I observed instances of what might be termed ‘personalist rule’ at Phujatkan, and instances of professional management practices at Matichon. 84 Ockey, ‘Business leaders’, p. 320.

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85 See Ubonrat Siriyuvasak, ‘Radio broadcasting in Thailand: the structure and dynamics of political ownership and economic control’, Media Asia, 1992, vol. 19, 2, pp. 92–9. 86 Surat Numnonda, ‘Thai provincial newspapers’, Media Asia, 1987, vol. 14, 2, p. 74. 87 Ockey, ‘Business leaders’, p. 322. 88 Surat, ‘Thai provincial newspapers’, p. 74. 89 Nopporn Wong-Anan, ‘Journalistic blackmailing’, Bangkok Post, 14 February 1993. 90 Having more than one organisation proved useful during periods of military government such as the Sarit regime, when journalists could switch from one organisation to another in the event that one was banned by the government. Interview with Pattara Khumphitak, former secretary-general, RAT, 4 August 1995. 91 Pattara interview, 4 August 1995. 92 Duncan McCargo, ‘Pressing for change’, Index on Censorship, April 1993. 93 Matichon, 25 September 1990; Thai Rath, 25 September 1990. 94 Jittin Ritthirat, ‘It’s a question of motive’, The Nation, 19 January 1995. 95 Sondhi Limthongkul responded by withdrawing a 5 million baht donation which he had previously pledged to Chiang Mai University library. 96 ‘Rambutree 516’, Phujatkan Daily, 24 January 1995. 97 ‘The Nation alleges veiled threat against reporter’, The Nation, 26 January 1995. 98 Parichart Chotiya, ‘Facts about the Chaiyong Limthongkul Foundation and the M Group in Luang Prabang’, no date, but circa February 1995, 9 pp. 99 Chavarong Limpattamapanee interview, 6 February 1996. 100 Chatcharin interview, 27 March 1995. 101 Chavarong interview, 6 February 1996. 102 Interview with Sommai Paritchart, President, Reporters’ Association of Thailand, 8 August 1995. 103 Pattara interview, 4 August 1995. 104 Pharr, ‘Media as trickster’, p. 26. 105 A. Hamilton, ‘Rumours, foul calumnies and the safety of the state’, in C.J. Reynolds (ed.), National Identity and its Defenders: Thailand 1939–1999, Chiang Mai, Silkworm Books, 1993, p. 370. 106 For the best available discussions of these subjects, see D.E. Streckfuss, ‘The poetics of subversion: civil liberty and lèse-majesté in the modern Thai state’, unpublished PhD thesis, University of Wisconsin–Madison, 1998; and K. Hewison, ‘The monarchy and democratisation’, in K. Hewison (ed.), Political Change in Thailand: Democracy and Participation, London, Routledge, 1997, pp. 158–74. 107 Sanan himself confirmed this to me. Fieldnotes, 22 April 1995. 108 Chatcharin interview, 27 March 1995. 109 See Siriwan Sereewattana, ‘Wasted words’, The Nation, 9 September 1995. 110 According to interview sources, the following newspapers had estimated daily sales of over 50,000 in 1995 (excluding lottery result days): Thai Rath 700,000, Daily News 400,000, Khao Sot 160,000, Matichon 120,000, Phujatkan 70,000, Siam Post 60,000, Bangkok Post 55,000, The Nation 60,000, Krungthep Thurakit 70,000. This would make 1,695,000 daily sales. It is doubtful whether the combined total sales of the remaining small newspapers (mostly business newspapers, Chinese language newspapers and vanity publications) would exceed 200,000. 111 This compares with 581 newspapers per 1,000 people in Japan, and 250 per 1,000 in the US; S.J. Pharr, ‘Media and politics in Japan: historical and contemporary perspectives’, in S.J. Pharr and E.S. Krauss (eds.), Media and Politics in Japan, Honolulu, University of Hawaii Press, 1996, p. 4. 112 Siriwan, ‘Wasted words’.

182 Notes 2

Political news-gathering in Thai language newspapers 1 See Timothy E. Cook, Governing with the News: The News Media as a Political Institution, Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 1998, pp. 1–16. 2 The different editions were marked by a number of stars in the margin of page 1. The one-star provincial edition appeared at 3.00 a.m., the two-star southern edition at 4.00 a.m., the three-star Bangkok edition at 5.00 a.m., the five-star central region edition at 11.00 p.m., and the final six-star Bangkok edition at 1.00–2.00 a.m. 3 For details, see Siam Post, 6 December 1994. 4 For an interesting if somewhat unreliable account of Kamphol, see N. Coleridge, Paper Tigers, London, Heinemann, 1993, pp. 430–37. Coleridge’s account is principally remarkable for its explicit references to Kamphol’s much rumoured connections to a member of the Thai royal family. For a fuller (but uncritical) biographical account, see Sanyalak Thiamthanoy, Kamphol Wacharapon: jomphol khong nangsuephim Thai Rath (Kamphol Wacharapon: Field Marshal of Thai Rath Newspaper), second edition, Bangkok, Ton Or, 1994. 5 For a discussion of jao pho, see Pasuk Phongpaichit and Sungsidh Piriyarangsan, Corruption and Democracy in Thailand, Bangkok, The Political Economy Centre, Faculty of Economics, Chulalongkorn University, 1994, pp. 51–97. 6 Kamphol eventually passed on his Senate position to his son and heir apparent, Saravudh. 7 Fieldnotes, 10 April 1995. 8 Maliwan Yongyuth, ‘Making news in the information age’, The Nation, 12 November 1995. 9 More junior reporters were often urged to write this column, but most were reluctant to do so, partly from a feeling that they were not sufficiently qualified, and partly because they felt obliged to leave this task to their seniors. Assistant editor-inchief Likhit was critical of the lack of opportunities given for more junior reporters to develop their writing skills at Thai Rath (some reporters had been there for ten years without ever writing anything more than news items), which he compared unfavourably with his old newspaper Matichon. Fieldnotes, 4 April 1995. 10 Fieldnotes, 22 April 1995. 11 Wilasinee Phiphitkul (Faculty of Communication Arts, Chulalongkorn University), speaking at a training seminar for Thai Rath provincial reporters, Eurasia Mangkon Hotel, Bangkok, 25 April 1995. 12 On one occasion during my Thai Rath fieldwork, a member of the information service staff arrived at the political desk with some clippings files, and asked who had requested them. Political desk staff stared at her with blank amazement. It transpired that they had been requested by a different desk. Fieldnotes, April 1995. 13 Yasuo Hanazaki, ‘The Indonesian press in the era of keterbukaan: a force for democratisation?’, unpublished PhD thesis, Monash University, 1996, pp. 125–6. 14 Hanazaki, ‘Indonesian press’, p. 125. 15 In June 1994, for example, Indonesia’s three most important political weeklies (Tempo, Editor and DeTik) were all permanently banned. See D. McCargo, ‘Killing the messenger: the 1994 press bannings and the demise of Indonesia’s New Order’, Harvard International Journal of Press/Politics, 1999, vol. 4, 1, pp. 29–47. 16 Hanazaki, ‘The Indonesian press’, pp. 82–3. 17 Commission on Freedom of the Press (R.M. Hutchins, Chairman), A Free and Responsible Press, Chicago, Chicago University Press, 1947, cited in Hanazaki, ‘Indonesian press’, p. 83. 18 Translation from Bangkok Post, 9 August 1993. For the full text of this interview, see Siam Post, 9 August 1993. 19 There were only a handful of reporters aged 40 and over who were covering political ‘beats’ on a daily basis, including reporters for the Bangkok Post at the Interior Ministry and Government House, and one for the Daily News at parliament.

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20 For a detailed discussion of the work of political reporters, see Chapter 3. 21 This was still the case at the time of fieldwork in April 1995. Shortly afterwards the newspaper computerised its editorial operations, so that rewriters worked at terminals, increasingly dealing with reports sent in by ‘on line’ reporters equipped with notebook computers. 22 Banyakat, background information describing the scene or the political mood. 23 Fieldnotes, 6 December 1995. The story in question was the ‘Dr S’ story published in that day’s issue of Siam Post. Perhaps significantly, Krisakorn held a degree in English rather than in journalism. 24 Interview, 29 March 1995. 25 Following the death of Kamphol in early 1996, a number of changes were introduced at Thai Rath, including reform of the news meetings system and a decline in personalised dominance of the front-page desk. Personal communication, 25 March 1997. I have not been able to carry out further fieldwork to evaluate these changes. 26 This scandal concerned alleged abuses of a government land reform programme to benefit Democrat Party politicians and their associates. 27 For a more detailed discussion of the role of columnists, see Chapter 6. 28 Fieldnotes, 6 April 1995. For an example of one of Thai Rath’s Sunday political analyses, see Chapter 6. 29 Fieldnotes, 12 April 1995. This meeting was held on a Wednesday because of the Songkran festival holiday season. 30 Fieldnotes, 20 and 21 April 1995. 31 Following the death of Kamphol, the system for writing the Sunday analysis column apparently changed, and a leading role was played by some of the more senior reporters. 32 Chaiyan Rajchagool, ‘Caution advised while reading your paper’, The Nation, 19 June 1995. 33 Doctors in government hospitals and professors in government universities are civil servants in Thailand. 34 For a brief discussion, see Pasuk Phongpaichit and C. Baker, ‘Power in transition: Thailand in the 1990s’, in K. Hewison (ed.), Political Change in Thailand: Democracy and Participation, London, Routledge, 1997, pp. 32–5. 35 Fieldnotes, 6 April 1995. 36 Fieldnotes, 20 April 1995. 37 Fieldnotes, 3 April 1995. 38 Nopporn Wong-Anan, ‘Journalistic blackmailing’, Bangkok Post, 14 February 1993. Nopporn does not specify that he is referring to Thai Rath, though most readers would assume he was. 39 Nopporn, 1993. Again, there is no reference to Thai Rath – and none is needed. 40 Fieldnotes, June 1995. 41 Interview, Matichon, 24 August 1995. 42 For a discussion of this view of the Thai state, see D. Brown, The State and Ethnic Politics in Southeast Asia, London, Routledge 1994, pp. 166–70. 43 For a detailed discussion of this case, see Chapter 4, pp. 101–3. 3

The role of political reporters 1 Bangkok Post Weekly Review, 14 April 1995. 2 ‘Thalaengkan samakhom nakkhao haeng prathet thai ruang kan tham nathi khong phu sue khao’ (‘Press release of the Reporters’ Association of Thailand concerning the performance of their duty by reporters’), 4 April 1995. 3 O. Feldman, Politics and the News Media in Japan, Ann Arbor, University of Michigan Press, 1993.

184 Notes 4 Interview with Abhisit Vejjajiva, 31 January 1996. 5 Feldman, News Media, pp. 116–17. 6 See Korakot Surakul, ‘Kanpeutpradenkhao lae krabuankan thamkhao phusuekhao kanmuang’ (‘News issue opening and the news-making process of political reporters’), unpublished MA thesis, Department of Journalism, Chulalongkorn University, 1997, p. 43. Of her questionnaire sample of ninety-nine parliamentary and Government House reporters (carefully selected to reflect a balance of news organisations), eighty-nine were aged between 20 and 30. 7 Fieldnotes, 26 September 1995. 8 Feldman, News Media, p. 33. 9 These interviews are the main sources for this chapter. Specific interview citations have not been provided, and none of the reporters has been identified. 10 Feldman, News Media, p. 74. Nor is there any Thai equivalent of the Diet Press Assembly Hall Building in the heart of Tokyo’s political district, where each of the major news agencies has its own ‘front-line’ political reporters’ office. 11 Of Korakot’s sample, 22 per cent had less than a year’s experience, but 81 per cent less than five years’. Korakot, ‘News issue opening’, p. 44. 12 Of Korakot’s sample, 56 per cent had studied a subject related to mass communications for their undergraduate degrees. Korakot, ‘News issue opening’, p. 43. 13 Information provided by Piyachat Mongkolchaisith, General Manager, Matichon, 1 August 1995. 14 Calculating the incomes of reporters was made difficult by wide variations in travel allowances, overtime, unsociable hours payments, extra pay for working on days off, extra daily allowances for working in the provinces, and entitlement to annual bonuses. A full comparative table of reporters’ 1994 pay and benefits appeared in Jotmai khao (Newsletter), Reporters’ Association of Thailand, February 1995, p. 16. Most starting salaries were in the range 6,500 to 8,500 baht per month. 15 J.V. Heuvel and E.E. Dennis, The Unfolding Lotus: East Asia’s Changing Media, New York, The Freedom Forum Media Studies Center, Columbia University, 1994, p. 174. 16 Information from follow-up visit to Thai parliament, February 1996. 17 Krairat Boonyakiat, quoted in Pravit Rojanaphruk, ‘For services rendered …’, The Nation, 9 October 1995. 18 See, for example, Chalinee Hirano, ‘Journalistic professionalism in Thailand: a crisis of ethics?’ Paper presented at the Seventh International Conference on Thai Studies, Amsterdam, 4–8 July 1999, pp. 18–19. 19 Interview, 20 October 1995. 20 Jakarta Post, 7 March 1997. 21 Korakot, ‘News issue opening’, p. 58. 22 For details of a similar situation in Japan, see Feldman, News Media, pp. 97–8. 23 Wilasinee Phiphitkul (Faculty of Communication Arts, Chulalongkorn University), speaking at a training seminar for Thai Rath provincial reporters, Eurasia Mongkorn Hotel, Bangkok, 25 April 1995. 24 Feldman, News Media, p. 102. 25 Korakot, ‘News issue opening’, p. 54. 26 According to Korakot, 68 per cent of political reporters admitted that they regularly or very often exchanged news with colleagues from other news organisations. Korakot, ‘News issue opening’, p. 62. 27 Feldman describes a similar ‘pooling’ of routine news in Japan, leading to a uniformity of political news coverage, News Media, pp. 120–23. 28 That is, ‘Do you want the latest quotation from senior Chart Thai politician Sanoh Thienthong?’ 29 Thitinan Pongsudhirak, ‘Thailand’s media: whose watchdog?’, in K. Hewison (ed.), Political Change in Thailand: Democracy and Participation, London, Routledge, 1997, p. 229, quoting an interview with former government spokesman Akapol Sorasuchart.

Notes

185

30 Korakot did not ask a specific question about this practice, but she did find that 53 per cent of reporters admitted they regularly or very often engaged in collective news-gathering and news-writing with colleagues from other news organisations. Korakot, ‘News issue opening’, p. 62. 31 Internal memo from Weerajak Konthong, Thai Rath political rewriter, to political reporters, 24 April 1995. 32 Fieldnotes, 22 April 1995. 33 Feldman, News Media, p. 49. 34 Interview in Siam Post, 1 January 1993. 35 Feldman, News Media, p. 54. 36 Korakot found that 64 per cent of political reporters ‘very often’ used politicians as sources: government officials and academics were only consulted ‘very often’ by 10 per cent and 11 per cent of reporters respectively. Korakot, ‘News issue opening’, p. 62. 37 Feldman, News Media, pp. 108–9. 38 Feldman, News Media, p. 65. 39 Feldman, News Media, p. 67. 40 The same practice was common in Japan. See Feldman, News Media, p. 101. 41 Feldman describes similar problems concerning the verification of stories in the Japanese context, with many reporters not bothering to check information from well-placed sources, News Media, pp. 127–8. 42 Korakot, ‘News issue opening’, p. 58. 43 Feldman, News Media, p. 34 and p. 60. 44 For a discussion of this group, see Somchai Meesaen, ‘Diverging interests threaten to tear asunder Group 16’, Bangkok Post, 9 May 1995. 45 See ‘Reporters to protest at Interior’s restrictions’, Bangkok Post, 1 June 1994. 46 Fieldnotes, 9 October 1995. 47 Fieldnotes, 22 April 1995. 48 Fieldnotes, 13 April 1995. 49 J.G. Blumer and M. Gurevitch, The Crisis of Public Communication, London, Routledge, 1995, pp. 29–31. 50 Feldman, News Media, p. 52. 51 Feldman, News Media, p. 145. 52 According to a source at Phujatkan, Chalerm’s thought processes were not such that anyone could ‘brief ’ him, or insert ideas into his head. He took the information he was given and used it in his own way. Fieldnotes, 9 October 1995. 53 D. McCargo, Chamlong Srimuang and the New Thai Politics, London, Hurst, 1997, p. 215. 54 Fieldnotes, 11 April 1995. 55 Fieldnotes, April 1995. 56 See Chapter 2 for this argument. 57 In the interests of full disclosure, I must acknowledge that I also joined in this meal at the expense of Chart Thai politicians. I was also a passenger on the bus to Chantaburi for which they paid. 58 At the time worth £2.50, or US$4.00. 59 See Y. Hanazaki, ‘The Indonesian press in the era of keterbukaan: a force for democratisation?’, unpublished PhD thesis, Monash University, 1996, pp. 127–30. 60 Interview, 31 May 1995. 61 ‘For services rendered …’, The Nation, 9 October 1995. 62 Siam Post, 27 January 1994. 63 For discussions of ‘ghost reporters’, see Siam Rath, 13 August 1991, and Krungthep Thurakit, 17 September 1994. 64 ‘Big losses blamed for paper’s closure’, Bangkok Post, 5 September 1995. 65 As noted above, Thais are often generous in their use of kinship terms, but the reporter interviewed herself cited this as an example of over-familiarity. 66 Bangkok Post, 4 December 1993.

186 Notes 67 Matichon, 11 February 1991. 68 O. Baisnée, ‘Can political journalism exist at the EU level?’, unpublished paper, panel on ‘Political journalism: new challenges, new practices’, ECPR Joint Sessions, Copenhagen, 14–19 April 2000. 69 Fieldnotes, 27 July 1995. 70 This complex crime story (with considerable political ramifications) involved the theft of immensely valuable jewels from a Saudi prince by a Thai expatriate worker. The jewels were then recovered by some senior Thai police officers, who allegedly then re-stole many of the jewels themselves and killed the family of a leading jeweller in a botched attempt to cover up their actions. 71 Phra Yantra was a leading ‘superstar’ monk, who left the monkhood and fled to the United States in 1995 after being accused of various sexual misdemeanours. 4

Inside a political daily: editorial politics at Matichon 1 Interview with Chamlong Dokpik, deputy chief of political desk, Matichon, 8 August 1995. 2 Interview with Pakpoom Pongbhai, chief of political desk, Matichon, 6 August 1995. 3 Interview with Pattara Khumphitak, deputy chief of political desk, Matichon, 4 August 1995. 4 Interview with Bunlert Changyai, news editor, Matichon, 7 August 1995. 5 Interview with Sanchai Chantrawatanakul, deputy chief of political desk, Matichon, 4 August 1995. 6 Interview with Wanwisa Choochon, assistant head of front-page news, Matichon, 8 August 1995. 7 Wanwisa interview. 8 Pattara interview. 9 Chamlong interview. 10 Wanwisa interview. 11 L. Hong, ‘Fifteen years of Sinlapa Wattanatham: from fragmentation to commodification of Thai art and culture’, unpublished paper presented at the Sixth International Conference on Thai Studies, Chiang Mai, 14–17 October 1996. 12 Hong, ‘Fifteen years’, p. 6. 13 Hong, ‘Fifteen years’, p. 12. 14 Matichon appeared to be the only Thai newspaper where the content of editorials was widely discussed. In other newspapers, they were written by individual senior staff members, usually without any wider consultation. 15 Wanwisa interview. 16 Bunlert interview. 17 Wanwisa interview. 18 Pattara interview. 19 Wanwisa interview. 20 Sanchai interview. 21 Bunlert interview. 22 Sanchai interview. 23 Pattara interview. 24 Pakpoom interview. 25 Khanchai Boonpan was the president of the company and the major shareholder in the newspaper; at the time, Banharn was the prime minister. 26 Pakpoom interview. 27 Pakpoom interview. 28 Sanchai interview. 29 Thai Rath, 24 July 1995. 30 Pakpoom interview.

Notes 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57

58 59 60

61 62 63 64 65

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Sanchai interview. Interview with Chatcharin Chaiyawttn, 27 March 1995. Matichon, 28–9 January 1991, p. 8. For the text of the apology, see Matichon, 31 January 1991. Interview with Sommai Paritchart, managing editor, Matichon, 8 August 1995. Matichon, 25 February 1991. Matichon, Thai Rath and several other Thai newspapers are usually post-dated; for example, the issue put out on 24 February will be dated 25 February. Sakkharin Niyomsilpa, ‘The political economy of telecommunications liberalisation in Thailand’, unpublished PhD thesis, Australian National University, September 1995, p. 147. ‘Army boycotts two newspapers’, Bangkok Post, 3 May 1992. The three banned newspapers were The Nation, Phujatkan and Naeo Na, though the ban was never enforced. This common Thai nickname has been used as a pseudonym for the reporter concerned. Sommai interview. Pakpoom interview. Interview with Julalak Poogird, front-page editor, Matichon, 7 August 1995. Chamlong interview. Interview with Sathian Janthimathon, 6 February 1996. Julalak interview. Sathian interview. Fieldnotes, 20 July 1995. Sanchai interview. Pakpoom interview. The Nation, 13 July 1995. Nirirat Subsomboon, co-ordinator of the People’s Friends group, quoted in The Nation, 30 July 1995. See Siam Post, 14 August 1995 and 19 August 1995. See Phujatkan Daily, 24 August 1995 and 28 August 1995. See Krungthep Thurakit, 24 July 1995 and 2 August 1995. The sources cited were as follows: Siam Post, 13 July (twice), Krungthep Thurakit, 13 July (twice), Thai Thurakit Finance, 13 July, Naeo Na, 13 July, Matichon, 13 July, Daily News, 15 July, and Siam Post, 15 July, all 1995. ‘Recognizing that the people in the provinces beyond Bangkok represent the national majority, three pages – instead of the original one – are now being devoted to provincial news reports’, Matichon Public Co. Ltd, Annual Report 1994, p. 31. Pattara interview. See D. McCargo, ‘Policy advocacy and the media in Thailand’, in D. McCargo and Ramaimas Bowra, Policy Advocacy and the Media in Thailand, Bangkok, Institute of Public Policy Studies, 1997, pp. 33–7. On elections, see Surin Maisrikrod and D. McCargo, ‘Electoral politics: commercialisation and exclusion’; on parties, see D. McCargo, ‘Thailand’s political parties: real, authentic, and actual’, both in K. Hewison (ed.), Political Change in Thailand: Democracy and Participation, London, Routledge, 1997, pp. 132–48; pp. 114– 31. For the full text of the discussion, see Wattajak, 11 July 1995. Pattara interview. Bunlert interview. Matichon, 20 May 1995. Sanchai interview.

188 Notes 5

Investigative reporting? The strange case of ‘Dr S’ 1 Ban Phitsanulok is the official residence of the prime minister. In fact, recent Thai prime ministers have declined to live in the building, believing it to be haunted. During the 1988–91 Chatichai Choonavan government it was used to house his team of advisors, who became known as the ‘Ban Phitsanulok team’. 2 Surin and Chumphol were former Thammasat lecturers in political science, Abhisit in economics; Surin and Abhisit became MPs and later ministers for the Democrat Party, Chumphol for Chart Thai. 3 Interview first published in Krungthep Thurakit, 8 July 1995; reprinted in Siam Post, 7 December 1995. 4 For the argument that it was Surakiart’s lack of independence rather than lack of qualifications which blighted him as finance minister, see Pasuk Phongpaichit and C. Baker, ‘Power in transition: Thailand in the 1990s’, in Kevin Hewison (ed.), Political Change in Thailand: Democracy and Participation, London, Routledge, 1997, p. 29. Surakiart clearly saw matters differently, telling Matichon editors at a dinner soon after his appointment that he was the ‘brain’ of the Banharn government, who took responsibility for preparing policy documents and appointing key advisors. Fieldnotes, 25 July 1995. 5 This section draws upon fieldnotes, 5 December 1995. 6 No credible reason to doubt the authenticity of the documents was ever advanced. A professional forger could have produced documents which incriminated Surakiart more explicitly. 7 Fieldnotes, 5 December 1995. Surakiart was also known to have a close personal relationship with one of Matichon’s front-page editors; this would have deterred any source from presenting the documents to Matichon. Matichon sources have confirmed that they were not offered the documents. 8 See D. McCargo, ‘The international media and the domestic political coverage of the Thai press’, Modern Asian Studies, 1999, vol. 33, 3, pp. 551–79. 9 ‘Peut pong pum lang uachao “Dr S” ’, ‘Nai na yai ing rataban ha kin’, ‘Thing adit “yok team” khiangkhang Deng’, Siam Post, 6 December 1995. 10 See Siam Post, 13 January 1996, and Somchai Meesane, ‘Weerasak may quit to avoid being a “burden” ’, Bangkok Post, 15 January 1996, for detailed allegations that Weerasak had engaged in lobbying activities after being appointed deputy secretary-general to Banharn in 1995. 11 For a relevant discussion, see Chapter 2. 12 ‘Rap big job, fat commission’, and ‘Klai tua “Dr S” ’ chae Match Cross kwan niti Chula ang pen thipruksa yai rat’, Siam Post, 7 December 1995. 13 This is incorrect. By his own account, Weerasak did not enrol at Harvard until August 1991, by which time the Chatichai government had been ousted by a military coup. See Krungthep Thurakit, 10 December 1995. 14 Again, on this point the author of the fax was incorrect. Weerasak was not himself a member of Chatichai’s advisory board, though he did work closely with Surakiart, who was a member. 15 At the time, 25 baht was roughly equivalent to one US dollar, and 40 baht roughly equalled one pound sterling. 16 Siam Post, 7 December 1995. 17 ‘PM’s deputy secretary Weerasak denies serving as agent in arms deals’, The Nation, 7 December 1995. 18 See McCargo, ‘International media’. 19 Interview with Surakiart Sathirathai by Chermsak Pinthong, Thai Sky Radio 101 FM, 7 December 1995, transcribed in Siam Post, 8 December 1995. 20 Interview with Weerasak Kowsurat by Chermsak Pinthong, Thai Sky Radio 101 FM, 7 December 1995, transcribed in Siam Post, 8 December 1995. 21 Siam Post, 8 December 1995.

Notes 22 23 24 25

26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55

56 57

189

Siam Post, 9 December 1995. Siam Post, 9 December 1995. For the full text of the press release, see Krungthep Thurakit, 10 December 1995. These two errors, already noted above, were in a fax apparently sent by one foreign middleman to another, and appear to reflect attempts to ‘build up’ Weerasak into a more important figure than he actually was. Whether this misrepresentation originated on the Thai side or with the broker concerned was unclear, but the errors did not significantly undermine Siam Post’s core allegations. Sukhumbhand had stood unsuccessfully for election to parliament under the Nam Thai Party banner in July 1995; he became a Democrat MP following the November 1996 election, and was appointed deputy foreign minister a year later. Personal communication, 8 January 1997. Siam Post, 10 December 1995. Siam Post, 11 December 1995. 11 December was a Monday, so the material for this story had been gathered on Sunday 10 December. Siam Post, 12 December 1995. Siam Post, 13 December 1995. Siam Post, 14 December 1995. Siam Post, 14 December 1995. Siam Post, 15 December 1995. Wiphak Chaphan, ‘Jotpai Matichon’, Matichon, 15 December 1995 (published 14 December). Suravit Wirawan, ‘Business politics’, Phujatkan Daily, 14 December 1995. For more detailed discussion of this column, see Chapter 6. Siam Post, 16 December 1995. Siam Post, 17 December 1995. Fieldnotes, 5 December 1995. The Chat Pattana Party was established by Chatichai Choonavan as part of his bid to relaunch his political career after the events of May 1992. Fieldnotes, 16 December 1995. Chai-Anan Samudavanija, ‘Ban Phitsanulok kap khwamlang’ (‘Ban Phitsanulok and the past’), Phujatkan Daily, 18 December 1995, reprinted Siam Post, 19 December 1995. For further discussion of this article and its significance, see Chapter 6. Siam Post, 19 December 1995. Phujatkan Daily, 25 December 1996. Phujatkan Daily, 27 December 1995. Siam Post, 28 December 1995. ‘The tale of Dr S: to stay or to go is a test of Banharn’, Than Sethakit, 27 December 1995. Fieldnotes, 9 January 1996. For a brief summary, see Bangkok Post, 12 January 1996. Details in this section come from my fieldnotes, 11 January 1996. With the permission of the committee chairman, I attended this closed session. Quoted in The Nation, 12 January 1996. Surakiart’s refusal to supply a specimen of his signature to the committee was rather curious, especially since his signature appeared on all banknotes printed during his term as finance minister. Bangkok Post, 20 December 1995. For other accounts of the deal, see Phujatkan Daily, 20 December 1995, Siam Post, 20 December 1995, and Nopporn Wong-Anan, ‘Post Publishing will sell Thai-language newspaper’, Asian Wall Street Journal, 20 December 1995. Bangkok Post Weekly Review, 28 June 1996. For a discussion, see Phujatkan Daily, 2 February 1998.

190 Notes 6

The power of the political columnist 1 For a discussion (arising from a government proposal to ban the use of such names), see Nai Luakin Luachai (a pen-name), ‘Why do writers use pen-names?’, Siam Rath, 30 April 1990. 2 Vilas Manivat (compiler) and S. Van Beek (ed.), Kukrit Pramoj: His Wit and Wisdom, Bangkok, Editions Duang Kamol, 1983, p. 39. 3 Krissana Chaiyarat, ‘Samak sets ethics for his own write’, The Nation, 13 January 1994. 4 Interview in Siam Post, 9 August 1993. 5 For an interesting if somewhat unreliable English account of Kamphol and Thai Rath, see Nicholas Coleridge, Paper Tigers, London, Heinemann, 1993, pp. 430–36. 6 Nopporn Wong-Anan, ‘Journalistic blackmailing’, Bangkok Post, 14 February 1993. 7 For a discussion of Banharn’s ownership of Ban Muang, see the interview with Roj Ngamman in Yuppie, August 1995, pp. 74–5. Roj argued that Ban Muang was no longer a core part of Banharn’s business interests, and that the 18 orahan now had very little importance. The 18 orahan are discussed in Bunlert Changyai, Song khao nangsuephim (White Envelopes and Newspapers), Bangkok, Matichon Publishing, 1996, pp. 180–93. 8 See D. McCargo, Chamlong Srimuang and the New Thai Politics, London, Hurst 1997, pp. 212–17. 9 Vilas and Van Beek, Kukrit Pramoj, p. 44. 10 Thongchai Winichakul, ‘Thai “public intellectuals”, tradition, authority, media and their public’, unpublished paper presented at workshop ‘Locating power: democracy, opposition and participation in Thailand’, Asia Research Centre, Murdoch University, Western Australia, 6–7 October 1994, p.11. 11 For a detailed content analysis of some of these columns from April to June 1992, see Pajaree Tanasomboonkit, ‘Nangsuephim Thai Rath kap kankamnotwarasan khwam khatyaeng thang kanmuang nai hetkan pritsapa 2535’ (‘Thai Rath newspaper and the agenda-setting of political conflict in the May crisis 1992’), unpublished MA thesis, Faculty of Communication Arts, Chulalongkorn University, 1995, pp. 91–120. 12 Chalam Khiao, ‘Rao tham mai dai’, Thai Rath, Tuesday 11 April 1995. 13 This is a reference to the general election of 13 September 1992. 14 For more details concerning Chat, see the following articles by J. Ockey: ‘Chaopho, capital accumulation, and social welfare in Thailand’, Crossroads, 1993, vol. 8, 1, pp. 62–6; ‘Eviction and changing patterns of leadership in Bangkok slum communities’, Bulletin of Concerned Asian Scholars, 1996, vol. 28, 2, pp. 54–6. Chat later acquired a controlling interest in Siam Rath newspaper, and was elected a senator in Bangkok in 2000. 15 See Matichon, 15 August 1994, for a discussion of the case. The newspapers he sued were Krungthep Thurakit, Matichon, Khao Sot and Phujatkan. 16 Matichon Weekly, 10 June 1994. 17 See Bunlert, ‘White envelopes’, pp. 165–79. 18 ‘ “Timkanmuang” samruat saenthang 50 pi prachathipat yuk “Chuan Leekpai” chu thongnam’, Thai Rath, Sunday 9 April 1995. 19 This is a somewhat idiosyncratic list of the founding fathers of the party, omitting the first deputy leader MR Kukrit Pramoj, and curiously including Tongdi. For alternative lists, see ‘Fifty years of the Democrat Party’ (special supplement published with the Bangkok Post,15 April 1995), and Noranit Setthabut, Phak prachatipat: khwamsamret rue khwamlomleo (Democrat Party: Success or Failure), Bangkok, Thammasat University Press, 1987, pp. 6–10. 20 My translation; in the original, phak prachatikat. 21 Articles which appeared in The Economist and the Asian Wall Street Journal immediately prior to the May 1995 no-confidence debate were very supportive of the Chuan

Notes

22 23

24 25 26 27

28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46

47 48 49 50 51

191

government; it is reasonable to regard these pieces as representative of the views of most foreign investors. See ‘As others see us’, Bangkok Post, 17 May 1995. Pajaree, ‘Thai Rath newspaper’, p. 127. Others included: using seemingly ‘anti-government’ headlines which were actually simply quotes from opponents of the government, rather than the words of the newspaper itself; using neutral-sounding, ‘factual’ headlines which actually lent support to government positions; using exaggerated headlines; using headlines which did not make clear the nature of political developments; and following the prevailing krasae in editorials. Pajaree, ‘Thai Rath newspaper’ pp. 127–8. Pajaree, ‘Thai Rath newspaper’, p. 129. For details, see Chapter 5. ‘Wiphak Chaphan’, Matichon Daily,15 December 1995. Sathit Yuwanathakarun, Peutpum Plaeo Si Ngoen lae Mangkon Halep, 2 khunphonkhai Thai Rath (Looking into Plaeo Si Ngeon and Mangkon Halep, Two Big Guns of Thai Rath) (based on his Chulalongkorn University MA thesis in political science, ‘Ngaekit kiao kap sathaban thang kanmuang khong Mangkon Halap and Plaeo Si Ngoen’ (‘The perspectives on political institutions of Mangkon Halap and Plaeo Si Ngoen’), 1988), Bangkok, Siam Sport Printing, 1989, p. 16. Sathit, ‘Looking into’, p. 22. Sathit, ‘Looking into’, p. 62. Sathit, ‘Looking into’, pp. 23–4. Interview with Sathian Janthimathon, 6 February 1996. ‘Phalang ngan khong het lae phon’. Fieldnotes, 6 April 1995. ‘Running a newspaper like an NGO in the heated conditions of capitalism’, interview with Chatcharin Chaiyawttn, Siam Post, 21 August 1994. Information supplied by Jarunsak Panyasiri, subscriptions manager, Athit, 31 March 1995. Siam Post interview, 21 August 1994. Fieldnotes from research at Athit, 16 March 1995. Siam Post interview, 21 August 1994. ‘Kanmuang baep grammi’ (‘Grammy-style politics’), ‘Na 4 Siam’, Siam Post, 19 December 1995. Fieldnotes from research at Athit, 8–31 March 1995. The eleven newspapers were as follows: Bangkok Post, The Nation, Matichon, Siam Post, Naeo Na, Thai Rath, Daily News, Krungthep Thurakit, Phujatkan, Siam Rath and Khao Sot. Interview with Chatcharin Chaiyawttn, 27 March 1995. Chatcharin interview, 27 March 1995. See Chapter 1 for more discussion of this issue. ‘Anakhot khong sathaban phramahakasat’, Athit, 21–7 March 1997, pp. 10–12. Pasuk Phongpaichit and C. Baker, Thailand: Economy and Politics, Kuala Lumpur, Oxford University Press, 1995, p. 371. Pasuk and Baker, Thailand, p. 371. Chetana Nagavara, ‘Literature in Thai life: reflections of a native’, First Conference Lecture, Fifth International Conference on Thai Studies, School of Oriental and African Studies, London, 1993, see especially pp. 36–42. The lecture was later published in South East Asia Research, 1994, vol. 2, 1, pp. 12–52. Chetana singles out for special praise, and lengthy quotation and translation, an article by Pichit entitled ‘Ungrateful history’, Phujatkan Daily,12 November 1992. Chetana cites an article by Kasian entitled ‘Thamai phom thung leuk ben marksist’ (‘Why I have stopped being a Marxist’), Phujatkan Daily, 26 January 1993. Chetana, ‘Literature in Thai life’, p. 51 (article), p. 41 (original paper). Chetana, ‘Literature in Thai life’, p. 50 (article and original paper). Thongchai, ‘Thai public intellectuals’, pp. 1–2.

192 Notes 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66

7

Thongchai, ‘Thai public intellectuals’, p. 4. Thongchai, ‘Thai public intellectuals’, p. 4. Thongchai, ‘Thai public intellectuals’, p. 6. Thongchai, ‘Thai public intellectuals’, p. 11. Thongchai, ‘Thai public intellectuals’, p. 12. Kasian Tejapira, ‘Globalizers vs communitarians: post-May 1992 debates among Thai public intellectuals’, unpublished paper prepared for Annual Meeting of the Association of Asian Studies, Honolulu, 11–14 April 1996, p. 6. Kasian, ‘Globalizers’, p. 8. Kasian, ‘Globalizers’, p. 9. Kasian, ‘Globalizers’, p. 9. Interview with Khamnoon Sitthisamarn, managing editor, Phujatkan Daily, 20 October 1995. On advocacy of political reform in Phujatkan, see D. McCargo, ‘Policy advocacy and the media in Thailand’ in D. McCargo and Ramaimas Bowra, Policy Advocacy and the Media in Thailand, Bangkok, Institute of Public Policy Studies, 1997, pp. 37–9. Phujatkan Daily, 5 October 1995. Before joining Phujatkan Weekly in 1988, Khamnoon worked for the political weeklies Jarurat, Laeng Khao, and Su Anakhot. For a discussion of Sondhi’s business problems, see Andrew Sherry, ‘Reality check’, Far Eastern Economic Review, 22 May 1997, pp. 72–5. Chai-Anan Samudavanija, ‘Ban Phitsanulok kap khwamlang’ (‘Ban Phitsanulok and the past’), Phujatkan Daily,18 December 1995, reprinted in Siam Post, 19 December 1995.

Conclusion 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

Krungthep Thurakit, 23 June 1997. Krungthep Thurakit, 31 July 1997. Krungthep Thurakit, 16 October 1997. Krungthep Thurakit, 10 May 1997. Krungthep Thurakit, 31 July 1997. Krungthep Thurakit, 23 June 1997. ‘Thai press barons watch as their castles crumble’ (Reuters), Asahi Evening News, 7 October 1997. Krungthep Thurakit, 22 June 1997; ‘License to print money expires for newspapers’, Bangkok Post, 12 January 1998. Matichon, 15 January 1998. Thai Post, 1 February 1998. This was a curious claim, since the 1995–6 Banharn Silpa-archa coalition government was originally created at a safe house belonging to Sondhi. Dok Bia Thurakit, 3 August 1998. Krungthep Thurakit, 4 March 1998. Krungthep Thurakit, 20 September 1999. Phujatkan Daily, 2 February 1998. Khao Sot, 14 January 1998. See D. McCargo (ed.), Reforming Thai Politics, Copenhagen, Nordic Institute of Asian Studies, 2001. See Ubonrat Siriyuvasak, ‘The development of a participatory democracy: raison d’être for media reform in Thailand’, Southeast Asian Journal of Social Science, 1994, vol. 22, pp. 101–14. See Alongkorn Parivudhiphong, ‘Just a paper tiger?’, Bangkok Post, 1 September 1997; and Chalinee Hirano, ‘Journalistic professionalism in Thailand: a crisis of

Notes

19 20

21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31

193

ethics’, unpublished paper presented at the Seventh International Conference on Thai Studies, Amsterdam, 4–8 July 1999, pp. 16–18. See Pichai Chuensuksawadi, ‘Council is the sum of its parts’, Bangkok Post, 19 April 1999. See the Press Council of Thailand, Newsletter of the Press Council of Thailand, 1, 1999, pp. 10–12. A number of these thirty-four cases were disregarded because they fell outside the Council’s area of jurisdiction, or were based upon anonymous complaints. No action was taken by the Council in respect of most complaints. Siam Rath Weekly, 31 January 1999. ‘Bangkok Post statement’, Bangkok Post, 4 February 1999; ‘Bangkok Post statement’, Bangkok Post, 11 February 1999. ‘Rulings by the Press Council of Thailand’, Bangkok Post,16 April 1999. The Nation, 24 February 1999. Daily News, 5 February 1999; Matichon, 5 February 1999. Khao Sot, 3 February 1999. ‘Rulings by the Press Council of Thailand’, Bangkok Post, 16 April 1999. Alongkorn Parivudhiphong, ‘Just a paper tiger?’, Bangkok Post, 1 September 1997. ‘Keeping tabs on the media’ (‘Dateline Bangkok’, translation from Naeo Na), Bangkok Post, 19 February 1999. Pichai Chuensuksawadi, ‘Council is the sum of its parts’, Bangkok Post, 19 April 1999. Freedom Forum, 1998 Asia Media Forum, Free Press Fair Press, Hong Kong, June 9–10, Arlington, Virginia, Freedom Forum, 1998, p. 8.

Select bibliography

Note: Thai authors have been alphabetised by first name. Anderson, B., ‘Withdrawal symptoms: social and cultural aspects of the October 6 coup’, Bulletin of Concerned Asian Scholars, 1977, vol. 9, 3, pp. 13–30. Baisnée, O., ‘Can political journalism exist at the EU level?’, unpublished paper, panel on ‘Political journalism: new challenges, new practices’, ECPR Joint Sessions, Copenhagen, 14–19 April 2000. Banthukyiaokhao na sanamrop ratchadamnoen (Journalists’ Record: Ratchadamnoen Battlefield), Bangkok, Reporters’ Association of Thailand, 1992. Blumler, J.G. and Gurevitch, M., The Crisis of Public Communication, London, Routledge, 1995. Boonrak Boonyaketmala, ‘Thailand’, in John A. Lent (ed.), Newspapers in Asia: Contemporary Trends and Problems, Hong Kong, Heinemann Asia, 1982, pp. 334–63. Brown, D., The State and Ethnic Politics in Southeast Asia, London, Routledge, 1994. Bunlert Changyai, Song khao nangsuephim (White Envelopes and Newspapers), Bangkok, Matichon Publishing, 1996. Callahan, W.A., Imagining Democracy: Reading the Events of May in Thailand, Singapore, Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 1998. Chai-Anan Samudavanija, ‘Ban Phitsanulok kap khwamlang’ (‘Ban Phitsanulok and the past’), Phujatkan Daily, 18 December 1995. Chalinee Hirano, ‘Journalistic professionalism in Thailand: a crisis of ethics?’, unpublished paper presented at the Seventh International Conference on Thai Studies, Amsterdam, 4–8 July 1999. Chatcharin Chaiyawttn, ‘Anakhot khong sathaban phramahakasat’ (‘The future of the institution of the monarchy’), Athit, 21–7 March 1997. Chetana Nagavara, ‘Literature in Thai life: reflections of a native’, First Conference Lecture, Fifth International Conference on Thai Studies, School of Oriental and African Studies, London, 1993. ——‘Literature in Thai life: reflections of a native’, South East Asia Research, 1994, vol. 2, 1, pp. 12–52. Coleridge, N., Paper Tigers, London, Heinemann, 1993. Copeland, M.P., ‘Contested nationalism and the 1932 overthrow of the absolute monarchy in Siam’, unpublished PhD thesis, Australian National University, 1993. Fairclough, G., ‘Free to air’, Far Eastern Economic Review, 16 November 1995. Feldman, O., Politics and the News Media in Japan, Ann Arbor, University of Michigan Press, 1993.

Select bibliography 195 Freedom Forum, 1998 Asia Media Forum, Free Press Fair Press, Hong Kong, June 9–10, Arlington, Virginia, Freedom Forum, 1998. Girling, J.L.S.,Thailand: Society and Politics, Ithaca, Cornell University Press, 1981. Hamilton, A., ‘Rumours, foul calumnies and the safety of the state’, in C.J. Reynolds (ed.), National Identity and its Defenders: Thailand 1939–1999, Chiang Mai, Silkworm Books, 1993. ——‘Video crackdown, or the sacrificial pirate: censorship and cultural consequences in Thailand’, Public Culture, 1993, vol. 5, p. 530. Hanazaki, Y., ‘The Indonesian press in the era of keterbukaan: a force for democratisation?’, unpublished PhD thesis, Monash University, 1996. Handley, P., ‘More of the same? Business and politics 1987–96’, in K. Hewison (ed.), Political Change in Thailand: Democracy and Participation, London, Routledge, 1997, pp. 94– 113. Heuvel, J.V. and Dennis, E.E., The Unfolding Lotus: East Asia’s Changing Media, New York, The Freedom Forum Media Studies Center, Columbia University, 1994, pp. 163–74. Hewison, K., ‘The monarchy and democratisation’, in K. Hewison (ed.), Political Change in Thailand: Democracy and Participation, London, Routledge, 1997, pp. 158–74. Hong, L., ‘Fifteen years of Sinlapa Wattanatham: from fragmentation to commodification of Thai art and culture’, unpublished paper presented at the Sixth International Conference on Thai Studies, Chiang Mai, 14–17 October 1996. Kasian Tejapira, ‘Globalizers vs communitarians: post-May 1992 debates among Thai public intellectuals’, paper prepared for Annual Meeting of the Association of Asian Studies, Honolulu, 11–14 April 1996. Korakot Surakul, ‘Kanpeutpradenkhao lae krabuankan thamkhao phusuekhao kanmuang’ (‘News issue opening and the news-making process of political reporters’), unpublished MA thesis, Department of Journalism, Chulalongkorn University, 1997. McCargo, D., ‘The buds of May’, Index on Censorship, April 1993, pp. 3–8. ——Chamlong Srimuang and the New Thai Politics, London, Hurst, 1997. ——‘Thailand’s political parties: real, authentic, and actual’, in Kevin Hewison (ed.), Political Change in Thailand: Democracy and Participation, London, Routledge, 1997, pp. 114–31. ——‘The international media and the domestic political coverage of the Thai press’, Modern Asian Studies, 1999, vol. 33, 3, pp. 551–79. ——‘Killing the messenger: the 1994 press bannings and the demise of Indonesia’s New Order’, Harvard International Journal of Press/Politics, 1999, vol. 4, 1, pp. 29–47. ——(ed.) Reforming Thai Politics, Copenhagen, Nordic Institute of Asian Studies, 2001. McCargo, D. and Ramaimas Bowra, Policy Advocacy and the Media in Thailand, Bangkok, Institute of Public Policy Studies, 1997. Mehra, Achal (ed.), Press Systems in ASEAN States, Singapore, Asian Mass Communication Research and Information Centre, 1989. Nopporn Wong-Anan, ‘Journalistic blackmailing’, Bangkok Post, 14 February 1993. Noranit Setthabut, Phak prachatipat: khwamsamret rue khwamlomleo (Democrat Party: Success or Failure), Bangkok, Thammasat University Press, 1987. Ockey, J. S., ‘Business leaders, gangsters, and the middle class: societal groups and civilian rule in Thailand’, unpublished PhD thesis, Cornell University, 1992. ——‘Chaopho, capital accumulation, and social welfare in Thailand’, Crossroads, 1993, vol. 8, 1, pp. 44–77. ——‘Eviction and changing patterns of leadership in Bangkok slum communities’, Bulletin of Concerned Asian Scholars, 1996, vol. 28, 2, pp. 46–9.

196 Select bibliography Pajaree Tanasomboonkit, ‘Nangsuephim Thai Rath kap kankamnotwarasan khwam khatyaeng thang kanmuang nai hetkan phruksapha 2535’ (‘Thai Rath newspaper and the agenda-setting of political conflict in the May crisis 1992’), unpublished MA thesis, Faculty of Communication Arts, Chulalongkorn University, 1995. Pasuk Phongpaichit and Baker, C., Thailand: Economy and Politics, Kuala Lumpur, Oxford University Press, 1995. ——‘Power in transition: Thailand in the 1990s’, in Kevin Hewison (ed.), Political Change in Thailand: Democracy and Participation, London, Routledge, 1997, pp. 21–41. Pasuk Phongpaichit and Sungsidh Piriyarangsan, Corruption and Democracy in Thailand, Bangkok, The Political Economy Centre, Faculty of Economics, Chulalongkorn University, 1994. Pharr, S.J., ‘Media and politics in Japan: historical and contemporary perspectives’, in S.J. Pharr and E.S. Krauss (eds), Media and Politics in Japan, Honolulu, University of Hawaii Press, 1996, pp. 3–17. ——‘Media as trickster in Japan: a comparative perspective’, in S.J. Pharr and E.S. Krauss (eds), Media and Politics in Japan, Honolulu, University of Hawaii Press, 1996, pp. 24–36. Sakkharin Niyomsilpa, ‘The political economy of telecommunications liberalisation in Thailand’, unpublished PhD thesis, Australian National University, September 1995. Sanyalak Thiamthanoy, Kamphol Wacharapon: jomphol khong nangsuephim Thai Rath (Kamphol Wacharapon: Field Marshal of Thai Rath Newspaper), second edition, Bangkok, Ton Or, 1994. Sathit Yuwanathakarun, ‘Ngaekit kiao kap sathaban thang kanmuang khong Mangkon Halap and Plaeo Si Ngoen’ (‘The perspectives on political institutions of Mangkon Halap and Plaeo Si Ngoen’), unpublished MA thesis, Faculty of Political Science, Chulalongkorn University, 1988. ——Peutpum Plaeo Si Ngoen lae Mangkon Halep, 2 khunphonkhai Thai Rath (Looking into Plaeo Si Ngoen and Mangkon Halep, Two Big Guns of Thai Rath), Bangkok, Siam Sport Printing, 1989. Streckfuss, D.E., ‘The poetics of subversion: civil liberty and lèse-majesté in the modern Thai state’, unpublished PhD thesis, University of Wisconsin–Madison, 1998. Surat Numnonda, ‘Thai provincial newspapers’, Media Asia, 1987, vol. 14, 2, pp. 73–5. Surin Maisrikrod and McCargo, D., ‘Electoral politics: commercialisation and exclusion’, in K. Hewison (ed.), Political Change in Thailand: Democracy and Participation, London, Routledge, 1997, pp. 132–48. Suthichai Yoon, Ma fao ban (Watchdog), Bangkok, Nation Publishing, 1995. Thitinan Pongsudhirak, ‘Thailand’s media: whose watchdog?’, in Kevin Hewison (ed.), Political Change in Thailand: Democracy and Participation, London, Routledge, 1997, pp. 217–32. Thongchai Winichakul, ‘Thai “public intellectuals”, tradition, authority, media and their public’, unpublished paper presented at Workshop ‘Locating power: democracy, opposition and participation in Thailand’, Asia Research Centre, Murdoch University, Western Australia, 6–7 October 1994. Ubonrat Siriyuvasak, ‘Radio broadcasting in Thailand: the structure and dynamics of political ownership and economic control’, Media Asia, 1992, vol. 19, 2, pp. 92–9. ——‘The development of a participatory democracy: raison d’être for media reform in Thailand’, Southeast Asian Journal of Social Science, 1994, vol. 22, pp. 101–14. Vilas Manivat (compiler) and Van Beek, S. (ed.), Kukrit Pramoj: His Wit and Wisdom, Bangkok, Editions Duang Kamol, 1983.

Select bibliography 197 Wasant Paileeklee, ‘Interactions between the press and politics in Thailand from 14 October 1973 to 23 February 1991’, London, School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London, unpublished MA dissertation, Area Studies (South East Asia), 1992. Wolferen, K. van, The Enigma of Japanese Power, London, Macmillan, 1989.

Newspapers and periodicals cited Asahi Evening News Asian Wall Street Journal Athit Bangkok Post Bangkok Post Weekly Review Daily News Dok Bia Thurakit Far Eastern Economic Review Jakarta Post Khao Sot Krungthep Thurakit Matichon Matichon Sutsapda (Matichon Weekly) Naeo Na The Nation Phujatkan Raiwan (Phuchatkan Daily) Siam Post Siam Rath Siam Rath Sapdawijan (Siam Rath Weekly) Thai Post Thai Rath Thai Thurakit Finance Than Sethakit Yuppie Wattajak

Index

Abhakhorn Rujaya 25 Abhisit Vejjajiva 15–16, 16, 52, 128 agenda setting 20, 135 aircraft deals 113–14, 124–5 analysis of information 3, 34–6, 143–50 Anand Panyarachun 16, 113 Anurak Jurimat 131 arms deals 113, 117 Aroon Larnlua: ethics of reporting 36, 134; news/comment 33; Dr S story 109–10, 118, 129, 130–1 Arthit Kamlang-ek, General 11 Aryus Prateep Na Thalang 109, 110, 112, 115 ASEAN countries 1 Asia Times 171–2 Asian Wall Street Journal 125, 190–1n21 Assembly for Small-Scale Northeastern Farmers 48, 101 Athit Weekly 2, 154–6 Ayuphun Kanasut 128, 162 baht devalued 170 Baisnée, O. 73 Baker, C. 14, 17, 156–7 Ban Muang 138, 190n7 Ban Phitsanulok 188n1; electricity project 126; Kraisak 124–5, 131–2, 163; National Peace-Keeping Council 120, 162; Pansak 151; Dr S papers 107; Surakiart 121, 129–30; Weerasak 114–15, 117 Bangkok Bank of Commerce 134 Bangkok Post: bribery 173–4; circulation 1, 107, 181n110; Press Council of Thailand 174–5; standards 9; student uprisings 10; Termsak 63

Bangkok/provinces 3–4, 23–4, 47–9, 50, 68–9, 178n6 Banharn Silpa-archa 14; Ban Muang 138, 190n7; Chantaburi province 68–9; krasae 78; Match Cross International 123; Matichon 92–3, 95–6; monarchy 28; press ownership 22; rumours 11; Dr S case 116; Surakiart 107, 109; Thai Rath 16; thesis story 74; Weerasak 109, 126 big shots 2–3, 42–5, 46, 167; see also dek/phu yai blackmail 47–8 Blumler, J. G. 63 Boonrak Boonyaketmala 7, 8–9, 12, 19 Borwornsak, Dr 124, 125 Bradley, Dan 7 bribery 11, 173–4; see also gifts Buddha amulets 70 Buddhist sangha 155 Bunchuay Singkorn 140 Bunlert Changyai 87, 143 bureaucratisation 99–101 Burma 1 business newspapers 22, 71, 172 by-line 38 cash payments 70–2, 91 censorship 9, 12, 18 Chai-Anan Samudavanija 6, 129, 137, 161; Phujatkan 127–8, 137, 161; Dr S case 129, 162; and Sondhi 6 chain-listing, Phujatkan 22 Chaiyan Rajchagool 44 Chalam Khiao (Weerasak Konthong) 140–3, 164; criticism of reporters 39–40; politicians 138, 163; Sunday political analysis 43–4, 147–8

Index Chalard Vorachat 15, 35–6, 38–9, 46 Chalerm Yubamrung 6, 11–12 Chamlong Bunsong 71 Chamlong Dokpik 99, 100 Chamlong Srimuang 13, 15, 17, 22, 138 Chantaburi province 68–9 Chao Phraya 11 charitable donations 72 Chart Pattana Party 26, 27, 71–2, 189n42 Chart Thai party 14, 70–1, 78, 110 Chat Taopoon 142–3 Chatcharin Chaiyawttn: Athit Weekly 154–6; monarchy 28; neutrality of press 20; newspaper classification 23; So Po Ko land reform 17; writer columnist 151, 156 Chatichai Choonavan: corruption in government 93; Decree 42 12; Kamphol 22; ousted 5, 27; parties 65; and press 11–12, 72; rumour 27; Sondhi 5–6 Chavalit Yongchaiyudh 132 Chavarong Limpattamapanee 25–6 Chermsak Pinthong 59 Chetana Nagavara 157–8, 175 Chuan Leekpai: Chart Pattana Party 27; Democrats 143–50; journalist friends 138; news/comment 38; no-confidence debate 4, 13; opposition leaders 59; paid columnists 137–8; Dr S story 129; So Po Ko land reform scandal 4, 14, 78–9, 81; television reporters 51; Thai Rath 1, 6, 14, 15–16, 141–2, 149 Chulalongkorn, King 7 Chulalongkorn University 6, 113, 123–4 Chupong Maneenoi 42, 43–4, 147 circulation figures 1–2, 6, 22, 82, 107, 181n110 clippings files 34 columnists 136, 137–9, 164; Chuan 137–8; eighteen knights 138; gifts/pay 137–8; insiders 60, 137; krasae 169; news/comment 5; Phujatkan 160–1; political analysis 3; political power 168–9; politicians 5, 136–7; professionalism 136, 137–8, 152–3; and reporters 42–5, 50, 60 comment: parliamentary reporters 56–7; see also news/comment Committee to Protect Journalists 14 communitarians 159–60

199

competition, parliamentary reporters 73 co-operation 75, 80 Copeland, M. P. 7 corruption 10, 11–12, 20, 93, 155 coup 5, 12, 27 criminals 47 Daily Mirror 22 Daily News: Chamlong 22; circulation 1, 82, 181n110; profit-oriented 5; student uprising 9 Dao Sayam 10 Decree 42 12, 22, 24–6, 37 dek/phu yai (kids/veterans) 38–42, 49, 51–2, 115 democracy 10, 24–5 Democrats: Chart Pattana Party 27; Chuan 143–50; economic decline 148–9; elitism 148; Solidarity 36; So Po Ko land reform scandal 6, 17; Suthep 4; Thai Rath 14, 16–17, 143–50 Dennis, E. E. 55 devaluation 170 drug trafficking 70–1, 92 economic decline 148–9 The Economist 3, 190n21 editorial principles 151–3 editors 42, 45, 59, 60 eighteen knights 138, 190n7 Ekamol Siriwat 128–9 elections, news coverage 103–4, 106 electricity project 126 electronic media 9, 10; military 18, 23; national reach 23; Reporters’ Association of Thailand 26; state control 1, 23 elitism, Democrats 148 English language press 1, 21–2, 73, 178n2 enlightenment, Thailand 157, 160–1, 175 envelope culture 70, 72; see also bribery; gifts ethics: Aroon 36, 134; intellectuals 123; journalism 36; Press Council of Thailand 173–4; Thai press 24–5, 71 European Commission, news-gathering 73–5 exclusive stories 74–5 expenses, reporters 70 Express Transit Authority 113, 115

200 Index extra-parliamentary groups 46–7 Feldman, Ofer 51–2, 54, 57, 61, 62 Foreign Ministry 63 Franks Commission 127–8 Free Radio Broadcasting Network 10 freebies 70, 71 French Enlightenment 157 front-page editors 42 gender, reporters 66–7 ghost reporters 71 gifts: amulets 70; cash payments 70–2, 91; columnists 137–8; hospitality 68–70, 72; see also improprieties Girling, J. L. S. 5 globalisers 159–60 gossip 21–2, 90 government see politicians Government House 46 Government House reporters 53–4, 58–9, 60 Group of Sixteen 17, 67 Gurevitch, M. 63 Hamilton, Annette 18, 26 Hanazaki, Yasuo 37 headlines: Roj 115; Siam Post 89, 110, 130 Heuvel, J. V. 55 hierarchy 167 hospitality 68–70, 72 House Finance Committee 132–5 hunger strikes 15 Hutchins Commission 38 improprieties, reporters/news sources 67–73 Indonesia: Information Ministry 37; journalistic training 55–6; press 1; talk journalism 37–8 information: analysis 34–6; special relationships 3 Information Ministry of Indonesia 37 inside/outside workers 45, 60, 137 insider traders 162–5 intellectuals 94, 123; see also public intellectuals Interior Ministry 46, 63 intimidation of press 13 ITV 23

Japan: news-gathering 51–2; news sources 62; politicians/reporters 53, 57, 63; press rooms 54 Jit Phoumisak 158 Jittin Ritthirat 25 job satisfaction, parliamentary reporters 59–60 journalism: analysis 34; ethics 36; reporters 171; standards 173; training 55–6 Kamphol Wacharapon: appointed to Senate 22; birthday party 15–16; Chupong 42; death 49; rewards for columnists 138; Thai Rath 6, 32–3 Kanin Boonsuwan 36 Kasian Tejapira 159–60 Khamnoon Sitthisamarn 139, 151, 160–2, 163 Khanchai Boonpan 11, 93 Khao Sot: circulation 1–2, 6, 82, 181n110; politicians 64; reporter 61; Thai Rath 25–6; Yantra story 6–7 Khunying Supatra Masdit 128 Kockums affair 110, 115, 126–7, 129 Kraisak Choonavan 6, 124–5, 131–2, 163 krasae (movement of public opinion) 76–8; columnists 169; Matichon 89–90; monitoring 80–1; Siam Post 135 Kriangsak regime 11 Krisakorn Wongkornwuthi 41, 109 Krungthep Thurakit 88, 172 Kukrit Pramoj 8, 10, 22, 137, 154 Kulap Saipradit 158 land reform see So Po Ko land reform scandal libel 5–6, 135 liberalisation of press 10 licences 8, 9–10 Likhit Chongsakul 42, 43 literacy 29 lobbyists 136, 137–9, 150 local activists 101–2 local newspapers 24 Lubis, Mochtar 55–6 Lysa, Hong 85 Malaysia 1 Manit Suksomchit 138 Manoon Roopkachorn 6

Index Mass Communication Organisation of Thailand 23, 33, 137 Match Cross International: Banharn government 123; Chulalongkorn University Law Faculty 113; Surakiart 113, 114; Weerasak 111, 112, 114, 121–2; Young Brothers 116–17, 118 Matichon 11, 82–5, 98; Bangkok Bank of Commerce 134; Banharn 92–3, 95–6; circulation 2, 82, 181n110; editors/desk chiefs 86, 93–4, 99–101; election coverage 103–4, 106; exclusive stories 74; gossip 90; Jotpai column 153–4; krasae 89–90; local reporters 102–3; military 94–5; National Peace-Keeping Council 14, 93–5, 106; news-gathering 74, 102–3; news meetings 85–8; political contacts 6, 90–3; political coverage 33, 88–90, 104–5; praden 89–90; professionalism 91, 105–6; profits 5; quality newspapers 82–5, 88–90; shareholding/non-shareholding staff 84, 91, 105; social objectives 83; So Po Ko land reform scandal 17, 104–5, 180n60; stock market flotation 83–4, 85; stringers 102, 103–4 Matichon Weekly 154 media: mirroring society 19–21; neutrality 20; ownership 169–70; partisanship 19, 170; political role 12–13, 20, 103–4; politicians 63–4; public 139; reform 172–5; So Po Ko land reform scandal 78–9, 81; state power 18–21; Thailand 1; as trickster 21; as watchdog 18–19 military: electronic media 18, 23; Matichon 94–5; as news source 46; press opposition 6; Suchinda government 12–13 military beat reporters 67–8 missing item of news 40, 57, 65, 69, 75 mobile phone gifts 70–1 monarchy 7, 8; Banharn 28; Chatcharin 28; political role 28; rumour 26–9; television coverage 23 Mongkut, King 7 Montri Pongphanich 100 moralists 136 MPs 62–3, 64; see also politicians murder, political 49, 101–3

201

Naeo Na 6, 12, 13, 23, 173–4 The Nation 5, 9, 18; anti-military 6; antiSuchinda 13–14; award 14; circulation 1, 181n110; ITV 23; Krungthep Thurakit 108; ownership 172; Phujatkan 25; profit 5; Dr S story 111, 114–15 national newspapers 177 National Peace-Keeping Council: Ban Phitsanulok 120, 162; censorship of press 12; coup 5, 12; Matichon 14, 93–5, 106; Phujatkan 13, 156, 178n10; Siam Post 131–2; Sondhi 5–6 neutrality of media 20 New Aspiration Party 13, 26, 132 Newin Chidchob 17, 52, 113 news/comment 37, 49, 168, 175, 177; Aroon 33; Chuan 38; columnists 5; Krisakorn 41; political coverage 3, 57; reporters 60; Siam Post 33, 119–20; Thai Rath 33–8 news coverage: elections 103–4, 106; provincial 3–4, 47–9, 50; see also political coverage news-gathering: co-operation 75, 80; European Commission 73–5; factual 56–7; information 34; Matichon 74, 102–3; parliamentary reporters 53–4, 56–9, 73–5; quotations 2–3; reform 175, 177; Thailand/Japan 51–2; topdown 59 news issues 57 news meetings: Matichon 85–8; Siam Post 85; Thai Rath 44–5, 85 news sharing 69, 75 news sources: improprieties 67–73; Japan 62; parliamentary reporters 65–6; political reporters 92; reporters 60–3, 65–6, 80; Dr S case 119; Siam Post 119, 130–1; special relationships 3 Nidhi Aeusrivongse 94, 129 no-confidence debate 4, 13 Ockey, J. S. 22 opposition leaders 59 ownership: media 169–70; The Nation 172; Phujatkan 5–6; politicians 22; press 22; Thai Rath 6, 22 Pairoj Suwanchawee 64 Pajaree Tanasomboonkit 150

202 Index Pakpoom Pongbhai 89–90, 96, 97–8, 101 Palang Dharma 13, 17 Pansak Vinyaratn 6, 151 parliament 46 parliamentary investigation 129–33 parliamentary reporters 54–6; comment 56–7; competition 73; factual news 56–7; Japan 53; job satisfaction 59–60; monetary gifts 71; news-gathering 53–4, 56–9, 73–5; news sources 60–3, 65–6, 80 partisanship 19, 170 Pasuk Phongpaichit 14, 17, 156–7 Pathomphong, Major-General 128 patronage 23 Pattara Khumphitak 103, 179n51 Pharr, Susan 21, 26 phi nong (family proximity) 82 Phibunsongkhram, Field Marshal 8 philosophes 136, 156–60 photographers 70–1, 71 phu yai (big people) 2–3, 42–5, 46, 167; see also dek/phu yai phuak diao kan (being in same group) 93 Phujatkan: anti-military 6; banned 156–7; Chai-Anan 127–8, 137, 161; chainlisting 22; circulation 2, 181n110; columnists 160–1; intellectuals 94; The Nation 25; National Peace-Keeping Council 13, 156, 178n10; news meetings 85; owner 5–6; personalist management 180n83; political stories 33; public intellectuals 95, 164–5; sections 22–3; self-referentiality 160–3; Sondhi 156 Pichai Chuensuksawadi 174–5 Pichase Panvichatikul 130 police officers 71 political campaigners 35 political contacts: Matichon 6, 90–3; reporters 60–3; Thai Rath 6, 44 political coverage 7, 31; analysis 3, 143–50; Chalam Khiao 39–40; Matichon 33, 88–90, 104–5; news/comment 3, 57; Phujatkan 33; reform 177; Siam Post 33, 88–9; Thai press 1, 2, 118–20, 137, 177; Thai Rath 143–50 political murder 49, 101–3 political reporters: background knowledge 99–101; decision-making case 95–8; Japan 57; news sources 63–4, 92; power

168–9; promotion inside 61; Siam Post 115; training 79–80, 167–8; transferring 95–8 political rewriters 39, 41, 59 political role: media 12–13, 20, 103–4; monarchy 28; Thai language press 166–8, 169, 176 politicians: cash gifts 72; Chalam Khiao 138, 163; columnists 5, 136–7; hospitality 68–70, 72; Japan 57, 63; Khao Sot 64; media 63–4; phu yai (big people) 46; press ownership 22; press releases 75; reporters 11–12, 51–2, 57, 63; rumour 61–2; social invitations 65–6; suing press 16, 130, 132, 135 Pongsak Payakvichien 86–7 Post Publishing Group 107–8, 133 Prachacha 82 Prachathippatai 9 praden (news issue) 40–1, 57, 89–90 Pramote Faiuppara 16, 43 Pravien Bunnak 49, 101–3 Prawase Wasi 127–8, 172–3 Prem Tinsulanond 6, 22, 27–8 Press Council of Thailand 173–4, 175 press releases 75 press rooms, Japan 54 Pridi Phanomyong 8 print media see Thai press pro-democracy 24–5 professionalism 19, 23; columnists 136, 137–8, 152–3; Matichon 91, 105–6; reporters 64–5 profits 5 protests 9, 10, 12–13 provinces/Bangkok 3–4, 23–4, 47–9, 50, 68–9, 178n6 public 18; media 139; protests 12–13; readership 158–9 public intellectuals: columnists 136, 156–60; ethics 123; insider traders 162–5; Phujatkan 94, 164–5 quality newspapers 82–5, 88–90 quotations 2–3, 33, 35, 40 radio 10 radio reporters 23, 61 Radio Thailand 23 readership 158–9

Index regional bureaux 178n6 reporters 50, 102–3, 171; as advisors 64; background knowledge 39–40; Chalam Khiao 39–40; and columnists 42–5, 50, 60; commercialisation of relationships 68–9, 71–2; ethics 71; expenses 70; gender 66–7; improprieties 67–73; Khao Sot 61; news/comment 60; as news distributors 75; news sharing 57–8, 80; news sources 3, 47, 50, 60–3, 80; outside work 45, 50; pay 171, 184n14; politicians 51–2, 57, 62–3; professionalism 61; provinces 47–9, 68–9; role models 76; routinisation 52, 55, 79; social invitations 65–6; stories/friendships 75; training 38, 49, 54–6, 177, 182n9; see also parliamentary reporters Reporters’ Association of Thailand: awards 104; commemorative book 13; Decree 42 24–6; electronic media 26; mobile phone gifts 70–1; prime minister/reporters clash 51; pro-democracy 24–5 repression 8 Richards, Richard 124 Roj Ngamman: columnist 138, 156, 164; criticising other newspapers 125–6; editorial principles 151–3; headlines 115; responsibility 110–11; Dr S story 109–10, 117–23, 150–1; Siam Post 108 routinisation of reporting 52, 55, 79 Royal Gazette 7 rumour 11, 26–9, 61–2 Dr S story 125–6; Abhisit 128; Aroon 109–10, 118, 129, 130–1; Banharn 116; Chai-Anan 129, 162; Chart Thai party 110; Chuan 129; The Nation 111, 114–15; New Aspiration Party 132; parliamentary investigation 129–33; Roj 109–10, 117–23, 150–1; Siam Post 107– 10, 111–17, 123–7, 133–5, 150; sources 119, 127; see also Surakiart; Weerasak Samak Sundaravej 22, 137 Samarn Sudto 174 Samphan Thongsamak 74 Sanan Kachornprasat 16, 27–8 Sanchai Chantrawatanakul 89, 92 Sangchai Sunthornvut 33, 137 sangha 155

203

Santi Viriyarangsarit 16 Sanya Thammasak 9–10 Saravudh Wacharapon 42 Sarit Thanarat, Prime Minister 8 Sathian Janthimathon 99, 153–4, 156 Sathit Yuwanathakarun 152 Saudi gems case 77, 186n70 Sayam Samai 7 Schramm, Wilbur 37 self-censorship 1, 4 self-referentiality 160–3 sensationalism 8, 22–3 sex scandal 6–7, 77, 186n71 shopping money see bribery; gifts Siam Post: Aroon 36; circulation 2, 108, 181n110; dek (kids) 115; downfall 135, 172; headlines 89, 110, 130; krasae 135; National Peace-Keeping Council 131–2; news/comment 33, 119–20; news meetings 85; news sources 119, 130–1; no-confidence debate 4; political coverage 33, 88–9; political reporters 115; Post Publishing Group 107–8; Roj 108; Dr S case 107–10, 111–17, 123–7, 133–5, 150; sold 133; substantiation allegations 127; sued 130, 132, 133; Sukhumbhand 120–1; Surakiart 132, 150; Weerasak 111, 112, 123 Siam Rath 8, 22 Singapore 1 Sinlapa Wattanatham 85 social invitations 65–6 social responsibility 83, 152 Solidarity 36 Somchai Meesaen 173–4 Sommai Paritchart 93–4, 97 Sondhi Limthongkul: Asia Times 171–2; Chai-Anan 6; Chatichai 5–6; Khamnoon 161–2; National PeaceKeeping Council 5–6; Phujatkan 156 So Po Ko land reform scandal 169; Chatcharin 17; Chuan government 4, 14, 78–9, 81; Democrats 6, 17; krasae 77; Matichon 17, 104–5, 180n60; media campaign 78–9, 81; as provincial story 48; Thai Rath 6–7, 16, 17, 42, 104–5, 142, 143–50 state control 1, 18–21 stock market flotation 22, 83–4, 85 stringers 4, 48, 102, 103–4, 177

204 Index student uprisings 9, 10 Suchinda Kraprayoon: coup 93; deposed 1; military-backed 12–13; Thai press 1, 13–14, 15; Thai Rath 14, 150 suing of newspapers 16, 130, 132, 135 Sujit Wongthes 85 Sukhumbhand Paribatra 113, 120–1, 125 Sunai Chulapongsathorn 131 Sunday editions 43–4, 147–8 Supatra Masdit 128 Supha Sirimanonda 158 Surakiart Sathirathai 108; Ban Phitsanulok 121, 129–30; Banharn government 107, 109; dismissal of stock exchange chief 128–9; Finance Minister 109, 128–9; Match Cross International 113, 114; ousted 132; Dr S story 119, 162; Siam Post 132, 150; Weerasak 111, 117; Young 120 Surat Numnonda 24 Suthep Theuksuban 4 Suthichai Yoon 18, 19 talk journalism 37–8 television 23 television reporters 51, 66–7 Termsak Traisophon 63 Thai International 124 Thai language press 22–3; agenda-setting 20, 135; Bangkok/provinces 47–9; circulation 1–2; inside/outside workers 45; political role 166–8, 169, 176; Sunday editions 43 Thai press 1–3, 7–12, 171; Bangkok focus 3–4, 23–4, 47–9, 50, 178n6; banned 10– 11; business coverage 22, 71, 172; censorship 9, 12; circulation figures 1–2, 6, 22, 29, 82, 107, 181n110; competition/co-operation 73, 75, 80, 135; corruption 10, 11–12; ethics 24–5, 71; foreign language 1, 21–2, 73, 178n2; intimidation of 8, 13; local/national newspapers 24, 177; management methods 23; newspapers closed down 11, 172; ownership 5, 22; political coverage 1, 2, 118–20, 137, 177; readership 29; share values 22; Suchinda 1, 13–14, 15 Thai Rath 5, 9, 31–3; Banharn 16; Chalam Khiao 140–3, 163, 164; Chalard story 35–6, 38–9; changes 49, 183n31; Chuan 6, 14, 15–16, 141–2, 149; circulation 1,

6, 82, 181n110; columnists barred 12; concentration of control 44; Democrats 14, 16–17, 143–50; editorials 42, 43; gossip 90; inside/outside system 45–7; Kamphol 32–3; Khao Sot 25–6; news/comment 33–8; news meetings 44–5, 85; owner 6, 22; political analysis on Sunday 143–50; political contacts 6, 44; political desk 2, 41, 45–7, 63; political page 33–4; Press Council of Thailand 174; So Po Ko land reform scandal 6–7, 16, 17, 42, 104–5, 142, 143–50; Suchinda 14, 150; sued 16; Vattana 92 Thailand: baht devalued 170; Bangkok/provinces 3–4, 23–4, 47–9, 50, 68–9, 178n6; enlightenment 157, 160–1, 175; literacy 29; media 1; monarchy 7, 8, 23, 26–9; news-gathering 51–2 Thaksin Shinawatra 65, 70–1 Thammasat University 157 Than Sethakit 129 Thanin government 10–11, 12 Than Khun Noi 138 Thanom regime 8 Thanong Khanthong 175–6 Thepchai Yong 14 Thitinan Pongsudhirak 14, 18 Thongchai Winichakul 139, 158–9 training: journalism 55–6; political reporters 79–80, 167–8; reporters 38, 49, 54–6, 177, 182n9 Tridhosyuth Devakul 133 Ubonrat Siriyuvasak 13 uprisings 9, 10, 12 Vajiravudh, King 7 vanity papers 22 Vattana Assavahame 70–1, 92 video censorship 18 Vietnam 1 Wasant Paileeklee 12, 20 Wattajak 172 Weerajak Konthong see Chalam Khiao Weerasak Kowsurat 108–9; Aryus 112; Ban Phitsanulok 114–15, 117; Banharn 109, 126; bank accounts 122; denial 120; Match Cross International 111,