"What pushes a person to the edge of one life and convinces them to gamble everything on another?"

CNA producer Jonathan Chia talks about "Walk the Line", ContentAsia Awards 2025 winner for Best Current Affairs Programme (International).

“Walk The Line”︱Senior Producer, Jonathan Chia (inset) © Mediacorp/CNA

In 2023, 2.5 million migrants entered the US illegally via the southern border. Nearly 40,000 of them came from China, the world’s second-largest economy. In award-winning documentary, “Walk the Line”, CNA correspondent Wei Du joined a group of Chinese migrants on the perilous journey, trying to understand what drove them to such desperation and witness firsthand the hopes and despair on the migration trail.

The series won the ContentAsia Award in 2025 for Best Current Affairs Programme Made in Asia for Regional Asia and/or International Markets.

As part of our expanded focus on Award Winners, we spoke to producer Jonathan Chia about filming in territories controlled by drug cartels and criminal gangs, investigating human smuggling networks and talking to informants, smugglers, anonymous government officials and activists, and exposing the ongoing exploitation and challenges migrants face even after reaching their destination.

The two-part sequel, “Walk The Line: ICE Nation”, premieres tomorrow (7 May).

“Walk the Line” © Mediacorp/CNA

I hope the series allows audiences to hold more than one thought at the same time: that this journey is dangerous and often unlawful, but also that the people taking it are not faceless or reckless. They are human beings making high-stakes decisions under pressure. That complexity is why the story mattered to us. It was never just about crossing borders. It was about what pushes a person to the edge of one life and convinces them to gamble everything on another.

– Jonathan Chia, Producer, “Walk the Line”

What was the line between seeing clips on social media and the series’ greenlight from CNA?

There was definitely not a straight line from scrolling social media to getting on a plane.

The idea did begin in a very modern way. We were seeing clips of Chinese migrants documenting their own journeys through Latin America and towards the U.S. border. At first, it felt almost unreal. People filming themselves crossing jungles, sleeping in camps, dealing with smugglers and posting the whole thing online. But the more we looked, the more we realised this was not just a social media trend. It was a real migration phenomenon unfolding in public view, with very human stories behind it.

The challenge was turning that into a responsible documentary. We had to show that the route was real, that the people were contactable, that the story had depth beyond danger and spectacle and that we could film it without putting contributors or crew at unnecessary risk.

There were many hoops. Editorially, we had to be very clear about what the story was. We were not making a “how to cross the border” film. We were trying to understand why people were prepared to risk everything for this journey.

Logistically, there were questions about insurance, hostile environments, access, transport, local support and emergency plans. We had to think through what we could film, what we should not film and what we would do if things changed quickly on the ground.

The original idea did evolve. At the pitch stage, the danger of the journey was the most obvious hook. But as the research deepened, the stronger question became: what does it say about the world today that ordinary people are willing to take such extraordinary risks?

That shift helped the project become more than a perilous journey. It became a story about desperation, aspiration, misinformation, courage and the enormous gap between what people imagine a new life will be and what it actually costs to get there.

Did the idea change much from start to when the programme aired?

The spine of the idea remained the same: follow the Chinese migrant route through Latin America and towards the United States and understand the people taking it. But the emotional centre of the series changed quite a lot.

At the start, we were naturally drawn to the scale and drama of the journey: the Darien Gap, the border, the smugglers, the uncertainty. Those are powerful elements, and they are part of the reality. But once we started speaking to people properly, the story became less about the route and more about the decision.

Why would someone leave home this way? What kind of pressure makes this feel like a rational choice? How much of the dream is built on real information, and how much is shaped by social media, hearsay or hope?

By the time the programme aired, I think the series had become more intimate than the original pitch. The journey was still there, but it was no longer just a physical journey across countries. It was also a psychological journey from hope to fear, from online fantasy to on-the-ground reality, and from seeing migrants as a “wave” to seeing them as individuals with families, debts, ambitions and regrets. That was the most important evolution.

How long did the production process take?

From the first serious research to final delivery, it took roughly 10 months.

The research phase was especially important because this was not a story where we could simply arrive and start filming. We had to first understand the online ecosystem around “走线”: the videos, chat groups, guides, warnings, rumours and advice being shared among would-be migrants. Then we had to map that against what was actually happening on the ground.

The shoot itself was around seven weeks on the road, across multiple countries and constantly changing conditions. After that came the difficult part of structuring the series. We had a lot of material that was dramatic, but drama alone does not make a good documentary. The edit had to balance movement, context, character and ethics.

So the process was long not just because of travel, but because we were dealing with a story that could easily be misunderstood if the tone was wrong.

How big was your production team?

We kept the travelling team very lean. On a story like this, a large crew can become a liability very quickly. It draws attention, slows you down and makes it harder to move with the people you are filming.

The core team from Singapore comprised five members with support from local fixers and contacts in different locations. That local support was crucial. They helped us understand the ground situation, read risks, navigate practical arrangements and avoid going into situations blindly.

But even with local support, we had to make our own editorial and safety judgments every day. A fixer can open doors, but the responsibility still sits with the production team. We had to constantly ask: is this access worth it? Is this safe? Are we exposing someone? Are we filming something that could create problems for them later?

The small crew also shaped the style of the series. It allowed the filming to feel more immediate and less intrusive. We were not descending on people with a big production machine. We were travelling alongside them, listening and trying to capture the story as honestly as possible.

Were you surprised at how easy (or difficult?) it was to find routes/guides/ways over the U.S. border?

I was surprised by how visible some parts of the system were. Before this project, I think many of us imagined illegal migration routes as completely hidden, operating only in the shadows. But once we started researching, we found that a lot of information was circulating quite openly online. People were sharing route advice, costs, warnings, contacts, packing lists, success stories and horror stories. Some of it was useful, some of it was misleading and some of it was clearly designed to profit from people’s desperation.

What was harder was separating information from noise. Just because something is easy to find does not mean it is true. A route that worked for someone a month ago might become dangerous or impossible very quickly. A guide who is recommended in one chat group might be exploiting people in another. The online world creates a sense that everything is knowable and navigable, but on the ground, the reality is far more chaotic.

That tension became one of the most interesting parts of the story. Social media did not just help us discover the phenomenon. It was part of the phenomenon. It gave people the confidence to attempt the journey, but it also gave them a very partial picture of what they were walking into.

How did you persuade people to go on camera? Did you have to pay them?

We did not pay people to tell their stories. For us, that was important. These were people in vulnerable situations, and we did not want money to become the reason someone took a risk on camera. The persuasion, if you can call it that, was really about time, trust and clarity.

Many people were understandably cautious. Some worried about their families back home. Some worried about their immigration status. Some did not want their faces shown. Others were simply exhausted and did not want to relive what they had been through for a camera.

So we had to be very clear about who we were, what CNA was, what the story was about and what participation could mean. In some cases, people agreed to speak only if we protected their identities. In other cases, they were surprisingly open because they wanted others to understand what the journey was really like.

I think what helped was that we were not approaching them with judgment. We were not there to ask, “Why are you breaking the law?” We were asking, “What brought you to this point?” That difference matters. When people feel they are being treated as human beings rather than examples of a problem, they are more willing to talk.

What were your biggest security concerns?

For the crew, the obvious concerns were physical safety, movement through unfamiliar areas, criminal networks, volatile border situations and the general unpredictability of the route. We had to be alert to where we were, who was around us, what we were filming and whether our presence was attracting attention.

The bigger concern was often the safety of the people we interviewed. Many of them were in legally and emotionally precarious situations. Showing too much could expose their identities, their routes, their families or the people helping them. Even small details – a face, a location, a distinctive voice, a travel plan – could matter. We had to think very carefully about what to include and what to obscure.

There was also an ethical security issue. Our filming should never make someone feel pressured to continue a dangerous journey, reveal more than they intended, or perform their suffering for the camera.

In a production like this, safety is not just about whether the crew gets home. It is also about whether the people who trusted you are still protected after the programme airs.

What was the most hair-raising moment for the production team?

There were a few moments where the risk suddenly felt very real, but the most hair-raising ones were not always the most cinematic.

Sometimes it was the quiet moments – realising we were in a place where control could shift very quickly, or that the people around us were watching us more closely than we wanted. When you are filming a route that involves smugglers, desperate travellers, border enforcement and criminal opportunists, you become very aware that your camera is both your tool and your vulnerability.

The most tense moments were when we had to decide whether to continue filming or pull back. There were situations where the access was strong, the scene was important, but the environment did not feel right. As a producer, those are difficult calls because you know the story is unfolding in front of you. But no shot is worth putting the team or contributors in danger.

One moment that stayed with me was when our taxi driver in Colombia took a detour and drove us into a gated compound. I was told to collect our passports to follow him into an unmarked office with no explanation. It was past midnight and we had lost contact with the rest of the crew. The office staff then demanded cash from me in exchange for our passports. Thankfully, we were allowed to leave after that. It was a reminder that this was not an observational shoot where we controlled the environment. We were moving through someone else’s system, and that system had its own rules.

What made it frightening was not just the immediate danger, but the knowledge that many of the migrants had no choice but to keep going through that uncertainty.

The most hair-raising moments were not always the most cinematic. Sometimes it was the quiet moments – realising we were in a place where control could shift very quickly, or that the people around us were watching us more closely than we wanted. When you are filming a route that involves smugglers, desperate travellers, border enforcement and criminal opportunists, you become very aware that your camera is both your tool and your vulnerability.

Was there any point where you thought ‘this is too dangerous, we’re out’?

There were points where we had to stop, reassess and ask whether continuing was justified. On shoots like this, danger is rarely a single dramatic moment. It builds in small signals. A location feels wrong, a contact becomes evasive, the mood changes, someone gives advice that does not add up, or the crew’s presence starts to feel too visible. You learn to pay attention to that.

We had a clear principle: if the only reason to continue was to get a more dramatic scene, then that was not enough. The story had to justify the risk, and even then, the risk had to be manageable.

There were times when we pulled back from filming certain situations or chose not to follow a development as closely as we might have wanted. Those are frustrating decisions in the moment, but they are also the decisions that allow you to finish the project responsibly.

A documentary like “Walk The Line” cannot be made recklessly. The subject itself is already dangerous. Our job was not to add to that danger.

This is a murky world… how did you know you could trust the people you brought on board to smooth your way?

You never fully “know” in a world like this. That is the honest answer.

You can do checks, you can ask around, you can look for consistency in what people say, you can compare their information with other sources and you can watch how they behave over time. But trust is never absolute. It is built in layers and it always has limits.

With someone like Mario, the question was not simply, “Do we trust him?” It was, “What do we trust him for?” There is a difference between trusting someone to help with logistics, trusting their read of a location, trusting their motives and trusting every version of events they give you.

We tried to be clear-eyed about that. People who operate around migrant routes often sit in complicated positions. They may be helpful, but they may also have their own interests. They may understand the ground better than anyone, but that does not make them neutral.

So we treated access as something to be constantly verified, not blindly accepted. We cross-checked information where possible, kept decisions within the production team and avoided putting ourselves in situations where one person had too much control over our safety.

That murkiness is part of the story. The migrants themselves are also navigating people they cannot fully trust. In a way, our experience gave us a very small glimpse of the uncertainty they face at a much higher personal cost.

Was there anything you left out of the final programme for ethical/safety (or other) considerations?

We left out details that could have functioned as a guide to the route or exposed people unnecessarily. That was a constant editorial line for us. We wanted the audience to understand how the journey works, but we did not want the programme to become instructional. There is a difference between showing the reality of a migration route and providing a usable map for someone else to follow.

We also withheld or obscured details that could identify contributors, locations, contacts or methods in ways that might put people at risk. Sometimes that meant losing material that was compelling. But if a scene was powerful only because it revealed something dangerous, we had to ask whether it belonged in the programme.

There were also emotional considerations. Not every painful confession needs to be used. When people are exhausted, afraid or in crisis, they may say things that are true in the moment but damaging if broadcast widely. We had to handle those moments with care.

The final programme is therefore not everything we saw. It is what we felt we could responsibly show.

What surprised or shocked you most about this story?

What surprised me most was how ordinary many of the people were. That may sound strange, but when migration is discussed at a distance, people often become categories: “illegal migrants”, “border crossers”, “asylum seekers”, “economic migrants”. On the ground, the people we met were parents, workers, small business owners, young people, middle-aged people, people who had failed, people who still believed, people who were terrified but trying not to show it.

Some were very clear-eyed about the risks. Others were operating on hope, rumours and fragments of information from the internet. But almost everyone had reached a point where staying put felt impossible, or at least unbearable.

I was also struck by how the journey had become normalised online. Something incredibly dangerous could be packaged as a route, a strategy, even a kind of tutorial. That was shocking – not because people were sharing information, but because the gap between the online version and the physical reality was so wide.

Did your view of illegal migration change through the production of “Walk the Line”?

Yes, it became much harder to think about illegal migration in simple terms. The law matters. Borders matter. States have the right to decide who enters. But after making this series, I found it impossible to see illegal migration only as a law-and-order issue. By the time someone is walking through jungles, paying smugglers and risking detention or death, something has already broken much earlier in the chain.

That does not mean every decision is justified or every story is the same. But it does mean we have to look at the human pressures behind the act –economic anxiety, political fear, family obligation, social media influence, debt, shame, ambition and sometimes misinformation.

What “Walk The Line” reinforced for me is that migration stories are rarely about movement alone. They are about what people are moving away from, what they think they are moving towards and what they are willing to lose in between.

I hope the series allows audiences to hold more than one thought at the same time: that this journey is dangerous and often unlawful, but also that the people taking it are not faceless or reckless. They are human beings making high-stakes decisions under pressure.

That complexity is why the story mattered to us. It was never just about crossing borders. It was about what pushes a person to the edge of one life and convinces them to gamble everything on another.