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| (Courtesy: 123RF.com) |
A NOVEMBER TO REMEMBER
P. KRISHNAMOORTHY
She wiped her tears with a pause to recollect her memories. Obviously, she had something further to say.
It
was 9 a.m. on November 3, 2001. The Sunset Boulevard in the lower bay area of
Los Angeles was busy as usual. I entered
my office on the 9th floor of Landmark building, that housed the
Weekly “Los Angeles Explorer”. My nameplate “Dean Martin, Reporter” on the
cabin door glittered in gold backdrop.
The first call on the telephone was from Susan Hayward, the Chief
Editor, asking me to drop by in her office.
I could sense a kind of remorse in her voice. She also said I should see her
immediately. I came out of my cabin and
walked the distance of few yards to her Editorial office. I was shocked and surprised to see her face
suddenly sullen on seeing me. She
offered me the seat across her chair.
Slowly she said “Marc is dead in Afghanistan. We just got the news. I have informed all
staff to meet in ten minutes for a condolence meeting”.
“Susan!
I wish what you told me is not true.
Even yester morning I spoke to Marc and he said everything was fine over
there. How did this happen?”
“Marc
was killed, not at the bombing site but in his house where he was staying..
Around 2 a.m three masked men, two armed with rifles and the third carrying a
jungle knife entered the house. After
they spoke in their squeaky voices, the first one shot him straight in his
chest and the bandits escaped with their booty of money, satellite telephone
and camera equipment. By the time the medical help could reach him, he was
already dead. Before death, Marc wrote a
gripping account of his latest findings on the bombing, supported with clear
and captivating pictures.” Susan maintained a pause and focused her attention
towards me. “Dean! In his place I would
like you to continue that assignment”. That was a quick shot at me, which I least
expected. She wanted a straight positive
answer. It was difficult to respond to her immediately. I was also unable to give her a negative
decision, as I have to go on any assignment as per my contract with the weekly.
“Susan. Just give me a day. I would get back to you on this” I thought I bought
some time from her to think about it with my wife Laura. “Dean! You could take
a day’s time. But I expect you to come out with a positive answer as we had
already made arrangements for your travel”
The
solemn prayer meeting observing a minute’s silence for Marc’s soul to rest in
peace was well attended by all staff.
The whole official mood was desolate and depressed. I could imagine the
ordeals his family had to go through now, as Lucy, his wife was expecting her
second child. Marc worked with me in
Bosnia. He was too good to others.
Seldom one found him unhelpful. His sudden end was certainly not the one he
deserved for all his best qualities.
War
against terrorism. This war was not
confined to one region in the globe. It might certainly be extended to
any part of the world when the terrorists identify their targets. This would
mean that the traditional and conventional entry and exit plans of a war would
not be in place. Also there was no time frame agreed upon to it. During the cold war period when wars fought like the Vietnam, they were fought
against an ideology. This time,
America was fighting an unprecedented unique war – a war against terrorism
coated with religious color and targets all over the world. In this backdrop, no one was sure as to the
period of one’s assignment to cover the war stories. Today may be Afghanistan and tomorrow some
other country. Any assignment I would
take over now, would mean that it would be followed up with other targeted
locations.
It
was a turbulent time during dinner for Laura and me when we discussed the
assignment issue. I had to accept this
assignment in all fairness, as the same was offered to me a month earlier when Laura was on a
surgical table for a stomach ailment. Due to Laura’s medical condition, Marc
instantly offered to go on the assignment instead of me. Poor Marc was no more
now. After deep deliberations and no options left, we had to reconcile and
decided that I should proceed as required.
“I
would certainly take care of Lucy for her delivery and after, as Marc helped
you to stay during my surgery” Laura was really graceful in committing this to
the bereaved family. I was on the next
day’s evening flight to Islamabad via Karachi.
From Islamabad I scrambled to get into one of
the U N flights to Kabul. I had to take
a ground travel from there to Taliqan
near Kunduz in the north. The bone-jarring long travel was in a dilapidated
land cruiser for the whole day. En route
at many points we were flagged down by camaflouged men for interrogation. It
was difficult to differentiate between such men. It was quite an experience of
life and death each time when they checked and questioned us. The narration of
incidents I heard from the driver, who spoke broken English, was bone chilling.
Many
journalists and cameramen found themselves caught in the middle of the shifting
enmities of Afghan clans. The bandits made their hey-days with the looting of
cash, cameras and other expensive equipment of the journalists. One of the photojournalists was shot nine
times by a gunman as he was cowering himself in a drainage ditch. When he
jumped out for fresh air, he was shot in the back. Fortunately his vest saved
him but he had to run for hours for safety. It appeared that there was a high
price offered by local chiefs on the heads of westerners, which was the
incentive besides the booty for the bandits to go after them.
By
the time I arrived in Taliqan, it was late evening when the setting crimson sun
silhouetted the mountain range and provided a spectacular splendor. The roaring
sound of the F16s in the sky continued, disturbing the tranquility of the
beautiful mountain area.
I
just got into the same house where Marc was living. It was quite an effort to
acquaint myself with the new environment; I tried to get some sleep. It was a
nightmare with all the stories I heard enroute and the death of Marc in the
same house. My counterparts of other
media revealed that despite all these high-risks, the drive to put a spotlight
on events in Afghanistan with every journalist continued. Of course, the professional competitive
pressure to test the limits of safety to get a story did exist.
The
next morning after a quick breakfast, I was scheduled to cover a refugee camp
that was at a distance of five miles towards north near Kunduz. After familiarizing myself with the
directions to reach the camp, I followed a group of refugees who comprised of
young and old - men and women, children
and infants with their meager belongings. Their adversity was written all over
their wrinkled and depressed faces. Even
when they had lost everything in life, they have not lost their undaunted faith towards their
religion. Their suffering dated back to two decades of war with total
devastation. All they had inherited as legacy from the wars was maimed people who lost their limbs in the
land mines. The quantum of violence they had witnessed during the long periods
of war, had immuned even the children against fear, leaving indelible
impressions of violence and severity without any sense of their meaning.
After
a walking of a couple of miles, we had to cross a hanging bridge with broken
wooden sleepers. The gushing river under
the bridge roared with its speed. We
tried to cross the bridge in smaller numbers; of course the preference went to
the old and maimed. When I was in the
middle of the bridge, I heard a creaking noise from the sleepers; obviously
they were unable to bear the weight of many people. In some places there were some sleepers
missing and one had to be very careful in crossing these gaps. When I
encountered one of them, by my side there was a little boy of five years. He
had to limp as his one leg was maimed on a land mine. I knew he would not be able to cross that gap
on his own. I helped him by carrying him
and crossed to the other side. By that time we were at the end of the bridge. I
carried him through to his father who
was waiting at the other end. I was so
happy that I could help him to reach his father; but I was surprised, as the father, a middle-aged man, in rags with heavy beard, looked strangely at
me and snatched his son from me. To my shock, he slapped the boy on his right
cheek so strong I could feel the pain myself. Tears rolled by from the young
eyes and through silence he begged his father to forgive him. It was more a puzzle to me. After all I
helped the boy to reach his father, as otherwise, with his incapacitated leg,
he might have slipped into the gaps between the bridge sleepers. Instead of
thanking me for the timely help, he frowned at me. Above all I was pondering
over the reason for his slapping the boy so strong. The boy’s father spoke in
his lingo very harshly looking at the crowd and the boy. I could not even
imagine as to what his words could have meant. This was witnessed by many in the crowd. A young guy from the
crowd, who spoke broken English, understood my predicament and
embarrassment.
“I
know how much you felt at the behavior of the boy’s father”.
I
am so happy I found somebody here to understand me and asked him: “Could you please tell me what the boy’s
father meant in his lingo”. The stranger
nodded his head.
“You
know, we people here we cannot afford to live in the luxury of dependency. Any suffering or danger, we had to handle
them independently. If you had not helped the boy, he would somehow found his
way to cross the bridge that meant he got strength and confidence to handle situations
of this sort. If God’s wish was that he should reach his father, he would certainly
do even with his maimed leg. Now that
you had helped him, the boy’s father felt that his son had become a dependent
and he would expect in future external help in such instances. This was what he
did not like. By slapping the boy, he made him to understand this concept of
their life”.
It
was totally a new experience for me. Even though ethically, it appeared a senseless attitude on the part of the boy’s
father, it did contain some sort of unusual and undermined truth in it. It unfolded the concept of molding somebody.
Of course this would vary in each environment. Even in an affluent society
where adversity was totally unknown, one still get molded with other types of
disciplines to survive in the society. Even though individual strength was equally
well stressed in affluent societies, they were not insisted upon through hard
learning as the boy had gone through.
But in societies of such people
filled with downtrodden, illiterate poverty-stricken masses, their only source
of courage to face any eventuality would be only through individual strength
and hard learning. It was more required
in such an environment as the risk of death always haunted them all the
time. Such individual strength could
well be developed only through strict norms of religious faith. That was there with them.
While the boy’s father was complacent to see
his son reaching him safe, he was more concerned with the ultimate weakness
with which the boy would get molded with. No amount of convincing to the
contrary would replace their immense faith on such concepts connected to
life. For a while I felt proud of such
people as the boy’s father who had the courage of conviction and who still
would like to live for tomorrow even though they were not aware of what the
tomorrow had for them. They lived in fear all the time and to alleviate fear
from one’s mind, prayer to God was the best panacea they found which was
provided by religious faith.
It
was late evening when I returned home. I
called up Laura on satellite telephone and narrated my morning’s
experience. She was equally moved by
that, and informed me that Lucy delivered another girl and both the mother and
child were in good shape. Tears rolled
in my eyes as I thought of Marc who was not there to see the second child.
The
next day I had to cover another refugee camp in Khulum, a small village on the
west side of Taliqan. I was fortunate
enough to get a lift in a jeep heading towards that direction. After an hour’s grueling travel, I found a
big camp in Khulum for the refugees moved from Chardara, a southern village. In
the first tent I met an elderly lady in the 70s holding her both hands to her
head, looking down at the mother earth; obviously she must have been pondering
as to what kind of more suffering she had still to undergo. With the help of a local interpreter, I
initiated my interview:
“Madam,
you looked like you lost everything. Are you alone or you have your family also
in the same camp?”
The
interpreter translated my query to her in their lingo. As a response, there was
a sudden outburst from her. She started
crying loud. I could see her eyes filled with tears.
“My
son, you are asking about my family. I am alone now in this world”. She
maintained a pause. I was thrilled when she addressed me as her son. I could
feel a sense of human values being exchanged there.
“I
lost my first son, who fought the war against Russians a decade ago. After capturing him, they tortured him for information on others. They
severed his hands and threw him in the open field. When I reached him, he was still alive and he
told me about the torture they inflicted on him. He promised me that he did not divulge any information to
them. He was alive barely for few minutes and then he died. Though I lost him, anyday I am a proud
mother of such a son who fought the war and reached God ahead of me.”
She wiped her tears with a pause to recollect her memories. Obviously, she had something further to say.
“After
his death, I moved to Chardara to start a new life with my second
son. . It was a long struggle to live
there. Continuous drought badly affected our agricultural produce. There was no
work in the village to earn any money. We hardly had anything to eat for days
together. Obviously misfortune was not inclined to leave us alone. I thanked God for sparing him at least for the rest of my life. The other group controlled us and imposed lot of restrictions on our day-to-day
life. My son joined them and they trained him in their
camps to be their warrior for the war.
In the last few days, one evening
I saw the whole village was ablaze. Thick dark smoke engulfed the whole area.
People were running for safety. As I was
outside my hut, I ran to a nearby cave in the mountains. I saw my son coming towards me with others to pick up guns
and ammunition from the cave to fight the enemies. Before he reached me at the
cave, there was another hit and an he was killed. I cried for help to save him;
nothing was possible as everything happened very fast. Probably the Lord had
left me to live to tell the tales of my two sons who fought the wars and
became martyrs”. As she uttered these
words, a peaceful smile appeared like a lightning in her wrinkled lips that
obviously countered her tragic feelings inside her.
What
a soul-stirring story!. I was spellbound all through her narration. A soul
trying to balance the extremes of life. Another example for undaunted faith
which disciplined her mindset to convert a negative phase into a positive one.
Probably only adversity would be able to provide this uncommon courage and not
affluence that always instilled weakness.
That
night in my home was more of an inquisitive time to check on the comparatives
of life on the planet earth. For a moment I thought as to why this
animosity among global people. They all belong to planet earth. Then why the
boundaries and barriers between countries? I remembered the famous interview of
the first astronaut after his return from space. When he was asked as to how he viewed the planet earth from the space, he replied
that he was so happy to see the whole planet earth without barriers and
boundaries marked that was unlike shown through various colors in maps. Could such a living be possible anytime? If
so, when? I know I would never be able to find an answer to this enigma. I hit
the bed to sleep that night.
The
next three days were punctuated with bursts of gunfire. I had to stay in my
place as the unrelenting heavy carpet-bombing continued near our area. Corpses
of soldiers and some civilians were
lying splattered in the fields. I was very cautious to put my every step for
fear of land mines and also of any retaliation from any rival group. I took
pictures of the ghastly scenes like a scattered face of a young child staring
with dazed eyes. It was sad to witness horrific scenarios. The awful smell of the dead was getting
momentum. As I was walking my way into the fields to see the devastated village
, I could see a lonely mud-walled hut with minor flames around it. As I reached
the hut, to my shock I heard a child crying.
The flames were still bright. I wanted to get into the hut at least to
save the child. From the entrance I could see a horrible scene of a family of
three lay dead inside. Obviously, they were the victims of the morning bombing.
I could see the crying child next to them profusely bleeding in the right hand.
The child might be of two years old. The
fire at the entrance barred me from reaching the child. With all this, a mouse
appeared from the rear side of the hut and started playing in front of the
child. When it was circling the child
I could see the child stopped crying and
started laughing at the mouse’s game. The scene was vivid in contrast
combination. I suddenly remembered the
biblical lines - agony and ecstasy.
Virtually I saw those lines being enacted before me. Even in the midst of agony through a bleeding
hand, there was an ecstasy in the child at the mouse’s game. When the mouse
stopped circling and making screeching noise, the child started crying out of
agony. By this time, the fire slowly got into the hut from the entrance. Before
it reached the child, I wanted to save the child. As I made my first move to go
into the hut, there was a sudden high flame from the rear spread into the hut
and charred the child and the mouse beyond description.
I
regretted my belatedness that was responsible for the child’s death. I became sick at this very thought and cried
myself for the sin I committed. Though
my eyes had witnessed earlier many ghastly scenes, the sight of the little
corpse of the child never faded from my memory.
The weeping and the laughter of the child – agony and ecstasy – still
lingered in my ears with all intensity as it happened.
I returned home totally depressed. I called Laura and conveyed the contents of my guilty conscience. She remained a silent listener to my confession of a sin unknowingly committed by me. Besides this, the scenes I witnessed during this assignment included images of civilian victims and thousands of people displaced from their homes massing at the neighboring borders to save themselves from further onslaught. If we all remained mired in our partisan definitions of what constituted terror and what constituted a genuine struggle for freedom and dignity; we would never see the light of the day of peaceful coexistence with a global morality. I felt I should return home and if necessary, I was prepared to relinquish my job.
On the next day, I got a call from Susan recalling me to headquarters. This action was prompted in line with major media organizations that pulled out their correspondents in view of the many deaths of journalists in a short time. Immediately I called Laura to inform this news and I could imagine her happiness on my homecoming. I would be with my family for Christmas. I could never forget this November and a November to remember forever.
I returned home totally depressed. I called Laura and conveyed the contents of my guilty conscience. She remained a silent listener to my confession of a sin unknowingly committed by me. Besides this, the scenes I witnessed during this assignment included images of civilian victims and thousands of people displaced from their homes massing at the neighboring borders to save themselves from further onslaught. If we all remained mired in our partisan definitions of what constituted terror and what constituted a genuine struggle for freedom and dignity; we would never see the light of the day of peaceful coexistence with a global morality. I felt I should return home and if necessary, I was prepared to relinquish my job.
On the next day, I got a call from Susan recalling me to headquarters. This action was prompted in line with major media organizations that pulled out their correspondents in view of the many deaths of journalists in a short time. Immediately I called Laura to inform this news and I could imagine her happiness on my homecoming. I would be with my family for Christmas. I could never forget this November and a November to remember forever.
