war-correspondent

Reporters go through four stages in a war zone. In the first stage, you__e Superman, invincible. In the second, you__e aware that things are dangerous and you need to be careful. In the third, you conclude that math and probability are working against you. In the fourth, you know you__e going to die because you__e played the game too long. I was drifting into stage three.

I could scarcely believe that my new home was engulfed by war before I even had time to find an apartment. It seemed that war followed me everywhere I went.

In 2015, when I went back to the States or to an international conference, I found that people didn__ much care anymore. They saw the Middle East awash in blood, beyond redemption, and didn__ want to read about it or see it on the evening news. They just wanted to keep away from it.

When I take risks now, I do so only when I have to and with every precaution. I used to prospect for news, dropping into places to see what was up. Well, I could go to parts of Libya today and find lots of good stories, but I probably wouldn__ be around to tell them.

From seven hundred journalists at the beginning of March, the number had dwindled to about one hundred and fifty__rint reporters, TV correspondents, photographers, cameramen, and support personnel. At the press center I encountered Kazem, who only a week before I had asked for help with my visa. __hy are you staying when everyone else is leaving?_ he asked. I took a chance and replied in Arabic. Some journalists, I said, are as samid as the Iraqi people. Samid means __teadfast_ and __rave_ and is the adjective most often used by Iraqis to describe themselves. Kazem laughed and threw his arm around my shoulder.

I may have been in stage four, but I wasn__ completely crazy. At least eighty-six journalists had been killed in Iraq, more than in any other conflict since World War II, and another thirty-eight had been taken hostage. More would die in the years to come. I knew I had to limit my movements and take special care when I did go out.

Then someone cried out, __uicide bomber!_ The crowd panicked. In the ensuing stampede, terrified pilgrims ran in both directions, many colliding in the middle of the bridge. A side railing collapsed under their weight, and scores leaped into the water whether they could swim or not. Hundreds were trampled to death. More than a thousand died. Hundreds of pairs of sandals were scattered around the bridge, left behind when pilgrims made their desperate dives into the river. I was given all of seventy-five seconds to tell the story on the Nightly News.