It is futile to look for messages in tragedies. The greater the tragedies are, the more you are realise how insignificant you are in the overall scheme of things.
But every disaster leaves behind images that cling to your being. You take them with you, you sleep over it, and you wake up to discover, after those two seconds of no-man’s turf between sleep and waking, that they have stayed put.
BBC’s John Simpson writes of a horrifying scene he had reported: “Close by, my eyes met those of a small child lying on her back where her mother had dropped her as she herself fell dead. Afterwards, I couldn’t get her face out of my head. The dead, open eyes still held mine when I tried to sleep. I only wish I could forget it, even now…”
He has written elsewhere how writing “of terrible things seemed to exorcise them,” but no matter the cathartic relief of the moment, some visuals stay on.
There are three singularly touching images that I carry with me of Tsunami-hit South Asia. All are from Chennai, India, and was it coincidental the three had to have the same little girl? She is hardly ten, dressed in a maroon top, and white trousers with floral prints by the knees. She wears a necklace of red beads; her eyes closed, her hair wet from the water that took her life.
It was probably the third photograph of the tragedy I saw: A close-up of the girl in the hands of a rescue team. The caption said little, not whether she was a survivor. A second picture shook me up, when I saw her again, in a long shot, lying over the shoulder of a man, a spray of water thrashed up to show his urgency of movement. Is she a survivor?
Later in the night, surfing through more photographs, I saw the third picture that has stayed with me ever since: She lies along with many other children, at the top-corner of the photograph, which had focused obviously on the toddler in the front.
When one dies, you write obituaries; when thousands die, they die anonymous. We do not read their names; probably, we hear about villages, whole towns, and the dead are simply the residents.
As a three-month-old trainee-reporter, I was to cover an accident that charred to death 40 people, children including. I wasn’t particularly useful and prayed for the veterans to turn up to get a hand on things. I had rushed to the hospital where the wounded were, and almost accompanied a nurse, who had requested for blood: I was held back by one of my seniors. He reminded me of my priorities; was my action professionally right but ethically wrong, I still don’t know.
It was a sad, hectic night yet the next morning, after a disturbing body-count at the morgue, I still accompanied my seniors for breakfast. Today, I choke on photographs from distant lands. Is this about growing old? The veterans should know.
