It was a crazy scene. People running around with blood all over them, people screaming... I started filming the scene, hoping the soldiers wouldn't stop me. They occasionally pushed us back but my biggest foe was a woman who, eyes blazing, went around hitting all of the reporters. Fists, kicks, she hit my camera, popping off a piece of it, and picked up a huge rock to throw at me. None of the soldiers or police would lift a finger to stop her assault on the press. I asked Shaharazzad to ask her what was going on and it seems she lost two children in the attack.
With Mahbooba's help, we got into the hospital. Gruesome scenes with bloody victims in shock, and the worst was to come. The nurses took us into a makeshift morgue and to my horror, peeled back the sheet covering the bodies, exposing the blown up victims. One was a student... they fished his bloody timetable out of his pocket. Some of the victims were just in pieces. It looked surreal, like a horror movie with special effects. Gray cadavers with holes in their faces and leaves for eyes. I'm not sure why the nurses felt they had to show us these horrors--perhaps in the hopes that we would show the world. I don't know who showed less reverence for the dead--them for uncovering the bodies, or me for shooting them.
I wasn't really affected by the human remains, having seen bodies before (none as gruesome as these except perhaps the remains of the Swissair victims in the waters of Nova Scotia). The most emotional moment for me was talking to one of the men whose father had been hurt or killed. He was beside himself with grief and rage--he shook with the anger of impotence--he was a fighter, his nation was a nation of fighters, yet these cowards refused to come out and fight like men, instead they preyed on the innocent. His anger was the anger of a country held hostage by fanatics... I held out my mic and cried with him as I recorded his rage.
We were able to weave our way closer to the scene but they stopped us about 40 meters away. Every so often they brought out cars that had been blown apart by the explosion. A Ministry of the Interior spokesperson told us that a suicide bomber had tried to follow a convoy into the Indian Embassy. When security guards stopped him, he blew the charge, killing almost 50 people--almost all civilians--and injuring almost 150. I shot what I could, did a standup, and called CBC radio to tell them about the story. It was still early morning in Canada. They said they'd be interested in a piece, so I headed back to the hotel to put my story together.
A couple of hours later the piece was on the radio. But instead of congratulating me, the @#$er producer at CBC complained that it had taken too long to get the piece on the air. Never mind that I was reporting for TV and radio in the middle of a crisis, that I had mixed a long sound-heavy piece by myself and had to send the piece to them over a slow-speed internet connection. The problem with many producers is that they've never been in the field themselves.
CTV called (tracked my email down from CJOH) and said they wanted a piece. I tried to send them the piece over the internet, but it said it would take 14 hours to upload! So CTV arranged a feed with a Turkish outfit operating near the embassies. I was a little afraid because everyone had been told to stay inside as there were reports of a second bomber roaming the streets disguised as a policeman. But I had 40 minutes to get over there and make the satellite window. I got there in the nick of time, and luckily the Turks were awesome... I've had more problems feeding from NBC in the States! The piece fed and CTV said they loved it (always happy to hear it from the assignment editors, but for some reason it means even more when the technical staff like the guys in the feed room give you a compliment). If you want to see it:
http://watch.ctv.ca/news/ctv-national-news/ctv-national-news-july-7/
I shared tea with the Turks, returned home and had a minute to think about what had happened.
I was sad, not just at the loss of life but that humans would feel compelled to inflict such misery on their fellow citizens, especially for no real purpose. I understand insurgents planting mines for soldiers, or strapping bombs to themselves and blowing up foreign invaders. But to drive a car filled with explosives into a crowded business district, knowing that most of the people killed would be your own people and not soldiers but ordinary Afghans making photocopies and applying for visas. When I got back to the hotel, a large group of white NGOers were having a party in the courtyard. They were laughing and singing songs. I went to bed with the sound of their laughter ringing in my ears.
