A deadly bomb blast in my office
[i-suicide bomb blast WFP office Islamabad Pakistan]
It is difficult to imagine what people go through when a suicide bomb determines who is to live and who is not. Here is the story from Rehmat Yazdani, one of our colleagues, who survived yesterday's bombing of the UN WFP office in Islamabad, Pakistan.
I am shaken and traumatized after the yesterday’s blast which took place inside my office building only a few paces away from my glass-cabin. The blast was so sudden and strong that it took me some time to register what actually had happened there with all of us. It was so strong that I was thrown from my chair to a few feet away on the floor.
Everything was shattered into pieces only in a matter of seconds. When I tried getting up from the floor, I had broken wooden pieces in my hair, my head and body were aching badly as something had hit me severely. I was not in my senses and my whole body was shaking badly, the sound of the deadly blast was resonating in my ears and I was so shocked that I could not move a step. There were injured colleagues lying on the floor. My room was on fire and pieces of paper, broken pieces of doors, broken pieces of my glass cabin, windows and tables were lying here and there. I was looking at my injured colleagues in a state of shock and horror. “Vacate the building immediately”, I heard one of my colleagues saying. But I could not move till the time one of my colleague dragged me outside the building. But that was not the end of it.
The real horror started when my colleagues started taking the dead and injured bodies outside the building. Yes, bodies drenched in blood of people I worked and used to spent a major part of my day on regular basis… It was such a heartbreaking scene……We had tears in ours eyes. We were horrified and traumatized…
None of us in the office had ever imagined that this Bloody Monday will change our lives for ever and we will be left with haunted memories of the incident. I have not recovered from the shock yet, the whole scene is playing back again and again in my brain, even the sedative pills failed to calm down my nerves. None of my other colleagues are out of trauma yet. Those innocent souls who died in the blast would never be there in our office again and our office would never be the same place again….. I pray for all the departed souls (Gul, Farzana, Wahab, Abid Rehman and Udan) and I am going to miss them forever …
My mother says that it is a miracle that I have only minor injuries and I survived despite the fact that the bomb blasted only a few paces away from where I sit But I am thinking why this miracle did not happen in case of Gul, Farzana, Wahab, Abid Rehman and Udan. Why these innocent people lost their lives?? What will become of their families now?? What was their fault or What was our fault that all of us became victims of a bomb blast and are left with haunted memories ??
Read also this story by one of our colleagues, Dima, who remembers her friend, Farzana, she will not meet again.
Story republished courtesy MetBlogs. Picture courtesy Dawn Read the full post...
We lost five colleagues in Islamabad today
[i-WFP office bombed in Islamabad Pakistan]
Today, it is my birthday. But not much reason to celebrate. This morning, someone got into our office in Islamabad, Pakistan, and blew himself up.
He took the lives away from Botan, Farzana, Abid, GulRukh and Mohammad. Our colleagues and friends.
Botan Al-Hayawi (41) was Iraqi. He leaves behind a wife, two sons and a daughter. Botan was on mission in Peshawar when suicide bombers blew up the Pearl Continental Hotel in June. I met Botan several times back in 2002 and 2003 when I worked in Iraq.
Yesterday, Botan posted something on the Interagency ICT discussion forum:I arrived to Islamabad last Monday morning with a busy day planned. I had just returned to Islamabad after recovering from the Peshawar blast on June 9th, 2009, which left me with some minor injuries but did not break my spirit.
He wrote this less than 24 hours before someone took his life away.
Farzana Barkat (22) was an office assistant. She worked in our logistics office, right next to where the suicide bomber blew himself up. A young woman at the start of her life.
Abid Rehman (41) was our senior finance assistant. He leaves a wife, two daughters and two sons. I worked with Abid when I was based in Islamabad from 2000 to 2002. We always exchanged friendly and teasing jokes as I stretched the finance unit with my urgent requests.
GulRukh Tahir (40) was our receptionist. She leaves behind a husband.
Mohammad Wahab (44) was our finance assistant. He leaves a wife, two daughters and two sons.
I am a bit numb at this moment. I think back of all the people I have known, and who lost their lives in the line of duty. Abby, Saskia, Pero, M.....
I think how it is possible to be close to those we want to serve, without having to isolate ourselves with barbed wire and sand bags. I think how we can still work in places we are still needed, but know we are at risk. Algeria, where our offices were bombed in 2007. Somalia, where we lost two colleagues earlier this year. Sudan, where we lost several drivers over the past years... Only to name a few.
It is strange.. It is only after the hours go by that the cruelty and the reality of the act today really seeps through... And the consciousness that if we are to work in a higher risk environment, there actually is not one place, where one is totally safe. Where would that be? In the office? They drive a truck through the gates and blow it up. In the guesthouse or the hotel? Same thing...
You can restrict the movements of staff and reduce field visits to minimize the risk, you can drive armoured cars - as we do in some operations - but then again, what holds them from blowing up an anti-tank mine underneath your vehicle as you stop in front of the traffic lights? What holds anyone from gunning you down when you get out of the car. Even when you think you are safe in the office compound.
Security for humanitarian workers has been more and more restrictive on what and how we can do our work. "Protecting ourselves" is a must. But how far does that conflict with being able to do our work, which entails having direct contact with those we serve? Should we all pack and go home?
I do not know the answers. I know one thing. This is not a happy birthday for me...
This song keeps on playing in my mind...
Picture courtesy The Nation
Picture of the day: Pakistan food queues
Islamabad food queues[i-Islamabad food queues]
People queueing for food at the entrance of a shop near Islamabad. The cost of food and fuel increased significantly in Pakistan, forcing more and more people to turn to public aid.
Check for more "Pictures of the Day" and other posts about the global food crisis on The Road.
Picture courtesy AP/Morenatti, Source: Le Figaro
Wild Cannabis and "Oh Baby"!
Wild Cannabis
link[i-link]You needed to pass a security checkpoint next to the building before being allowed to drive onto the parking lot. This caused a bit of traffic jam in the morning, when everyone was coming to work. Next to the checkpoint was a piece of bare land, with different billboards from the UN agencies and NGOs based in ‘The Tower’. Sometimes the weeds on the bare field were growing that high, they would almost cover the view of the billboards. As I was sitting in the car, queuing up one morning, I thought at first, I was mistaken. But no, the wild cannabis was growing that high, it almost covered up the UN Drug Control Program’s billboard. I thought it was quite symbolic. How to control the drugs in a country where hash grew in the wild, uncontrolled.
The Orange Bearded Guards
After the car check entering the parking, you had to pass through another security check at the elink[i-link]ntrance, where the local guards body searched you. They were a friendly bunch. Most of them old ex-army guys. Many were hiding their grey hair by washing it with henna, which turned their hair and long beard bright orange/red. I mean *real* bright. A European punk-age kinda red. It was funny to see sometimes.. They hardly spoke any English and always had a real apologetic smile on their face when they body searched us, the foreigners… As if to say ‘Really sorry, but my boss told me to do so’. The check was always more for the show than anything else. Certainly for me, as I always wore my safari jacket, filled with goodies that would set off their handheld metal detector. When something beeped, they pointed at it to ask what I had in my jacket there. I always said what it was, but most of the time, their English was so poor, they did not understand it anyway. They just nodded and smiled… And we all played along in the daily security slapstick.
Oh Baby!
Saudi Pak was a tall square building. The offices ran along the outer wall, creating a huge open space, stretching all the way vertically in the centre of the building. This helped the air circulation, and gave a special flair to the building. It also create quite a bit of noise, though, as any sound would travel many floors up and down. One night, I was working really late, and forgot all about the ‘mega amplifier’ effect from the central hallway as I was sucked into processing the backlog of hundreds of Emails. I had left the door leading into the centre hall open, just to get a bit of fresh air in. I played my music real loud, with a good sub-woofer bass. Little did I realize how the music must have echo-ed all through the building. Soon enough all guards from the ground floor had come up to my office to stick their head through the door, checking what the racket was all about. None of them spoke English, so I put my thumb up with a question mark on my face, and they nodded, thumbs up. It was OK. It was more than OK. To show me they really liked it, they started swinging slowly, and mumbling along with the tune… It was a lovely picture: half a dozen elderly guards, all with their henna-dyed bright red-orange hair and beard, in uniform, standing shoulder to shoulder, with their AK47 machine guns in their hands, swinging slowly side to side, as if listening to divine music, on the slow tunes of “Let’s make love tonight” by Faith Hill:
- Let's make love,
all night long !
Until all our strength is gone!
Hold on tight,
just let go!
I want to feel you in my soul
Until the sun comes up…
Let's make love !
Oh, baby, baby
I guess this was the living proof that music sooths all spirits. Guess the US should try that with the Taliban..
Picture courtesy cannabisculture.com (cannabis plant), Zootstar (bearded man)
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Islamabad Stories#2: The US Special Forces Have Arrived!
link[i-link]
Islamabad, Pakistan. Sept 14 2001
I knew exactly how this was going to evolve. Two planes crash into the NY World Trade Center, and all hell was to break loose in Central Asia. The morning after 9/11, it seemed however that few people sitting in this room now, realized how it was going to influence their work, their lives for the coming years… They all had a typical denial reaction. Until it started to hit them in the face. Now, three days later.
And there was no denying the facts anymore today! Pakistan and Afghanistan are now continuously in the news, with the world’s big news networks flying in with plane loads of equipment.
Islamabad Marriott Hotel[i-Islamabad Marriott Hotel]Just as 9/11 happened, we were giving a training for our Afghan staff here in Islamabad. Last night, we took some out for dinner. We picked them up from their hotel, and took them as a treat to one of the fanciest restaurant in town, in the Marriott hotel. As we drove up through the entrance of the Marriott parking lot, there was actually a traffic jam of the small local taxis, each with a huge satellite dish strapped onto their roof rack. Stickers on them for the big news networks. CNN, BBC, Sky, AFP, Fox, Al Jazeera, ITN, ITV, RAI… The hotel’s roof was engulfed in bright floodlights as the anchor speakers were ‘Reporting Live From Islamabad’, with the city lights in the background..
No more denial that our lives were going to take a sharp turn for the worse.. We were going to be in the midst of all the action… And the reactions of the people in the meeting was taking a twist today: from denial to a slight state of panic. The tone of the meeting is definitively much more nervous than the previous days.
Yawn...
My thoughts are running off. I am thinking of the Afghan staff at dinner last night. They were worried about their families left back home in Mazar, Kabul, Faizabad, Jalalabad… Would the Taliban go nuts, and start murdering and plundering? Or empose an ever stricter regime? They wondered how each of them was going to get back home, as we evacuated all international staff from Afghanistan the day after 9/11. We also suspended the UN flights from Islamabad into Afghanistan…
Somewhere, a change of tone in the conversation draws my attention. A lady from one of the agencies starts talking in a low voice. I concentrate again.
She is leaning forward and whispers slowly:
- ‘Yes, I know we will have problems. The US special forces, the spooks, have already arrived. I saw them last night’.
Hey, that was news to me.
- ‘Yes, I am sure. I saw them. Last night I was in the Crown Plaza hotel around the corner’, she continues.
I start thinking.. The hotel she spoke about was where we picked up our Afghan guests last night.
- ‘Four of them arrived, driving a small white, unmarked 4x4.’
Hey, that is funny, we were driving the old office car last night. The organisation’s emblem sticker had peeled of, so there were no more markings on it.
- ‘There was one normal looking guy with three big –I mean huge- guys behind him. One was an Afro-American. They were all dressed the same. Kaki trousers, safari jackets, handhelds on their belts.
Hmmm.. Robert, Martin and Terah were with me. Terah is Ugandan. They are all pretty big guys, now that I think of it. We were all wearing our safari jackets, and yeah, we wore our mission clothes.
- ‘They did not say anything. They just walked into the hotel lobby, picked up some local guys, and drove off again. US special forces. Spooks, no doubt.’
Hmmm…We picked up our Afghan staff last night…
Since then, rumour had it the ‘Belgian Special Forces’ had arrived. :-)
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Rumble: Islamabad stories #1 - TV censorship
link[i-link] I am still working on the Dutch eBook about the expeditions. I should be finished inserting the last pictures today. Once that is done, I will get more time to continue writing short stories for 'The Road to the Horizon'.. Meanwhile, just thought of a story today... Actually several. Will publish them as separate blogs, and maybe later combine them to one short story about Pakistan. Here's one:
TV Censorship, the Pakistani Way
When I arrived in Pakistan, there was not much to do in the evenings, but to sit in the guesthouse, read a bit or watch TV. It struck me I would regularly get a test picture on the TV screen, you know, the colour patterns. Like there was some kind of technical problem at the TV station.
Sometimes, hours would go by, and all was fine, and other times, the test picture would appear every couple of minutes. It would happen seemingly at random, no matter if it was a movie, a TV series or a documentary they showed.. It was a mystery to me.
After a while, I figured out that the test pictures appeared each time there was a 'sensitive' scene, where a bit of 'flesh' or some male/female intimacy was shown. Be it a lady in a short skirt, a person undressing (even taking off a shirt), people kissing,... I thought that could not be a coincidence! It was real funny, and really frustrating in some TV shows like 'Silk Stalkings'. You know, those pseudo detective series where all the 'good guys' are longlegged shortskirted young ladies. There was so much 'fleshy' stuff going on, the test screen would be shown every 10 seconds or so. Even during the intro-scene:One of the longlegged-shortskirted-good-guys got out of a car and BLOOP. One of the longlegged-shortskirted-good-guys leaned forward a bit and showed a hint of bra, BLOOP. One of the longlegged-shortskirted-good-guys kissed their boyfriend and BLOOP.
Each time during the BLOOP, the test screen was shown on TV, and the sound was cut for a couple of seconds, sometimes for minutes. Irritating! Made me loose track of the story.
It was a mystery how this was done. I thought they must have a sophisticated digital code somewhere in the TV signal that said 'BLOOP NOW'... I got intrigued by it all, and watched more carefully.
Hmm, there seemed to be some variations... Sometimes french kisses were not blooped. Or sometimes even kisses on the cheek were blooped. Other times, just showing a bit of an unbuttoned shirt was enough to bloop, and other times, people could get away walking around in their underwear and not get blooped.
One time, I think it was when they showed 'Pretty Woman', some pretty interesting scenes, were not blooped at all. Shocking! Shocking! I mean, I was outraged! A scandal!
Anyway, I did not understand. Until one day, one of my friends went to the TV studio for some work, and unraveled the secret:
In the TV studio, there is one room with some ladies sitting in a row. Each lady was monitoring one TV channel only. Each had two screens and one big button in front of her. One screen showed the TV-signal as they picked it up from satellite or from a tape, that was the input. The lady would push her big red button when 'bad scene' happened. This is when the 'BLOOP' would appear on the output. They monitored the second screen for the TV-signal they were actually broadcasting, to ensure a BLOOP was actually transmitted.
It was clear that some ladies were very strict, and did not allow for any 'flesh', while others were more relaxed about it all. My friend told me that some ladies pushed the 'red button' rather hesitantly, while others were really banging the thing with a big smack. 'Nah, bad, bad, bad, bad! Here, take this. Blaff!'.
As there was no replacement for the 'censor'-girls when they needed to go to the bathroom, either their button was blocked, transmitting a continuous BLOOP, or they just left it 'as it was'.
I guess that time 'Pretty Woman' got aired, either the lady fell asleep, got sick in the bathroom, or maybe got paid to transmit it all. :-)
There are rumours that a technician once patched the red buttons in the studio, and wired a VCR to it, so that all 'blooped' scenes were automatically taped. Afterwards, the juicy scenes were sold on the black market for big bucks... Just rumours of course !
[i-link]
(I got the flying donkey picture from my brother-in-arms, Mark. More of his travel pictures, you can find on http://www.on4ww.be )
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TV Censorship, the Pakistani Way
[i-link]When I arrived in Pakistan, there was not much to do in the evenings, but to sit in the guesthouse, read a bit or watch TV. It struck me I would regularly get a test picture on the TV screen, you know, the colour patterns. Like there was some kind of technical problem at the TV station.
Sometimes, hours would go by, and all was fine, and other times, the test picture would appear every couple of minutes. It would happen seemingly at random, no matter if it was a movie, a TV series or a documentary they showed.. It was a mystery to me.
One of the longlegged-shortskirted-good-guys got out of a car and BLOOP. One of the longlegged-shortskirted-good-guys leaned forward a bit and showed a hint of bra, BLOOP. One of the longlegged-shortskirted-good-guys kissed their boyfriend and BLOOP.
Each time during the BLOOP, the test screen was shown on TV, and the sound was cut for a couple of seconds, sometimes for minutes. Irritating! Made me loose track of the story.
It was a mystery how this was done. I thought they must have a sophisticated digital code somewhere in the TV signal that said 'BLOOP NOW'... I got intrigued by it all, and watched more carefully.
Hmm, there seemed to be some variations... Sometimes french kisses were not blooped. Or sometimes even kisses on the cheek were blooped. Other times, just showing a bit of an unbuttoned shirt was enough to bloop, and other times, people could get away walking around in their underwear and not get blooped.
One time, I think it was when they showed 'Pretty Woman', some pretty interesting scenes, were not blooped at all. Shocking! Shocking! I mean, I was outraged! A scandal!
Anyway, I did not understand. Until one day, one of my friends went to the TV studio for some work, and unraveled the secret:
In the TV studio, there is one room with some ladies sitting in a row. Each lady was monitoring one TV channel only. Each had two screens and one big button in front of her. One screen showed the TV-signal as they picked it up from satellite or from a tape, that was the input. The lady would push her big red button when 'bad scene' happened. This is when the 'BLOOP' would appear on the output. They monitored the second screen for the TV-signal they were actually broadcasting, to ensure a BLOOP was actually transmitted.
It was clear that some ladies were very strict, and did not allow for any 'flesh', while others were more relaxed about it all. My friend told me that some ladies pushed the 'red button' rather hesitantly, while others were really banging the thing with a big smack. 'Nah, bad, bad, bad, bad! Here, take this. Blaff!'.
As there was no replacement for the 'censor'-girls when they needed to go to the bathroom, either their button was blocked, transmitting a continuous BLOOP, or they just left it 'as it was'.
I guess that time 'Pretty Woman' got aired, either the lady fell asleep, got sick in the bathroom, or maybe got paid to transmit it all. :-)
There are rumours that a technician once patched the red buttons in the studio, and wired a VCR to it, so that all 'blooped' scenes were automatically taped. Afterwards, the juicy scenes were sold on the black market for big bucks... Just rumours of course !
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"M." - Requiem For Baghdad
(Marlon Brando in ‘Apocalypse Now’)
Dubai, December 2004
All of us, all our Dubai staff, are standing around in silence in the reception of our office. We put up the plaque our HQ gave us. “WFP FITTEST team – Dubai. Award for Merit 2004. For their outstanding global achievement and particularly for the critical support of the UN humanitarian effort in Iraq”. Each of us are in thoughts. It seems weird how in a split second zillions of thoughts and images can flash through your mind.
As we are standing in front of the plaque, I think of M. Her face comes before my eyes. I hear her laugh. Would she have felt pain? Fear? Regrets? Or would it all have gone in a flash? Like a switch. Switching off life. Done. Over. And then?
Belgium, August 2001
If you have lived through a number of humanitarian emergencies, worked long enough in relief operations, you start to develop a sixth sense. It was this sixth sense that helped us deciding to move our intervention team from Kosovo to Islamabad a few years ago. We sensed that at a certain moment the US would retaliate against the Taliban. Basing our team in the middle of Central Asia would allow us to prepare the region for a possible humanitarian emergency if the US would take military action in Afghanistan.
I told Tine just before I left home: “I do not have a good feeling. The stars are not right. Something is up.” That feeling was in sharp contrast with the one month holiday off the beaten track in Hawaii we just had. But the sixth sense was there, with big warning signs.
Islamabad, September 11, 2001
We were working in our office in Islamabad when Jalal, one of our staff, said ‘Hey, a plane just flew into the New York World Trade Center.’ And a few minutes later, the news came a second plane crashed into the Towers. We stopped all work. I knew it could not have been an accident. This was an act of terrorism. In a flash, I saw what would happen. The world was going to fundamentally change. I saw the US attacking Afghanistan. I saw the polarization of the world into Muslim and non-Muslim. I saw the invasion of Iraq.. I just knew we were going for a very rough period, with a lot of human suffering. I felt sad, very sad. When I came back to the guest house I was staying, very late at night, that night of 9/11, I just could not stop looking at the video replays on TV, displaying what happened in New York. It was so violent. So many people lost in one go. But above all, I felt “it is all coming our way. Within here and a few weeks, the world’s attention is going to be focused on our region.”
It did not take weeks. It took days. We saw them arriving at the hotels in Islamabad. All the international camera crews, with their equipment loaded onto rental cars. Setting up shop on the roofs of the hotels. All the well-known anchor people from the main broadcast stations started to report from Islamabad. The media often is one step ahead of the military. Only one step.
Kabul, January 2002.
Several months later, the Taliban was beaten, Bin Laden was on the run, and Afghanistan was ‘liberated’. I just ‘knew’ Iraq was going to be next. No matter what the world’s opinion was going to be, I felt the US was going to attack Iraq also.
Richard and I spent a nice evening in one of the open air restaurants in Baghdad. Even though it was close to midnight and pretty cold outside, there were plenty of people still walking around. I loved the people there, the feeling the whole setting gave me. They were friendly, helpful, many of them very well educated. Never a harsh word. As we were walking the streets that night, people smiled at us, often to say ‘Hey habibi, how are you? Where do you come from? What do you do?’. When we would start talking to them, the subject of children and family would always come up. No matter where people come from, the love for their close ones always seems to be the main thing on their mind. We felt safe, almost at home, without the slightest sense of fear or insecurity. We were amongst good people.
The first UN weapon inspectors had arrived earlier that day. We saw them dragging up boxes with their equipment into Canal Hotel, the UN Headquarters in Baghdad.. Somewhere I knew that it was all going to be in vain. The US had already made up its mind: ‘Saddam had to go’. Even if the weapon inspectors would not find any weapons of mass destruction, any excuse was going to be good enough… After all, Iraq had oil. I could just see all the human misery a US invasion in Iraq would cause. And the anarchy, the violence that would follow. I imagined those peaceful streets of Baghdad in flames, shooting, bombing. I could see all the friendly, loving people, with eyes, filled with hatred.
As I closed the door of my apartment, on my way to work, I stopped for a moment. Something was not right. Something was different that morning. I could hear the television sets from my neighbours. Different languages, agitated voices of the reporters. It was an awkward sound. My heart started to beat real fast. I went back into my apartment, switched on the TV, and sat down. Images of helicopters, tanks, military convoys, crossing the border from Kuwait into Iraq. I picked up the phone and called Gianluca, in our HQ in Rome. It was still very early in Europe, he was still asleep. ‘Gianluca, switch on your TV. It has began. The invasion has began’.
June 2003
I met M. in Cyprus several times. She was working for another UN agency. By coincidence, we had the same travel itinerary, and spent several days on the road together: flying from Cyprus to Jordan, then driving into Erbil in North Iraq and a few days later flying to Baghdad. We talked a lot. Work, people we met in the past, our hobbies, adventure traveling, what appealed to us in this world, in people. The last time I saw her was one evening in Canal Hotel, Baghdad. For security reasons, the movement of our staff in town was restricted, and we all lived on the large office compound. A couple of guys had put together a barbeque in the parking lot which by then was filled with sleeping and storage tents. As I was walking back to my room, M. was walking towards the barbeque area. She had a strange look in her eyes. She hesitated for a moment as we were passing eachother. I remember I stood still for a moment, wondering what this look was about. I told her I was leaving for Dubai the next day.. I can not remember if she said anything, as we gave three kisses on the cheek. Maybe we did say something. Some pleasantries like ‘see you whenever I see you again!’.
A few weeks later, I received a message from her. Some stuff about work. She had decided the Iraq mission was going to be her last. In September she would quit and do something different. Enough of this type of work. It has been a good road, but this road had come to an end. The last sentence in the Email did not make much sense to me. It was about us meeting again. That it would mean a lot to her, that she would like to talk to me.
When I talked to Larisa, one of our staff in Baghdad, on the phone, she said: “you left quite an impression on some people in Baghdad.” I did not really understand what she meant. “Well, last night, I was having a drink with M., and again, it looks like you left quite an impression on her”…
Sometimes a lot of things happen, and it is difficult to pinpoint what they really mean, to make real sense out of a string of signs. But then something small happens, which causes all the rest to make sense. Now I understood the look in M.’s eyes the last evening in Baghdad. That last sentence in her Email. I sent her an Email that I was coming over to Baghdad before she left, so we would sit together and talk.
Belgium, August 18 2003
I had a long chat with Robert, our project coordinator in Baghdad. He ran the team installing the technical infrastructure for most of the UN relief agencies. Most of the conversation was about his main worry: security. He felt something was to happen, the ‘tension in the air’ was just too much. He felt some of our staff or some of our offices were going to be attacked. ‘Something bad is about to happen’, he said. I shared his feeling. I did not sleep much that night. I had a lot of my staff in Iraq and I felt very responsible for them.
Belgium, August 19 2003
This was one of the saddest days in my life. Mats called me ‘Our headquarters in Baghdad was bombed a few minutes ago. A truck full of explosives flattened most of the building’. Mats and I talked with Robert in a conference call later that day. It was bad. Robert said most of our staff was accounted for, but several of them were badly injured from falling debris, shrapnel or glass flying around. Ghis had a window frame hit his head. Michael’s face was badly cut by glass. Diya was evacuated with severe cuts in his arm and hands. Dozens of people had died. The pictures on television looked horrific. I was shocked. And felt endlessly guilty. Guilty as I had recruited these people. I had sent them in harm’s way. Guilty as no matter how good the security precautions we had taken, no matter how many times we had stressed to them all to be careful, still they, the people from my team, got hurt. It cut deep inside me. I felt guilty as I was not there to help. I should have been there with them.
As more details came in of the bombing, a provisional list was circulated, a list with names of those not accounted for, and those which were confirmed dead. I could not believe my eyes when I saw M.’s name on the list. M. was dead.
Dubai, December 2005
These thoughts and images fly, no, they scream, through my head as we are standing in front of our plaque.. It all takes a few seconds for it to come through. All of the hurt. The immense sadness and senselessness. The guilt of not having done enough. The guilt of not having said things that should have been said. So often we forget that when we say ‘goodbye’, it might really mean ‘goodbye’. A final ‘goodbye’. We might never see that person again in this life. I see M.’s face in front of me as we talked for a brief moment in time, passing eachother in Canal Hotel that evening of the barbeque. I should have taken the time to sit and talk with her. I should have known this might have been the last time ever, we had the chance to talk. But I did not. I was tired, wanted to go to sleep, had an early start the next day. But I should have. Should have. The guilt. And the horror…
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