alligator in our brain awakes and tries to take over. Tragedy mixes
with the summoning of a better life.
Later that day, when the sun was
disappearing, Jethro checked into The Himalayan Inn, the main journalist hotel
in Muzaffarabad. There were heavily armed guards hiding behind sandbags at the
front entrance. Jethro would begin his work again tomorrow at first light.
A week later his first article
started:
Fourteen
miles from Muzaffarabad, near the Line of Control in Pakistani Kashmir, a small
bombed village is awash in activity—in tragedy. It's desperate and shocking. An
old woman runs up to me, throwing her hands at my face. All ten of her fingers
are pointing in unnatural directions—broken in different ways. She’s another
torture victim. To my right, a man wanders the dirt roads, calling out his
child's name. In another part of the village, younger women grieve, complaining
of multiple gang rapes by soldiers. I try to interview the husbands—those who
are still alive refuse, turn away, and cry. War is a frothing beast.
As any war reporter knows, this
type of work could never be called a job. It's a pledge to reveal humanity, a
passion for unpredictable consequences, a spiral through the worst and best of
civilization. Daily, Jethro interviewed and photographed participants of the
war—from weeping villagers, to armed Jihadists, to teenaged government soldiers
listening to rock music on their cell phones. Often, bullets buzzed by Jethro’s
head or a bomb would explode nearby and send him scampering for cover or diving
into a ditch. Transhumanism was always in his thoughts, the plethora of wounded
and dead constantly reminding him of the need to overcome the fragility of
biological life and the capriciousness of the human race.
After four months of working near
the Pakistan Line of Control, Jethro crossed over to Indian Kashmir to report
on the conflict from that country. It was the same nightmare; only the
people and soldiers were bound by a different flag and religion.
Eventually, after another half
year, the crisis died down. Journalists from all over the world, who once
descended by the hundreds, now departed for the next global conflict hot spot.
Third World nuclear war and 100 million dead never occurred. Government
diplomacy and international finger-chiding reigned as the main news items to
cover. The conflict continued—just as it had for sixty years—each side shelling
the other from protected mountainside positions, doing little else except
testing new artillery and showering terror on civilians ensnared in the
crossfire. For now, however, the nuclear rhetoric and threats from politicians
were gone.
Francisco Dante called Jethro,
telling him he could return to his sailing trip and continue with his travel
articles. Jethro was glad to leave; Kashmir and its horrors would remain burned
in his psyche for the rest of his life. War does that. But through the battle
zones, he also saw things that would give him emotional immunity and protection
for his whole life. There, travesty and the overcoming of it were daily
lessons. He learned to appreciate and recognize functional power. Military might.
Fearsome, unabated leadership. Clarity and confusion from the media. The magic
of a camera and a single startling image. The power of a heartrending story or
of a charismatic individual to help turn an entire nation for or against
something.
Before Jethro caught the flight
back to his yacht, he had one more photo shoot to make. He needed pictures of
the half-destroyed historical village of Kundara. He would stop there on his
way to the airport the next day.
************
Dr. Preston Langmore walked into
Dean Graybury's office at Victoria University, eagerly greeting the man. “My
old friend, what a pleasure to see you.”
“It's great to see you too,
Preston. It's been a long time,” said the dean, jumping up and extending his
hand.
“Yes, it has. Since that
‘waste-of-time town
with the summoning of a better life.
Later that day, when the sun was
disappearing, Jethro checked into The Himalayan Inn, the main journalist hotel
in Muzaffarabad. There were heavily armed guards hiding behind sandbags at the
front entrance. Jethro would begin his work again tomorrow at first light.
A week later his first article
started:
Fourteen
miles from Muzaffarabad, near the Line of Control in Pakistani Kashmir, a small
bombed village is awash in activity—in tragedy. It's desperate and shocking. An
old woman runs up to me, throwing her hands at my face. All ten of her fingers
are pointing in unnatural directions—broken in different ways. She’s another
torture victim. To my right, a man wanders the dirt roads, calling out his
child's name. In another part of the village, younger women grieve, complaining
of multiple gang rapes by soldiers. I try to interview the husbands—those who
are still alive refuse, turn away, and cry. War is a frothing beast.
As any war reporter knows, this
type of work could never be called a job. It's a pledge to reveal humanity, a
passion for unpredictable consequences, a spiral through the worst and best of
civilization. Daily, Jethro interviewed and photographed participants of the
war—from weeping villagers, to armed Jihadists, to teenaged government soldiers
listening to rock music on their cell phones. Often, bullets buzzed by Jethro’s
head or a bomb would explode nearby and send him scampering for cover or diving
into a ditch. Transhumanism was always in his thoughts, the plethora of wounded
and dead constantly reminding him of the need to overcome the fragility of
biological life and the capriciousness of the human race.
After four months of working near
the Pakistan Line of Control, Jethro crossed over to Indian Kashmir to report
on the conflict from that country. It was the same nightmare; only the
people and soldiers were bound by a different flag and religion.
Eventually, after another half
year, the crisis died down. Journalists from all over the world, who once
descended by the hundreds, now departed for the next global conflict hot spot.
Third World nuclear war and 100 million dead never occurred. Government
diplomacy and international finger-chiding reigned as the main news items to
cover. The conflict continued—just as it had for sixty years—each side shelling
the other from protected mountainside positions, doing little else except
testing new artillery and showering terror on civilians ensnared in the
crossfire. For now, however, the nuclear rhetoric and threats from politicians
were gone.
Francisco Dante called Jethro,
telling him he could return to his sailing trip and continue with his travel
articles. Jethro was glad to leave; Kashmir and its horrors would remain burned
in his psyche for the rest of his life. War does that. But through the battle
zones, he also saw things that would give him emotional immunity and protection
for his whole life. There, travesty and the overcoming of it were daily
lessons. He learned to appreciate and recognize functional power. Military might.
Fearsome, unabated leadership. Clarity and confusion from the media. The magic
of a camera and a single startling image. The power of a heartrending story or
of a charismatic individual to help turn an entire nation for or against
something.
Before Jethro caught the flight
back to his yacht, he had one more photo shoot to make. He needed pictures of
the half-destroyed historical village of Kundara. He would stop there on his
way to the airport the next day.
************
Dr. Preston Langmore walked into
Dean Graybury's office at Victoria University, eagerly greeting the man. “My
old friend, what a pleasure to see you.”
“It's great to see you too,
Preston. It's been a long time,” said the dean, jumping up and extending his
hand.
“Yes, it has. Since that
‘waste-of-time town
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