The next day, Wednesday, I was to work on my previous day assignment. I went to forensics and waited for information about the victims, just as if I was one of the mourners. Under the sun, the wait is longer. I learned to hold my tears when being next to a complete family begging for information, praying out loud in drowning pain. And words run out then; I learned when empathy trumps professionalism, it is better to become a silent witness.
The forensic in charge informed the families and the media that the majority of the bodies had been identified and were to be hand over in only a few hours. Therefore my boss ordered me to stay and wait for them to receive their relatives, to “catch the images.”
By far, the saddest moment of my summer, was to interview the mother of a victim, whose son in law and grandchild died too in the same massacre. Her soul was completely shattered, her motivation almost ghostly, her faith so weak. She was broken. Her family and thirteen other families were broken. Now how do you show that on the news? Is it necessary to portrait this part of the reality, as a mean to create awareness and empathy among the population? How far into her story is a reporter to dig into? How much is it allowed to audit someone’s mourning process? Would I, as a person, answer all these questions in the same manner if it was me who had lost my daughter?
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