Losing an Eye, But not Losing Sight
I kept in touch with Zarqawi through our Kabul bureau team for years, but it all ended for reasons I can’t mention out of respect. I was glad enough to know that Zarqawi went on with his education and the surgical operation on his eye was successful. I later drowned in work with the advent of the Arab Spring and its subsequent tragic setbacks, but I have not for one day stopped thinking of the Afghan orphan or others like him. When I was asked to contribute to this book, I thought it was a sign from God. I re-established contact with Zarqawi, who is now 16 years of age. He grew up and with him grew many life concerns. I am not sure what the future holds for him. But I pray that I will one day be able to speak to him in person in a common language. All I can say is that the stories reported by a journalist leave deep marks in their mind and soul. Some of these marks remain carved for ages; others are indelible. I pray that Zarqawi will not lose sight of his future, for his beautiful eyes deserve to behold peace and all that is delightful.
We filmed our report and interviewed Zarqawi’s uncle, who could not hold back his tears. It is not easy for an Afghan man to cry in front of a female stranger. It was not one of the greatest reports I have produced in my career: it is agonising to ask someone how his relatives were killed and I was lost for words. Many questions about Zarqawi kept roaming inside my head: what his life would be like, what we could do for him, especially considering that the majority of the Afghan people, aside from the war lords, live in poverty.
As a human, before being journalist, I wondered whether we were feeding on other people’s tragedies and questioned whether it was a professional achievement to tell their stories in just a few minutes. No matter what the answers are, I am certain that it is a noble duty to at least be with those victims. A few days later, as Eid el-Fitr was around the corner, our team came back to visit Zarqawi. We felt a sort of moral obligation to see him happily dressed in the colourful new attire I had bought
him for the occasion. I took a photograph with him. The only barrier between me and Zarqawi was the language, but our heartfelt smiles said it all. My stint in Afghanistan came to an end, but my relationship with Zarqawi didn’t. I offered to take care of his education or have him adopted by Khadija, a friend of mine living in France. His uncle declined. All the rosy dreams Khadija and I have had for Zarqawi were dashed.
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