A FAILED EXECUTION

Tomas is a renowned photojournalist. He is talking about his experiences amidst tragedy. Without braggadocio, he talks of war zones, political events, lost friends and anonymous passings. His clipped words are accentuated by his Swiss accent. Though fluent, he struggles when he believes his vocabulary is keeping him from communicating the power of a situation. He shouldn't worry. The events are simple; the implications clear.

From a time in Sarajevo he talks of having to drop his camera to help deliver a newborn only to see the baby lose its hospital bed to a dying child whose head had been blown apart by shelling. From a time in America he talks of being blindfolded and having his fingertips taped by lepers intent on illustrating their plight. Our discussion turns to the suicide of a fellow photographer.

"Photographers are haunted," says Tomas. "You witness all these things, but the images will not leave your mind. They are like nightmares."

"Do you have nightmares?" I ask. He nods silently and begins his tale.

It is 1994 and Tomas travels to South Africa to cover the election of Nelson Mandela. Upheaval reigns throughout the country; he and several other journalists drive to a poverty-stricken region where white supremacist rebels are preparing to confront the black population, which is agitating to gain voting rights.

As Tomas and his colleagues enter the region, they inadvertently drive into a convoy of white rebels. Bullets fly past their vehicle, but no one is injured. Suddenly the motorcade jerks to a stop. Black soldiers are attacking the white rebels. A gunfight ensues. The terrified photographers scramble out and hide behind the car.

Slowly, the soldiers gain a bloody upper hand. Most of the rebels have now fled or been killed. Those that have survived lie injured and indignant, cursing and insulting those they had come to kill.

Tomas emerges from the powdery dirt of his hiding place. He hurriedly snaps photos of the eerie surrender that has unfolded. Nobody knows what will happen next.

A black soldier, rifle aloft, approaches the rebels.

A shot rings out and a listless white body drops to the dry ground. With another shot, the soldier kills a second rebel. Tomas, in a daze, can only observe and record the horrifying scene. There can be no intervention. The executions continue; the chaos deepens. The photographers eventually flee, terrified of what might occur next.

Several days later the photographers receive a call from a cameraman who had been at the scene of the executions.

"Come over here," they are told, "there's something you should see."

As Tomas enters the editing room, the tape rolls. The battle scene slowly replays. He sees the rebels and the soldiers. But then he sees someone else - himself.

He and a fellow photographer can be seen to one side as they capture image after image of the bloody executions. Then a figure appears above them, a black soldier. His weapon is not aimed at the rebels, but on the oblivious photographers. He shakily raises his weapon, squeezes the trigger and ...Click. Nothing happens. The soldier hesitates and examines his weapon. It has jammed. A sharp whack ejects the bullet. The soldier reloads. Click. Again nothing. Another whack, another ejected bullet and another reload. Click. Nothing again. Then, outside the field of vision, a distraction occurs. The soldier flees the scene, leaving the photographers to complete their work.

Tomas slumps in the edit booth. He has just seen his own death.

-Dave Anderson, New York City

? 2001 Henry Holt