My classmate, the al-Jazeera correspondent

by Vasanthi Hariprakash

Blood, Bush and bombs. Missiles in marketplaces. Kids with lost limbs, eyes, siblings and parents, crying out of the front pages of newspapers. Casualties on the cable channels. More civilians dead. More media people bombed. More casualties.

None of these could yet have readied me for the first thing I saw that Tuesday morning last fortnight, on page one of the newspaper: a tiny half-column mugshot under the headline `al-Jazeera journalist and cameraman killed' and a small caption in italics that read: Tarek Ayub (al-Jazeera).

Tarek? Our Tariq?? Our classmate in journalism here in Bangalore, a decade ago? Was it him really? His name was spelt differently and he had a protective headgear which made it a bit tough to make out, but that crop of moustache, that knitted brow, those piercing eyes, it had to be him. Unmistakably.

It still didn't quite sink in. What was Tariq doing there in Baghdad while we friends had presumed he was 'somewhere in Jordan' fighting for the Palestinian cause alright? In any case, my "quiz paarthner" of the class of 1992-93 did not deserve to go this way. Blown to smithereens for doing his job and paying the price for being the voice of al-Jazeera, the Arab world's chosen oracle.

But wasn't that something that was expected to happen to war correspondents? "Occupational hazard", as a friend had dismissed the risks faced by mediapeople covering conflict, during a discussion on the role of the media in the time of war. "If a journalist is stepping in to the thick of the war zone, he/she obviously knows what he/she is in for," he had reasoned. Indeed. And after all, Tariq was not "embedded" (a coinage of this war that makes one visualize a journalist as a weak identity-less entity pinned on to a dissection board).

So what did Tariq die of? A mistake? Friendly fire? An errant bomb? Never mind that a private television filmed a US air force A10 "tank killer" plane firing a missile at the office; then the pilot circled the building and fired another missile, apparently making sure the hit was a success. Never mind that a few hours earlier, in response to a different question, US First Officer, General Richard Myers, had said: "We are capable of directing our weapons not just to certain buildings, but to a certain window in a given building." The Agency's report stayed oblivious of this treachery: "Tarek Ayub, 34, an al-Jazeera reporter was killed when two missiles struck the station in an attack … The Pentagon has regretted the loss of the journalists' lives."

Was that all? A mere 9-word `obituary' to a man as committed as Tariq to his cause and profession. What a waste of life, talent and passion! Would the Pentagon even have a clue about the zeal that drove the man, whose life their forces had just snuffed out? Ask us, the students of Journalism and Mass Communication at the Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan, Bangalore, batch 1992-93. And we would tell you the stuff Tariq Ayub was made of. About how even on Day One, he gave us, it now seems on hindsight, a hint of things to come…

As the course began that July evening, we took our seats and the Professor asked us, one by one, as to what had brought us to Bhavan's to pursue journalism. It takes all kinds of people to make a journalism class, and so there were some of us who were there, driven by sheer idealism of the "we will change the world" kind. There were some who had taken the one year evening course as it was easy to go along with their full-time jobs and would look good on their resume, and some others who were there "just like that", fascinated by journalism, and to have a feel of what it is all about. But amidst all of us, there was this guy who looked different. And of a different nationality. Very fair, fairly tall, balding, bright-eyed.

So when it was Tariq Ayub's turn to talk about himself, he knew exactly why he was here: "I am from Jordan and wish to be a journalist," he began, with his heavy Middle-East accent, "I waanth thu dhu my bith for Palesthine, my homelandh." A decade of time erases exact words and phrases from one's memory, yet I, and a few of my batchmates recall that there was spontaneous applause at this passionate response.

Then on, it was routine for us to go about the usual course of wannabe journalists, till it was time to give in names for the Bhavan's Annual Quiz Contest. It turned out that Tariq and I were to represent the Journalism class at the quiz. In keeping with our `strategy', we split topics among ourselves in what was a very harmonious agreement! While I opted for History, Mythology and Current Affairs (National), he said he would handle Sports and International Politics. He was absolutely thorough with his facts and figures. And together, we swept the contest to come out toppers that year (we were, incidentally, awarded a mini vacuum-cleaner for our efforts). Probably, for the first time in the history of this very Indian institute, a non-Indian had walked away with the top honours!

Other memories are of the times we hung around at the steps before the classes; the assignments (and the "intheraaviews" in Tariq's accent) we would discuss at the Chalukya hotel next door, downing their famous rave idlis with filter coffee. Also the time, when we staged a political parody for our cultural show, on how different leaders across the nation and the globe would have handled the Cauvery crisis. While this writer played Jayalalitha and another classmate donned the role of Bangarappa (the then Chief Minister of Karnataka), Tariq shocked us by declining to play Yasser Arafat! Nevertheless, he lent his own kaffiyeh (the traditional headgear that Arafat wears) to the guy who eventually did the role, explaining to us the right way it ought to be tied.

Tariq also told us he was studying in Calicut before coming here and that he had travelled quite a bit of the Kerala countryside. "What brought you to India, especially the South, all the way from your country," I would ask him. What the future al-Jazeera's war `martyr' said in response I cannot exactly recollect, but I do remember another remark of his: "India is a very warm country; the women here are beautiful. I will get back only after marrying (the actress) Sridevi"!!!

One did get to see the serious side of him as well, when all of us went to Town Hall to listen to Arun Shourie speak in the aftermath of Babri Masjid. The hall was packed and passions ran high as Mr Shourie was at his acerbic best that evening. And naturally, Tariq was quite disturbed by some of the things he heard. Back in class the next day, there were heated debates as well. But then it is to his credit that he graciously took in his stride an ideology that was so diametrically different from his.

It was this understanding and warmth of spirit that perhaps still prompts people like Mr Ramamurthi, the venerable gentleman who handled `Writing' for us, to have fond memories of that "Jordanian boy who had promised to come home to discuss Arab culture in detail".

Post-convocation, having been declared journalists academically, we merely drifted apart into our own orbits across the media. We never heard of or from Tariq again and one regrets that e-mail was not a part of our lives then. When we met, the rest of us joked that we would find him among Arafat's delegation some day - till the Gulf War brought him home on print and television in such a heart-stopping state. When Tariq actually took on the role of a war journalist or what was on his mind last, one would never know. We would only read reports later that "Ayub, 34, A Jordanian of Palestinian origin, was married with two children and had only been in Baghdad for less than a week", and that his last words as he fell to the fatal missile hitting his office were: "They have hit the safe area", referring to the US' deliberate targeting of the hotel building.

For those of us who were till April 9, taking only a ringside view, the war had hit home too close, claiming a wonderful and "waarum" friend on the other side of the globe.