He called four times in four minutes. It must be important,I thought – but I’d sworn to myself I wouldn’t answer my phone. Not today,of all days.
As journalists,we dish it out and we take it. We can’t – and shouldn’t – complain. But I’d be lying if I said this story didn’t shake me.
Heavy artillery was firing when two nervous American soldiers came to the tent with bad news. It’s a war zone story I’ve always itched to tell,and still infuriates me six years on.
The case against Peter Dupas was strong,but not strong enough for charges to be laid – then one of the fresh investigators made a phone call more in hope than expectation.
Some of the hardest things I’ve done as a reporter have involved conversations with mothers. But there was one mum I let down.
Everyone in Rwanda knew travelling after dark was inviting trouble. I’d taken a risk for a trivial reason,and now a large man with an assault rifle was at the window of the car,making demands.
Days after the Bourke Street massacre,my editors gave me a simple,but important assignment. Among the flowers and candles,the story of a tragedy revealed itself in unexpected ways.