me introduce myself. I am Francesco Di Mauro, I have thirty-seven, and I am a war correspondent. My job is simple, needs no explanation: When somewhere in the world there is an armed conflict of some interest to the public, the newspaper I work for puts me on the first international flight in a few hours and I find myself on the field. In the first four days I have to ensure a piece a day, maybe accompanied by a photograph depicting a child maimed, disfigured by weeping women, houses torn apart by bombs, but when the battle begins to stabilize enough to write a guide or two a week: readers want new scoop, and a newspaper that makes death its cover needs for novelty, warmth, freshness.
I am a war correspondent: my job is to tell the pain and suffering others, to make a salable product from an advertisement for a diaper service and high fashion: they are good at my job, maybe one of the best. Precisely for this reason every time I go into a press room, or I go behind the battle lines to prepare for a service or conduct an interview, colleagues greet me with rich hints of ill-concealed admiration.
I have a beautiful wife named Claire, with whom I have two sons, James and Alice. James is fourteen years old and have just bought a scooter to school, Alice has six and is already in second grade because she was born in March, we did make the Firstborn. It is a very intelligent and precocious child, he always says he wants to do the as a journalist father, grew up.
I am a war correspondent, and last week they sent me to this small but turbulent African state, where yet another dictator dismissed the predecessor with the help of the army and the support of the people and euphoric implied that the U.S. government. But of course we should not write the latter information, we war correspondents, because this is not so much to people who are interested. People want blood, death, suffering, not the power games that are behind all these horrors. My wife Clare did not want me to come in this tiny African state, because they were already two months not going home: I was in Chechnya to recount the battles against the central government for independence, and before that I had collected the testimonies of U.S. Marines in Iraq and Afghanistan. There was the birthday party of little Alice, and I should not lose again, he said. Also I had been away from home on Christmas day, I had spent in India, before going on the border with Pakistan to write about the unrest. Alice will understand, I told her quickly, satellite phone, before closing for taking photographs of local militias in celebrating the victory against a group of rebellious peasants.
I am a war correspondent, and I love my job. To be able to tell the suffering of these people to whom he is sitting comfortably on the couch, it takes elegance, transportation, and creativity. But at the same time requires a certain detachment, to avoid being too involved in the dynamics of the conflict, but also to be able to sleep at night. And I am one of the best, and at night I sleep like a baby.
Two days ago I was sitting in a bar with Ali, one of my local contacts: Ali told me about how some of the richest families in the country had succeeded in establishing some sort of control over the food supply: in this way the entire population could have access to stocks paying a higher price, which would have given the government the new leader to have funds fresh in order to finance the war against the rebels outbreaks that were lit continuously.
As we talked a bomb had exploded in the building next to ours: Ali and I we were thrown under the table in the bar, but I, a war correspondent now experienced and accustomed to certain situations, I had not lost his nerve. I extract from my camera bag, and I was able to portray some of the militiamen who were breaking into the building with weapons in hand. Probably a den of rebels under attack. The phone had rung, in the meantime: I watched the screen, it was clear. Luckily I had rejected the call just in time to be able to photograph a young boy who ran out of the palace, barefoot, disarmed. He must have had no more than fourteen, the age of my James, ran with all the strength in his body toward the bar where I was, eyes wide with terror, his mouth twisted by a grimace of despair. Behind him, two soldiers, militiamen opened fire three shots in the back and the boy had collapsed without a sound. An incredible photo.
I had just sent to my boss, with a bit of fire in which tell the tale, replete with details and emotions.
I am a war correspondent, and talk about emotions is part of my job.
Today I received the news from Italy: a photograph depicting the young executed by the militia has won one of the most important photo-journalism awards at European level. This award crowns a career that has made me a famous and respected war correspondent. I immediately called some of my colleagues and my boss, to break the news. The televisions of the whole country have contacted the newspaper to me as my guest in their programs of study.
I am a famous and respected war correspondent. I'm behind the scenes of one of the most beautiful and prestigious theaters in the world in a few minutes will go up on stage, where, in front of a large number of authors and celebrities will receive the award for my photography and work in the African country.
An important and prestigious prize, which crowns the career of a lifetime.
The phone vibrates in my pocket, and the moderator of the evening pronounce my name and begin to roar applause from the audience. It is a short message of Clare, my wife.
"You have devoted your life to tell the destruction of the world, and in so doing have destroyed our lives. It's over, goodbye. "
I turn off the phone, my face does not betray any emotion. I go on stage and wave at, I bow and smile.
I am a war correspondent. This is my job, this is the only thing I've always been able to do.
