Chapter 11

News baggage

stood outside the mens toilet, alarm bells clanging in my head, and shouted Alexandros name, over and

over again. I screamed for him get out IMMEDIATELY. Alexandro, Alexandro, are you in there? Where are you? Why did you go in alone? If you dont answer me, Im coming in. The men walking out of the urinal, most of them adjusting their flies and doing up their belt buckles, looked at me disdainfully, some even shaking their heads. The ranting and raving of a woman gone mad, but I ignored them and continued to call my son. Get out of there at once and go to the girls toilet! Possessed by the demon of Maria Callas once again, I shouted in Greek, as if screaming in a language those around me wouldnt likely understand would make me appear less ridiculous in their eyes. It didnt. The same What the hell is wrong with that mad woman? looks came shooting in my direction. Bugger that, I thought, now becoming a caricature of myself, Im going in. Who cares if its a mens toilet, what I see inside, or how truly revolting it smelled I was going in after the young boy Id worked so hard to pottytrain years before yet now refused to allow to pee unaccompanied. God, the irony! Just as I was about to storm in on my great rescue mission, armed only with cellphone in hand, I heard behind me the sounds of a man coming to his womans rescue. Whats wrong? Wheres Alexandro? Kosta asked. Hes gone to wee. Alone. In a mens toilet. Alone. With God-knows-who in there. I gestured frantically towards the entrance of the mens room, lit with stark fluorescent lights. Alexaaandrooo! I screamed out again. Stop screaming like that, Kosta demanded before strolling in.

I stood outside the wretched-smelling lavatories at a truck stop in the mountains about 300 kilometres from home, our weekend retreat ruined by my sons treacherous act. How could he? I muttered to myself. What was he thinking? And why was his father so nonchalant about it? Said father and son emerged from the offending toilet, the former holding the latter around the shoulders, the latter with a strange, sheepish look on his face, his eyes brimming with confusion. I said nothing. I didnt tell him about the many stories of child molesters who lurk behind urinal doors in creepy public places. I didnt tell him about little boys who are sodomised by men who seek their unsuspecting victims in just such places. I didnt tell him any of this as I just stared at him, my eyes willing him to understand as they silently begged him not to cry. The look on his face jolted me out of my crazed state brought on by post-newsroom bulletin disorder, triggered by the stories wed covered. I knew he was embarrassed. I was embarrassed. For him, and for me. The lava of my internal, normally hidden and well-managed volcano had bubbled to the surface. I had been exposed.

I just wanted to make a wee, he said angrily when he finally managed to speak without crying. Why did you embarrass me like that? The angry, independent little boy stomped off towards the car. I heard a door slam.

Hes right to be angry. Why were you shouting like that? Kosta admonished when Alexandro was out of earshot. I heard you on the other side of the shops. You scared the child. You scared me. I thought something was really wrong. The kid just went to the toilet. His voice betrayed his annoyance. Always my perfect temperature gauge, Kosta has learnt to read my internal volcano, pointing out that some of my eruptions may not actually be warranted. No need to panic, hell say. Just relax, the children will be fine. During his more exasperated moments hell often tell me not to turn them into sissies. In the heat of the moment I often dont see that hes right and that maybe, just maybe, I am overreacting. Over the years, though, Ive learnt to rely on his responses to the not-so-life-threatening situations. Just as I knew I would never endanger my unborn child for an undercover story on illegal abortions, so I know that my news life often makes me an overprotective mom. I come with news baggage and a whole lot of nonsense real and imagined that makes me silently neurotic. The frantic call to the electrician during my second maternity leave is proof of that. Why the panic, Maam? Your plugs are just fine. Im trying to find the balance between protecting my children and making them strong, fearless people with a sense of self who can do things on their own and stand up for themselves. Yes, this world is not for sissies, and they must learn to be survivors. At the same time, though, I want to protect them from as many of the worlds ills as possible, from unnecessary complications and predicaments that could stain their young lives, while at the same time shielding them from my worry, which I attempt to keep neatly hidden under the surface of my parenting persona. I dont want to be an over-the-top, dont-let-them-do-or-experience-anything kind of mother, but Ive seen and heard so much of the grisly aspects of life, and theyre all stored in my brain. Most times I think Ive forgotten the detail of a story, but the brain is brilliant, as we know, and little is ever truly forgotten. My fear for my two boys runs deep. Like molten lava buried beneath the hardened and calm exterior of a volcano, it often threatens to seep through the cracks of my in-control, everything-is-fine, Ive-got-it-all-together approach, which is my usual way of dealing with the world. My boys are still young and must occasionally quietly wonder why I over-think even the simplest of things that have to do with them.

Perfectly childlike and innocent questions such as Can we swim? when theyre at a birthday party send a subtle chill down my spine. I smile and give as neutral-as-possible an answer, but I start to think. I recall all the child drownings I have heard about and I worry that neither of them is a strong enough swimmer yet. I think about how many children have drowned in full view of adults standing around a pool enjoying themselves, beer in hand. A conversation I once had with the executive producer of Carte Blanche starts to surface as I recall him telling me what to do in a situation like that. An image of the Garden City Clinic flashes through my brain. They ask me again, Mommy, can we swim? I want to tell them what Im thinking, about the vivid images jumping around in my head, about the fear that has wrapped itself around my heart. I want them to know I think the conditions are less than perfect. Were not at home and there are too many other children, who all seem to be in a state of frenzied excitement. I wish I could tell them that I worry that I wont be able to tell if those shrieks from the pool are their cries for help or if they too have become part of the frenzied lot, playing games and making noise; that its not easy to spot their blue and green full-bodied swimsuits in a sea of strikingly similar-looking bathing suits, clearly all bought last season from the same store as ours. But I dont. Instead, I pick them up, smother them with as many kisses as I can manage before they squirm out of my arms, ruffle their hair and smile as I tell them to go and put on their swimming costumes. My eyes are glued to them the entire time theyre in the pool. But Ive contained the lava. Everything is fine. I dont mean to shout Stop! Dont! Stop! Spit! when I see them taking large bites of food, eating far too quickly or cramming sweets into their mouths. At moments like these, thoughts of the little boy who choked on a cherry start invading my mind. He died while at school not far from where we live. When I think about him, I ache for his mother. I remember his wonderful aunt, who once taught Pano. I think about their tears. The lava bubbles and my heart stops for a quick second. Ive stopped buying cherries. No guarantee of safety, but it makes me feel better. Every time my children play on one of those large enclosed plastic slides (found in many restaurant play areas), I think of the 18-year-old caught masturbating in one such slide at a popular Italian eatery on Joburgs West Rand. I wonder about ruined families. Whenever I hear about an upcoming school trip, I recall the Knysna bus tragedy that saw all those schoolchildren die when the brakes of the bus they were travelling in failed and it plunged into a river. Its different in the newsroom, where we become one with the stories, the pace and the energy of the place, and seldom allow anything to pierce our thickened skins and lust for leads. We are submerged in all aspects of what is

being covered, irrespective of the grotesque subject matter, and cannot betray our profession by allowing ourselves to be introspective and paralysed by emotion. Its our job after all what we signed up for when we became journalists and wed be doing ourselves and our subjects a gross disservice should we become emotionally involved. Detachment is good at times of trauma and serves us well as it helps build up our protective barriers. As a young reporter, it wasnt uncommon for me to spend hours at the scene of murders or accidents waiting for a mortuary van to arrive or police to finish their on-scene investigation. I was undeterred by the rivulets of blood that ran at my feet, the mangled corpses of people whod either found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time, or were hardened criminals whose lives ended violently. I filed my stories, spoke to eyewitnesses, wrote up my morning angles and often snacked on energy bars and apples, or anything else resembling food that I could dig out of my bag. All in a days work. Since I became a mother, though, somethings happened to the protective film I choose to wrap myself in. Although firmly in place when Im in news mode, it becomes punctured by tiny holes every so often, holes that leave me wondering whose child, whose mother, whose husband, whose father was that person now lying dead. Everyone is a part of someone and everyone belongs somewhere. How deep their loss must cut! Any story about suffering, hurt, hungry or dead children has a particularly damaging effect and the protective layer weakens, awakening the volcano within. Its an experience I am certain every parent had when news of the killings at Newtowns Sandy Hook Elementary School in the normally quiet state of Connecticut in the United States broke in December 2012, sending shock waves around the world. This volcano was of monumental proportions and was felt tens of thousands of kilometres away, in countries far beyond the borders of the United States. Breaking EWN: More than 20 people, mostly children, have been killed in a school shooting in Connecticut, US. Our breaking-news SMS was sent out just after 8.30 p.m. South African time on the evening of Friday, 14 December, and my blood ran cold. Our online editor, Sheldon Morais, and I had a brief discussion about the shooting spree that would come to be known as the second worst US massacre in history after the Virginia Tech killings of 2007. It was late to send out a breaking-news alert (BNA), we knew that, and the numbers werent yet confirmed, but this was big. So even though I knew Id receive my SMS momentarily, and knew exactly what it was going to say, its contents still managed to take me a little by surprise. My subconscious could not quite comprehend that someone, deranged or not, would do that to children. I could make no sense of it. When the number of dead was confirmed a little later, the death toll stood at 26, including six staff members and 20 children all six and seven years old. I stayed up until the early hours, watching international news channels, reading updates online, tweeting: @KatyKatopodis: 20 children confirmed dead. There are no words! #Newtown @KatyKatopodis: Im really gutted by this latest US #school shooting in #Connecticut. A parents most gruesome nightmare! Just gave my boys an extra kiss @KatyKatopodis: Im deeply moved as I watch Barack Obama cry when talking about the deaths of young children in Connecticut. #Newtown @KatyKatopodis: Police tell CNN bodies of the children likely to remain in the school until Sunday. The agony of those parents. My heart goes out to them! @KatyKatopodis: Unbelievably heartbreaking! RIP little souls

It was 11 days before Christmas and the world mourned with the community of Newtown. But theirs was also a story of bravery, courage and strength as details emerged of teachers and helpers who pushed children under desks, crammed them into tiny cupboards, lied to the killer telling him theyd gone to gym. There were stories of women who placed themselves between the crazed gunman and their petrified children, arms wide open. They paid with their lives. Not wanting my children to be harmed is not the same as hiding the realities of South Africa from them. I dont want to create a cotton-wool cocoon in which they should reside. They must be exposed to all that is heartwrenching and heart-warming in this world. They must see, experience and truly live in their country. They must feed the hungry and care for the homeless. They must be unafraid to hug the suffering and the poor. I hope they also remember that the world of news and media has afforded them rare opportunities. I hope one day they can look back on the mommy who wouldnt let them have sleepovers and measure her concerns and anxieties against the mommy who introduced them to rock stars. My boys have been privileged to meet heroes, presidents and actors; world-acclaimed authors and Nobel Peace Prize winners; Springbok champions and soccer superstars. Theyve touched Olympic Gold. But sporting stars can lose their sheen and, like superheroes who crash to earth when they come into contact with kryptonite or mythical characters who burn their wings when they soar too close to the sun, they break our hearts, especially when we have to explain something difficult to little boys who thought athletes were invincible, while trying to make sense of it all ourselves. Thats exactly what happened when the man the world had come to know as The Blade Runner was arrested for murdering his girlfriend, Reeva Steenkamp. As news of Oscar Pistorius broke on Valentines Day 2013, so did the hearts of a nation whod invested so much in the man who was an international icon of courage and strength.

South Africans struggled to comprehend what had happened and how it could be that their Olympic and Paralympic hero whod defied his fate was now at fates cruel mercy. Eyewitness Newss reporter Barry Bateman was one of a few journalists tipped off about the shooting. He immediately made his way to Oscars upmarket home in Pretoria. We pressured him for confirmation, information, updates. Anything! What did he know? What had he heard? Was Oscar inside and what did neighbours hear? The newsroom was in breaking news mode, abuzz with adrenalin and questions. The questions extended beyond the confines of our news walls and far beyond the borders of our country. Oscar Pistorius had been arrested for murder and shock waves rippled through the world. When Oscar appeared in the courtroom for his bail application hearing, the attention of the globe was on him. It was unprecedented and every major news outlet descended on Pretoria. Not since the release of Nelson Mandela from prison had South Africa been the focus of such intense media scrutiny with the sterling work of Eyewitness News journalists making international headlines. On stories like this I expect nothing short of phenomenal effort and the team delivered. Our reporters were in huge demand by foreign media and worked tirelessly on this story. Eyewitness News broke twitter records, trended, went live on Google Hangout, continued with wall-to-wall on-air coverage and then we went home to digest it all, and to explain to our children that their hero had fallen. It was only a few months ago that wed sat as a family and watched transfixed when he participated in the ablebodied Olympics, in awe of all that hed achieved. For my children he was a bionic man with legs of steel who could outrun every baddie and it was him they demanded to see when we went to bid the Olympic team farewell at the airport, their eyes dancing around excitedly as their searched only for Oscar. They spoke his name with awe and fought over who would be Oscar when they sprinted against each other up and down our long driveway. They shouted at the television as he raced his way into history, begging to stay up late enough to watch him run scenes that Im certain played out in many homes. I was vague and brief when I told them, but not editorialising in any way. I explained that Oscar was in serious trouble, that hed shot his girlfriend and that I wasnt sure he would ever run on the world stage again, reminding them that guns are dangerous when in the wrong hands and innocent people get hurt and die. I told them I was feeling sad, but was also very cross because a young lady was now dead and an unbelievable career was over, that no one knew what had really happened or why, but that they needed to know because it was a massive news story, thats why I had been working so late and that I knew how much they liked Oscar. They reacted with some confusion to begin with, death thankfully not yet on their radar. Typical little boys, they asked questions about handcuffs, guns, jail and what would happen to his bionic legs and then they stumped me with a question in a way that only children can. They wanted to know about Oscars mommy, asking what she was feeling and was she angry with him now. His mommy is not around anymore, I explained as gently as I could, but if she were Im sure she would be upset and confused and very disappointed. The story of Oscar and Reeva has still not been told and many details will emerge in the weeks and months ahead. Whatever the exact circumstances, though, it seems clear Oscar came into contact with his inner kryptonite in the early hours of that morning. He flew too close to the sun and his wings melted. If only walls could speak theyd tell us the truth about what happened that awful day in February when South Africa lost a hero and a family lost a daughter. Instead, we will have to rely on courts and trials and evidence and blood stains to tell a story of two lost and shattered lives. I do my utmost to balance the hideous with the beautiful because I dont want hard news to be our only reference point and to cloud everything we do as a family. Striking a balance between the world of hard news and parenting is vital even though it is difficult to achieve. Im happy to try to keep my in-control and all-together face firmly in place when my internal volcano starts to rumble and my panic starts to rise. I dont want my boys to see the lava, or even the cracks, because if theres one thing that is simple, its that its not fair to expose them to any of my own fears and perceptions. They will have plenty of time in which their own volcanoes will form; enough time to carry their own baggage.