On Being the Change

On July 12, 1993, my son, Dan Eldon, a Reuters photographer, was stoned to death by an angry mob in Mogadishu, Somalia. Dan and three colleagues had been summoned to the site of a brutal U.S. bombing that had left scores of people dead and dying. Enraged survivors turned on the journalists. Dan was twenty-two.

In the weeks that followed I found it impossible to sleep or eat, haunted by images of Dan running from the mob. I feared I would never be at peace again, and I couldn't stop crying, overwhelmed by intense pain and anger -- with the Somalis, with God, and most of all with myself.

After all, I had encouraged Dan to be a photographer. But also, I had encouraged him and his sister, Amy, to follow the message of the Oracle at Delphi to "know thyself," to seek their own truth and follow it -- no matter what.

I'd heeded the words of the Oracle myself when I realized that I had to leave my husband. Dan supported my decision and did not make me feel guilty. Only after his death, when I read his journal, filled with the intense anxieties of an eighteen-year-old grappling with the disintegration of his family, did I understand his devastation.

In July 1992, home from UCLA, Dan heard rumors of a famine in Somalia and, with a young journalist, headed north, where he photographed haunting images that found their way into newspapers around the world. He went back again and again, postponing college. The experience changed him. I didn't know how to deal with the now troubled young man. For a few months, our communication was patchy and difficult.

Dan finally called me on my birthday, June 26, l993. As we talked, he slowly began to open up about how worried he was that the horrific photographs he was taking might affect his mind. "Don't you think you've been there long enough?" I asked. "Isn't it time you came home?"

"I have to stay, Mom," he said. "My job isn't finished."

Suddenly I recalled how Dan had supported me on the most difficult decision I had ever made. "Okay," I answered. "No matter what, I'm proud of you."

"I love you," Dan said. "But we really need to talk. I'll send you a ticket to Nairobi."

The ticket never came. Two weeks later Dan was dead.

Amy and I later traveled to Somalia to film a TBS documentary, Dying to Tell the Story, profiling frontline journalists including Dan. But I still couldn't let go of my anger. It seemed nothing could release me from the pain.

Five months later, Amy and I were in New York for our film's premiere. In the cab on the way, I realized that our cabbie was Somali, and I told him about Dan. Ebrahim, the driver, listened carefully and said that his family, too, had suffered losses in the fighting. "I know all about your son and the journalists who died with him," he said gravely. "On behalf of all Somalis, I ask your
forgiveness."

I realized the truth of Gandhi's message: "We must be the change we wish to see in the world." My healing came through sharing the stories of extraordinary people trying to make the world better. I now believe that Dan and I did what we had to do -- I by teaching him the message of Delphi, and he by following his heart, no matter what. At least I have found some peace and
fearlessness.

--Excerpted from On Becoming Fearless . . . In Love, Work and Life.

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