Within hours of arriving in Czechia’s capital city of Prague on 21 December, I was subconsciously becoming stressed by the deafening sounds of police and ambulance sirens and speeding emergency vehicles.
Quite quickly, I learned that the country’s worst mass shooting was underway just a hundred yards or so from where I was taking in the sights of what is often billed as a once-in-a-lifetime Christmas experience.
One year after retiring from news and the practice of daily journalism, I found myself an unwitting guest to my well-worn front-row seat to history.
The sickening feeling of the tragic violence unfolding all around the city hit an all too familiar chord. My adrenaline skyrocketed, and my journalistic instincts took over; only I had no established outlet from which to report. No news directors, editors, producers or audience demanded my reporting from the scene—no breaking news alerts. No deadlines. No social media demands. It was just me surrounded by a swarm of emergency activity in what was developing into one of the top global news stories.
I was a lone tourist amid a tragic calamity. For one of the first times in my adult life and career, I felt no clear purpose. There was no need for me to report from the crime scene barricade perimeter. There were no official contacts or inside connections to rely upon. Not being an emergency responder or reporter, there was no purpose for my being there other than as a shocked bystander. It was a dreadful feeling of helplessness.
Instead of my usual professional duties as a journalist postponing the trauma unfolding around me, it was hitting all at once.
The attempt to continue absorbing Christmastime’s wonder and beauty in Prague’s historic Old Town seemed fruitless. I made an effort, but the dizzying Doppler effect of the sirens and chaos thwarted my attempts to enjoy the long-awaited experience of magic of Christmas in Prague.
After doing a couple of Facebook live posts, I escaped the cold, windy pandemonium by walking 15 minutes to my accommodations.
Since I am not covering the devastation as a journalist, this story is uncomfortably packed with the excessive use of “I” and “me.” The shameful overuse of those personal pronouns feels uncomfortably selfish, but there is no other source from which to share this experience. There are no witnesses with whom to speak and share their stories.
The following day, I returned to the scene of the senseless tragedy where a sizeable makeshift memorial of candles, flowers, photographs and personal items was growing. Not having the emotional shield of “professional duties,” I was moved and even overwrought by the lives lost, dreams unfulfilled, and immeasurable lifelong pain to be endured by the survivors.
Departing the scene as a sniveling and sobbing mess, it seemed writing this would give a tiny therapeutic reprieve. It is indeed only a slight respite.
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