I have been reporting from Nepal for 10 days, trying to capture the fallout of the flash floods that have upended lives in the Himalayan nation. When I set out from India for this monumental coverage, I had no idea the tragic memories would become a burden I might carry for the rest of my life.
For a reporter, covering a disaster means being on the ground, observing the situation, talking to people, and bringing their stories to the world. But during these ten days, I realised that many stories simply passed before my eyes and stayed with me.
I stumbled upon many such stories during the Nepal flood coverage. Some of the most heartbreaking stories were those I couldn’t capture on camera.
The scale of the devastation was terrifying from day one. Roads were washed away. Bridges were broken. Houses were replaced by debris.
I met Ram Bahadur Thapa in Trishuli. His entire house had been swept away. But it wasn’t just the house that was lost; many members of his family were also missing. Standing in front of him and talking to him wasn’t easy. He was standing before what once was his house, which had now been reduced to a pile of debris. Buried in the house were memories.
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I asked him questions about the tragedy. I was performing my duty as a journalist; however, in the back of my mind were thoughts about the man’s loss. Nature’s fury had snatched his entire world from him in a moment.
Another story emerged in Trishuli that shook me to the core. A home that sheltered 25 people was swept away in the flood. All 25 people died.
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The house — which was once occupied by children, adults, and elders — was wiped from existence. So were its occupants.
Journalists often talk about statistics after natural disasters — how many died, how many are missing. But when I was standing in front of the ground where the house once existed, I realised that reducing those who died to a mere number would be a travesty. They were faces, names, and an assortment of relationships and memories.
In Chitwan, I witnessed a scene that is hard to forget: two children had been searching for their parents. I couldn’t ease their pain; I could only record their stories.
Meeting these children, I wondered — who is the most vulnerable in a disaster? Perhaps the child who doesn’t even know if his parents will return.
I approached the river and reported on the retrieval of bodies. People were wading into the river and pulling out bodies one by one. Then I reached the mortuary. About 170 bodies were lying there. Seeing so many bodies together was one of the toughest moments of those ten days for me.
It is easy to say that 170 bodies had been found. But standing in the mortuary, I understood what it actually meant.
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After this, I went to the mass grave, where unidentified bodies were being buried. The scene evoked a flurry of emotions. The relatives of these unfortunate human beings would still be waiting for information about their whereabouts. Many would be holding on to the hope that their loved ones were alive.
At the Pashupatinath Ghat, some families were performing symbolic funerals for their missing loved ones. The bodies were missing, and they were forced to conduct their funerals for closure. This must be the most difficult situation for any family. They didn’t get a last glimpse of the person with whom they shared their lives. The camera couldn’t capture their pain and helplessness.
During these ten days, I experienced another aspect of journalism: not every story is meant to be shown on television. We journalists often want the audience to see what we have witnessed. But not everyone wants to be in front of the camera — and that is their right.
I encountered many families who were devastated. They didn’t want to talk. They would retreat at the sight of the camera. Some didn’t want to make their grief public. I respected their wishes.
Many stories skipped the scrutiny of cameras. A crying mother. A helpless father. A child waiting for his parents. A family searching for their belongings in the rubble. A man staring at his house washed away before him, with nothing left to return to.
When I reached my hotel, these memories would haunt me. Physical fatigue goes away with rest, but the fatigue of witnessing the pain before one’s eyes doesn’t go away so easily.
Amid this despair, there were some stories that kept hope alive in me. Two men were rescued from a tunnel. When both were pulled out alive after nine days of being cut off from the outside world, it felt like humanity doesn’t give up even in the midst of so much pain. I spoke to their families. Their faces reflected the fear of nine days and the joy that their ordeal was finally over.
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Today, on the tenth day, when I look back, I don’t remember the figures; I remember the faces. I remember the face of Ram Bahadur Thapa. I remember the house where 25 people lived, but were all swept away together. I remember the two children in Chitwan, whose mother and father were both missing. I remember the people retrieving bodies from the river. I remember the 170 bodies in the mortuary. I remember the soil from the mass grave. I remember the families performing symbolic last rites for their loved ones at Pashupatinath. And then I remember the faces of Kabir Maharjan’s family, overjoyed to find their loved one alive after nine days of fear.
These ten days have also taught me a lot about journalism. Sometimes it’s more important to respect someone’s pain than to show it. Sometimes it’s more important to stop when someone says they don’t want to be on camera than to share their story with the world. And sometimes, some stories don’t become news; they remain only in your memory.
I just pray to God that I never have to cover such a tragedy again.
(Prabhakar Kumar is Executive Editor, NDTV)
Disclaimer: These are the personal opinions of the author
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