Issue 232

Mogadishu, Somalia, June 28, 2006 – Some people freeze, most run. I run. Away from the sound - a sharp, terrifying crack. Jesus. A militiaman's gun has gone off accidentally, I think. A few steps up towards the speaker's platform, away from the crowd, away from the gunshot, I glance back down. Martin, the Swedish cameraman, clutching his side, falling. A few more steps. Martin is on the ground. His white shirt is stained with red. Flemming, his Danish photographer friend, is hunched over him.

That picture is so clear, even now, four days on. Perfectly composed - Martin lying still, Flemming crouched over him, looking skywards in shock. Both men in focus in the middle of the frame, everything around them a blur, overexposed.

I had met "the Scandinavians" last Wednesday at the headquarters of the Islamic Courts Union, which had taken control of the Somali capital from a group of warlords in early June. Flemming Weiss Andersen, a gentle 55-year-old, walked over and introduced himself. He had been a theatre director in Copenhagen for 30 years, before turning to photojournalism after traveling to Baghdad to research a play based on one of Saddam Hussein's books. His business card said "photographer/dramatist". Last year he and his wife, Eva Plesner, who took leave from her job as a reporter for the Danish newspaper Jyllands-Posten, moved to Cairo to focus on covering the Middle East full-time, particularly Iraq.

It was there that they had met Martin Adler, a 47-year-old Swedish television cameraman and producer. A freelancer who often worked for Channel Four, Martin had covered most of the world's worst war zones, including Somalia, winning a number of prestigious awards. He welcomed me to Mogadishu. His handshake was firm and confident. He was handsome in a rugged sort of way and dignified; almost British military, I thought at the time. A good guy to have around in a dangerous place.

Flemming gave me their mobile number, and said we should have dinner together. Caught up in my own reporting, I did not see them until two days later.

"The Scandinavians," my Somali "fixer" Yassin said, pointing towards the road from our vantage point on the stage, where we were waiting for the rally in support of the Islamic courts to begin after Friday prayers. Eva had not come - she was interviewing Mogadishu's mayor across town. But I was happy to see Martin and Flemming. There were no other foreign journalists around.

Martin gave me another firm handshake and he immediately started to work, using his television camera and the Nikon still camera that hung from his shoulder. He and Flemming panned the scene from the stage and then moved down on to the ground, where a crowd was building up behind a wire cordon. The pictures were good; women were pumping their fists and a group of men were trying to set an Ethiopian flag on fire. Martin and Flemming shook hands: this was excellent footage that would tell the story of what was happening in a largely forgotten country.

Flemming walked towards the stage to change lenses on one of his cameras. He was barely back at Martin's side when there was a crack.

Time loses all meaning. Milliseconds become seconds. Minutes become seconds. At the back of the stage, Flemming eventually arrives, dragged up the stairs by Islamic courts militiamen. His face is drained of color. We try to go back down to see Martin, but are stopped by a group of Somalis worried about our safety. "I feel like such a coward," says Flemming, even though he had stayed at Martin's side for some time, crying out for help. "So do I," I say, and I mean it.

Martin has been taken to hospital, someone assures us. I phone the foreign desk at the Guardian, asking them to let Channel Four know what has happened to Martin. My voice starts to break. Christ, I was scared for Martin, whom I hardly knew. But mostly I was scared for myself. After some time - 10 minutes, 15? - we set off for the hospital. The car in front of us clips a small boy who runs off, seemingly unhurt. Yassin, sitting in the passenger seat, is talking on the phone. He turns around and says, "Martin's dead". Flemming's face crumples. "No, that can't be," he says. "It's just a rumor." "Yes, just a rumor," I agree, somehow knowing it isn't.

The hospital looks like a house. We rush in, Flemming in front. Martin lies on a table in a small room. I phone my wife. "A journalist has been shot dead here," I say, voice quivering. "But I wanted to let you know that I'm OK." I immediately think about what I'd said. "But I'm OK." A man with a wife and two young daughters is dead. But I'm OK.

Within hours, the news had traveled all over the world. An email arrives from a New York Times photographer who knew him. "He was a very nice guy ... very dashing in a way, always upbeat and helpful and a very good journalist. A real tragedy and a waste - he's exactly the type of people we need more of on this Earth."

We fly to Nairobi the next afternoon, the Scandinavians and I. We try to work, to read magazines, to think about other things. Every now and then one of us looks to the right, where Martin lies inside a thin wooden coffin.

Source: The Guardian

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