by Hoda Kotb
This went on for weeks. Up to the roof for the live shot.
“Nope, not yet.” And back down again.
Up to the roof for the update. “Uh, no.” And down.
My mom would call me and say, “Oh, Hodie, I’m so worried about you!”
I appreciated the concern, but—worried?
“About what, Mom?” I wanted to say. “That I’m going to eat bad falafel?”
But instead I told her, “Turn on MSNBC. I’m just standing here—on the roof—again.”
One day, I was about to do my live roof report when my producer, Roxanne Garcia, approached me. She said in a devastated tone, “We’ve got some bad news.” She was crying. Barely choking out the words, she said, “We lost . . .”
Instantly, I thought, Oh, my God—it’s Kerry Sanders. He was our reporter who was always in the crossfire. But before I could say Kerry’s name, Roxanne said, “David Bloom died.” I just stared at her, thinking, Are you kidding me? I couldn’t process it. Like all of us, I was in shock. I had just seen David on television blazing across the desert in the “Bloom Mobile,” an Army tank recovery vehicle retrofitted with satellite and TV equipment. The unit made it possible for him to continuously transmit live rolling reports as U.S. troops made their way toward Baghdad.
I thought, Who shot David?!
But it turned out to be a surprise attack from within David’s body. At just thirty-nine years old, completely in his element with the 3rd Infantry Division, totally into his battlefield broadcasts from the soldiers’ point of view, he died. The killer was deep vein thrombosis and a pulmonary embolism. We were all devastated. I loved David. I kept up with the goings-on of his three daughters, and I’ve always loved his wife, Melanie. It’s still unbelievable.
A few nights later, as we slept in our abandoned building in Turkey, I got a call from one of the guys on the news desk back in New York. He said, “We have a question for you. We want to know if you’ll take David’s place on that tank going into Baghdad.”
Silence. I was so spooked and confused. You like to think you’re fearless—and then that call comes. Reality calls.
I said, “Let me think about it.”
I didn’t sleep. I called the people whom I care about and who care about me. As it turned out, there was so much more I valued than sitting in that tank. I just couldn’t do it. I felt like I was letting down David. And I felt almost physically sick making that phone call to say, “I just can’t do it.”
David was more courageous than I am. He is so missed.
Baghdad
In April of 2003, allied troops occupied Baghdad and the war was declared “over.” The mammoth bronze statue of Saddam Hussein had been yanked down, but there was still uncertainty as to who was fully in control of the region. That’s when we finally found a way into Baghdad. For days, we’d been sleeping on the tarmac of the Kuwait International Airport, hoping for a lift. Finally, there was room for us aboard a C-17 military transport plane. After thirty-plus hours of waiting and flying, we landed at Baghdad International Airport, got off the plane, and wondered, Now what? It wasn’t like a cab was going to pick us up and take us to Baghdad. So we began to hoof it. We dragged our bags for quite a while, walking toward downtown. We could not get in touch with people from the NBC News bureau set up there, so we kept walking.
Aboard a C-17 en route to Baghdad
With producer Tim Uehlinger in Baghdad
Shooting near the downed statue of Saddam Hussein
At last, a U.S. military vehicle stopped and gave us a ride into Baghdad. NBC had already outfitted a small building for crews and correspondents who were there before us. The space was geared for plugging in equipment and computers, and also for sleeping. On our first night, David Bloom’s funeral was under way back in the states. NBC had rigged it so we could watch a satellite feed of the funeral inside our little compound. We sat in the dark to watch, because any extra light would draw attention to our building. Some of the correspondents worked by the light of headlamps strapped to their foreheads. There we were in the dark, watching the funeral. All of a sudden, “Pop-pop-pop-pop!”
Bullets.
Before we arrived, we were advised that whenever we heard gunfire we were to strap on the equipment we were provided. My gear was heaped in the corner—a helmet, a bulletproof vest, and a gas mask. My first instinct was to strap it all on—even the mask. But no one around me was moving. Not an inch. I looked around the room. Really? Everyone was just working on their stories and watching the funeral like nothing was wrong. Jim Maceda, a thirty-year news veteran who’s covered stories in more than a hundred countries—many embroiled in conflict—looked toward the window where the gunfire was popping.
“Pop-pop-pop-pop!”
Completely annoyed, like he was hearing a swarm of gnats instead of a flurry of bullets, he said to the window, “Shut the fuck up!” He turned back to his computer and continued writing his story. I was amazed that the same sounds I found terrifying were simply an irritant to the wizened war veteran. I saw it again a few days later.
I was interviewing a woman who headed up the hospitals in Baghdad. She was understandably distraught over the bombing chaos. Medical records, blood-type information, birth certificates—all strewn about and many destroyed. We were outside in the hospital courtyard when the same “Pop-pop-pop-pop!” kicked in. She didn’t flinch or even stop talking. I, on the other hand, was thinking about all my gear again. She reached down into the sea of white papers, telling me how “this is somebody’s records and we will never get them organized in time—”
“Pop-pop-pop-pop!”
Never skipping a beat, she continued, “—and especially we must get everyone’s birth certificates located and children need medicine—”
“Bang-bang-bang-bang!”
I could’ve used some medicine. My mind was scrambling. Should I hit the ground? Shouldn’t I have my helmet on?! Why is this sixty-five-year-old woman just standing here?! My blatant cowering finally woke her up to the noise.
“Ohhhhhhh—shooting—okay. Come on.” She took my hand and dragged me off like I was three, and I gladly followed.
The next day, I needed to shoot what’s known in TV as a “stand-up” for a story. That’s when you see a reporter standing somewhere, talking about something. I wanted the shot to be colorful and remembered a fruit stand we’d passed by earlier. I told the photographer I wanted to shoot my stand-up there, in the market. I had no idea what a geographical blunder I’d made. Not knowing the lay of the land nearly cost me and my crew big. I didn’t fully understand that there are no clear lines that mark dangerous areas from safe areas. (I knew how to breathe through a sack, but darn it, this one I had to learn the hard way.) We pulled into the market, which was located in an area dominated by Shi’a Muslims—the more conservative members of the Islam faith. As it turns out, while we would’ve been safe just two blocks away, on this block, we were not.
My sleeves were the problem. They weren’t short sleeves, but they were three-quarter-length. It was hot that day. We got out of the car to shoot the stand-up, and I instantly got a bad vibe. Something was not right. My colorful backdrop was about to turn into a very bad scene. Someone yelled something, then a group of people started chasing us. I’ve never moved so fast. I jumped in the car just as my crew was jamming it into reverse and peeling out of there. In the frantic leap, I lost a shoe. I lost a notebook. Who knows what else we came close to losing. It was hairy—and it was my fault. “Oh, where’s that pretty fruit stand? We need some color.” What an ass. An ass with the wrong sleeves in the wrong area. We got it good from the bureau chief when we got back.
“What were you thinking? Going in there wearing that?!” It was a dangerous lesson learned.
Burma
When Dateline asked me to fly to Burma in 2000, I thought, Someone find me a damn globe.
Just in case you’re not sure where Burma is either, it’s the country bordered by China, Laos, Thailand, Bangladesh,
India—you get the region. They wanted me to bring back two stories: One was about an odd set of ten-year-old twins who’d appeared on the cover of the New York Times, smoking cigars. They were said to have magical powers. The second story involved interviewing a female Nobel laureate who was locked away under house arrest. I’ll tell you right now, we never found those twins. The story we brought back was instead about our two-day search led by rebel soldiers through the dense jungle—a Burmese “Where’s Waldoes” of sorts. The story that did pan out was that of the imprisoned woman.
Aung San Suu Kyi hadn’t done an interview in eleven years. Plenty of people had tried. Dateline wanted me to try, too. We flew to Burma once, but failed to set up a meeting. Ten days later, we got the okay and returned for a very dangerous interview. The challenge was that Suu Kyi was under house arrest in Burma. The ruling military party had labeled her a threat to the country’s peace and security. Her father was General Aung San, the founder of modern Burma. His dream was for democracy, but when Suu Kyi was just two years old, he was assassinated. Although her mother, too, was a diplomat and a strong supporter of public service, Suu Kyi grew up to want a different life. She chose to become a wife and mother in England for sixteen years. But, in 1988, events on the other side of the world would turn Suu Kyi’s personal world upside down.
Her mother suddenly had a stroke in Burma (renamed Myanmar by current military rulers). Suu Kyi traveled to be by her side and found the country in turmoil—millions demonstrating for democracy. The passion stirred her soul. She decided to stay and help launch an organized political rebellion. She chose her country over life with her beloved husband and two sons, just eleven and fifteen years old. Within a year, Suu Kyi’s drive and millions of followers were seen by the military dictators as too dangerous, and they placed her under house arrest. Military Intelligence cut her phone lines, stopped her mail, and kept her under constant surveillance. If she left the house, two cars and two motorcycles would follow. No foreign journalists were allowed to interview her, and those who were caught trying were interrogated and imprisoned.
See our dilemma? We were warned up front that if we were revealed as U.S. journalists in Burma, we’d go to jail for seven years—a long, hard stay that would begin with a strip search. Gulp. So, the plan was for me and my producer, Maia Samuel, to have a convincing “cover.” Dateline decided we should arrive as housewives on a silk-buying trip, armed with a touristy amateur video camera. The sneaky stuff was more complicated. Our clever folks devised a way for us to safely smuggle out (we hoped) the precious videotapes. In our shoes! They gave us each two James Bond-ified pairs. In one, they hollowed out the soles of the shoes. Just enough space for a mini DV cassette tape. The other pair was the type of Nike with the bubble in the heel. They rigged that tiny cavity to conceal a tape as well. Now, we just hoped we’d have a reason to use all this stealthy gear.
Getting the interview with Suu Kyi was the biggest trick of all. She had no phone, no mail, no computer, and was watched 24/7. The only strategy was not a big confidence builder. We had to give a note to a guy on a horse, who took it to another guy, who was the uncle of someone who took notes to her once a week. Add to that, the United States has no presence in Burma, so if there was trouble, we were shit out of luck. Maia and I were to meet a cameraman there who was flying in from Australia. We arrived at a hotel bar, wearing our 007 shoes, and crammed a piece of paper into a pack of Marlboro Lights. We slid the smokes down the bar, the photog took them and read where to meet us—at the secret location.
(A lot of the “secret” has to remain just that. Because Suu Kyi’s life is still at risk at the time of this publication, we have not and will not disclose details about our undercover journey to the interview location.)
Ironically, Suu Kyi chose Armed Forces Day in Burma for our meeting. Hardly familiar with the Burmese calendar, we froze at the shocking sight of military troops, tanks, and weaponry filling the streets. We thought we were done for! The roaming forces added a level of anxiety we didn’t need. When we finally arrived at the secret spot, we were taken in through a back door. All the curtains in the room were closed, all the lights turned off. From the second we began the interview, I wanted it to be over. I hate to admit that, since we’d flown all the way over—twice—but the thought of How are we going to get out of here alive? was overwhelming.
We took precautions well before we arrived. Maia prepped me: “We cannot leave any pieces of paper behind to be found and traced back to us.” We were constantly tearing up papers we didn’t need. She also made sure all of our written questions were generic and could have been directed at anyone. If we ever got caught after the interview, we wanted the notes to say “husband” only, not “How did your husband handle the responsibility of raising your sons?” We were so very worried about the wording of the questions and our paper trail. We played the “What If” game a lot.
Suu Kyi was not nervous at all. She was completely centered, fully calm. And somehow, this petite woman exhibited tremendous power. She spoke to us for less than a half hour—passionate, unyielding, and astonishingly full of hope. I, on the other sweaty hand, was extremely jumpy as we were shuttled out the back door, not even able to feel excited that we’d snagged the story. Would we and these tapes make it out of the country safely?
The plan was to use decoy cars to safely exit our interview location. Because the military was buzzing around at all times, the strategy was to throw off troops by using multiple cars. Thank God we did. When our “plants” left the interview location and hopped into the first car, the military immediately trailed behind. The second decoy car took off next. Troops tailed that one, too. Third and fourth decoy cars—same response. We got into that fifth car, scared to death. Our Housewives Go to Burma for Silk video was cued up in the camera, ready to prove our harmlessness. The precious tapes hidden in our shoes, we hunched down as low as we could in the back of that speeding car, praying that our feet would save our ass.
Can you believe—no one followed us! Phew. One huge hurdle down, one monumental one to go: the airport metal detectors. The wild card was how touchy they were calibrated. Would our shoe cavities safely conceal our treasures? My mind was racing, imagining the metal detector not only sounding an alarm, but blaring “Strip Search!” too. I was terrified and so was my well-heeled producer.
I can’t tell you how huge of a step I took through that metal detector. Like I was crossing a burning moat. It worked! I got through. I turned around to see Maia, holding our video camera and showing officials ridiculous shots of us waving and smiling and pointing out touristy areas of interest. Lunacy. I’ll never forget the panic in her eyes as she mouthed to me, Don’t you leave me! If only I could show her the burning moat move! Thank God, she made it through the detector as well. Two housewives, two tapes, too damn scary. We got completely blitzed on the plane ride home. Relief by the glass.
Suu Kyi was the first person I’d ever met whose priorities were so strongly and deliberately stacked against family life—in the name of her country and democracy. Even when the government offered her freedom to go home to be with her dying husband in England, Suu Kyi refused, concerned she would be denied reentry. For her choices (she will not call them sacrifices), she won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1991. Her eighteen-year-old son accepted on her behalf.
On Saturday evening, November 13, 2010, seven years of house arrest ended for Suu Kyi. Military rulers granted the sixty-five-year-old her freedom less than a week after Burma’s first election in twenty years. Thousands of supporters cheered as policemen left their posts to remove cement barricades and razor wire that bordered her home. Suu Kyi currently acts as general secretary of the National League for Democracy Party and continues her mission to seek democracy for Burma.
Afghanistan
I grew up watching Tom Brokaw on television. I was nineteen years old when he first began anchoring the NBC Nightly News. So, it was excitingly weird when I was asked in 2002 to be one of the correspondents for B
rokaw’s special, “America Remembers.” The program would air on the one-year anniversary of the September 11 terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center. My role was to fly to Afghanistan in August, just ten months after Operation Enduring Freedom. That was the operation that unfolded four weeks after the 9/11 attacks. My valiant producer from the Burma assignment, Maia Samuel, and I would fly into Kabul, the capital city, and begin shooting stand-ups at various locations in the region where bin Laden, leader of Al-Qaeda, once worked and roamed.
I was exhausted by the time we landed in Kabul. Looking over the city from our hotel balcony, all I could see were dusty tanks, ravaged buildings, and the remains of mud-brick homes. The photographer who met us there, Sebastian (who looked like a hotter Jack Nicholson), said the structures had been so badly shot up by small-arms fire that they simply collapsed onto themselves. Somehow, weary residents had managed to reopen small shops offering inner tubes and bicycles or fresh fruit for sale. Anything to start over again despite the wreckage. Some of the women were still draped in burkas, but we did see a few small signs of change—kites flying, the sounds of outdated American music, bustling streets.
In the heart of Afghanistan
We headed out to shoot several stand-ups along the road from Kabul to the ancient city of Bagram. The Kabul-to-Bagram Southern Half Road, as it’s known, is one of the major roads in Afghanistan. It starts in the Kabul district and ends, after about 30 miles, at Bagram Air Field. Both shoulders of that long road had a nasty little secret. If you were lucky—each and every one of those secrets had been revealed and marked with a small red stone. Underneath the stone was a land mine. Demining crews had done their best to identify the hot spots and alert passersby with that very primitive but effective painted-stone system.
