For many readers and listeners of the news, the work of foreign correspondents is surrounded by legend and yet strangely taken for granted. Each day, on television and the radio, in newspapers and magazines and online, we see the correspondents standing in the dust of the latest bomb blast, or dodging bullets in an orchard, or navigating a natural disaster. But the truth is that coming face-to-face with these upheavals is personally wrenching. It can test the very fabric of human emotion and endurance. The correspondent’s great gift and essential skill is to set aside his or her own feelings and tell the story—no matter how agonizing and disruptive. This is why Anthony Shadid’s dedication to journalism was such an inspiration to those who were fortunate enough to share it with him. He understood how essential it was to portray the victims of war and oppression, and to show how they had become victims. He succeeded at this with a startling clarity and depth, drawing from his relentless reporting and bottomless personal empathy.
Anthony died at age 43 on Thursday in Syria, of an apparent asthma attack, while on assignment for The New York Times, where he had been Baghdad and Beirut bureau chief since late 2009. Before going to the Times, he had been at The Washington Post, where I was his editor, since 2002; and before that at The Boston Globe and The Associated Press. He was widely admired as the greatest foreign correspondent of this generation.
His journalism was magical, built on a foundation of prodigious reporting. His determination was not only getting to a war zone, but once there, to document every sound, sight, smell, and sentence. He wrote down what was said in lightless rooms as bombs fell, he took notes of the graffiti on walls, he scribbled fragments from books in dusty stores. I once talked to him about how he would create what became his second book, Night Draws Near. Soon, I realized that he had left Iraq with a bulky archive—in my mind’s eye, it is tied together with string—of hundreds of reporter’s notebooks, each of them carefully labeled and marked. He was first and foremost a gatherer, an observer, a listener.
For any journalist in the midst of so much turmoil, thinking about what would come in a week or a month can be a challenge. Anthony wanted to know what would happen years from now. He often speculated that the Iraq war would have a knock-on effect that would take a decade or more to discern and understand. He toyed with a title for his new book, Years from Home, and although he eventually chose a different one, the words captured everything about his vision and sense of history—it spanned deep time and great horizons.
One evening in 2006, we went for a long walk around downtown Washington to think out loud about where his journalism would go in the coming year. It was cold and I remember holding a coffee for warmth and listening intently to what Anthony had to say. He was certain that the old order in the Arab world was crumbling. He could see it everywhere on his travels: frustration among the young and ambitious, stagnation and repression by those in power, and an inchoate search for some kind of new identity. He loved the idea of examining how people saw themselves; he had an unquenchable curiosity about identity.
But on this night he was also uncertain. He saw that many people were reaching for ancient garb, ethnic and sectarian, in the absence of anything modern to satisfy them. He knew that it would not be enough. We talked that night about how to capture this crumbling of the old regime and the rise of something new. As always, we talked not so much of newspaper headlines but of something more akin to literature—narratives and landscapes, chapters and characters. I remember being so entranced with his vision and so drawn into his quest that I lost track of everything around me. Suddenly, I tripped on an unseen curbstone and started to fall toward the street. Anthony caught me just in time, and we laughed.