DEADLY BLAST AT SOMALI GRADUATION

Tue Dec 8, 2009
By Abdi Guled

MOGADISHU (Reuters) - Attending the graduation of doctors, engineers and professors in Mogadishu last Thursday, I was relieved to cover a positive Somalia story for a change.

War is all we can usually report from here, where fighting has killed at least 19,000 civilians since the start of 2007 and driven another 1.5 million from their homes.

Desperate to show the outside world another side to my country, I spent hours at the ceremony at Mogadishu's packed Shamo Hotel eagerly tape recording the speeches. Then I became tired and thirsty and moved towards the door.

My colleague from Al Arabiya Television, Hasan al-Zubair, called to me. He asked me to fetch him some water too because he couldn't leave the spot where he was filming.

As I walked away a huge explosion erupted behind me.

It came from the front of the ceremony, where most of the government officials and dignitaries were sitting. I crouched and looked back. Under a huge cloud of smoke dozens of people lay still on the ground. Others stampeded towards the exit.

I looked to my right and saw my colleague -- he was dead but blood still flowed from his body.

As the smoke began to clear I could see the officials' chairs empty and bloody. One young man picked up his older brother who had just graduated, weeping over his corpse.

The whole scene looked like a slaughterhouse.

A young girl who might have been a student ran by me, dragging another to safety. Her friend's purse was draped across her injured leg. I saw the education and health ministers bleeding heavily in the carnage. Both would later die.

TROOPS OPEN FIRE

Suspicion for the blast immediately fell on al Shabaab rebels, whom Washington accuses of being al Qaeda's proxy here. The group denied it the next day, but no one believed them.

At the hotel, the graduates' colourful gowns became bloodied as some plunged back into the wreckage to try to rescue their classmates. One terrified man grabbed my hand hard, pleading for me to carry him to help. I tried but he was too big.

Just then, soldiers in the street outside began spraying automatic rifle fire into the air, trying to control the surging crowds but only adding to the mayhem.

I feared the people were so frenzied and frightened that they might turn on each other. To one side, a student who had welcomed me to the ceremony stumbled around blind and bleeding.

I saw one woman who sat sobbing over her son.

I could tell that his wounds were serious. She kept whispering to him, but all he replied with were slow breaths.

I turned and ran in fear from the horrific scene. As I did, my phone kept ringing -- word was out about the blast, and colleagues and friends knew I had been covering the ceremony.

As I ran through the streets, people stopped and stared. There was so much blood on me they thought I was badly hurt.

Then I saw my neighbour, rushing to the hotel where her two sons had been graduating. She would soon learn they were dead.

In the attack, at least 22 people lost their lives, including three government ministers, several doctors, students and their relatives. I raced back to the Reuters office and breathlessly told my editors and colleagues what had happened.

Since the blast, I have hardly been able to eat. I just see the gruesome visions from that day. And I keep seeing images of young professionals at graduation, ready to serve their country but instead lying dead and dying on the hotel floor.

(Editing by Jeremy Clarke)

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