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His sharp cheekbones and high brow reminded them of Willem Dafoe. Conroy, a decade younger and a natural comedian, was called “the Scouser” by his colleagues for his working-class Liverpool accent.
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Their arena was the closed world of war: one-room concrete safe houses with cheap Bokhara carpets and a diesel stove in the middle, mint tea offered by Free Syrian Army soldiers. In Libya in 2011, Colvin and Conroy had spent months sleeping on floors in the besieged city of Misrata, living on “the war-zone diet”-Pringles, tuna, granola bars, and water-relying on each other for survival. Syria under al-Assad broke all rules of war. They had two options for penetrating the occupied area: race across a highway swept by floodlights or crawl for hours through a frigid tunnel.
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In Beirut earlier, Colvin had learned that the army was under orders to kill journalists. Food supplies and power had been cut off, and foreign reporters had been banned. Inside Homs, 28,000 people were surrounded by al-Assad’s troops. The night was cold, the sky lit with hundreds of rocket missiles. “We move when it’s dark,” one of them said. They had been taken through orchards by former military officers fighting against al-Assad. The journey had begun in a muddy field, where a concrete slab marked the entrance to the tunnel. “Of all the trips we had done together, this one was complete insanity,” Conroy told me. He worried about Colvin’s vision and her balance she had recently recovered from back surgery. Conroy could see injured Syrians strapped on the backs of the vehicles. Every 20 minutes or so, the sound of an approaching motorcycle made her and Conroy flatten themselves against the wall.
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Fifty-six years old, she wore her signature-a black patch over her left eye, lost to a grenade in Sri Lanka in 2001. Now, on her way back into Homs, Colvin moved slowly, crouching down in the four-and-a-half-foot-high tunnel. Candles, one baby born this week without medical care, little food.” In a field clinic, she later observed plasma bags suspended from wooden coat hangers.
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Homs, Colvin wrote a few hours later, was “the symbol of the revolt, a ghost town, echoing with the sound of shelling and crack of sniper fire, the odd car careening down a street at speed Hope to get to a conference hall basement where 300 women and children living in the cold and dark.
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She was in full command of her journalistic powers the turbulence of her London life had been left behind. The smell of death assaulted Colvin as mutilated bodies were rushed out to a makeshift clinic blocks away. Many thought the attack had been deliberate. The day before she walked into the apartment building in Homs where two grimy rooms were set up as a temporary media center, the top floor had been sheared off by rockets. They had arrived late Thursday night, 36 hours away from press deadline, and Colvin knew that the foreign desk in London would soon be bonkers. “Can’t talk about the way in, it is the artery for the city and I promised to reveal no details,” Colvin had e-mailed her editor after she and Conroy made their first trip into Homs, three days earlier. The ancient city of Homs was now a bloodbath. It was not heard that night as she and Conroy made their way back into a massacre being waged by the troops of President Bashar al-Assad near Syria’s western border. Just as memorable was the cascade of laughter that always erupted when there seemed to be no way out. All of her years in London had not subdued her American whiskey tone. “Make him stop!”įor anyone who knew her, Colvin’s voice was unmistakable.
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The singer was jubilant that the Sunday Times of London’s renowned war correspondent Marie Colvin was there. Allahu Akbar.” The song, which permeated the two-and-a-half-mile abandoned storm drain that ran under the Syrian city of Homs, was both a prayer (God is great) and a celebration. All Colvin could hear was the piercing sound made by the Free Syrian Army commander accompanying her and the photographer Paul Conroy: “Allahu Akbar. “Why the fuck is that guy singing? Can’t someone shut him up?,” Marie Colvin whispered urgently after dropping into the long, dark, dank tunnel that would lead her to the last reporting assignment of her life.