Farewell, Anthony Shadid

Where bullets flew, he jotted notes. Where despots abused, he documented crimes. Where war raged, he skulked in its midst, shouting the stories of common people with torn lives. Armed only with his wits and Microsoft Word, he flung himself repeatedly into peril so we would know, without doubt, that war is hell. And then cruelly, he perished from a snootful of horsehair, which is all the more cruel because half his family are doctors and likely could have saved him had they been there when it happened. Anthony, you were amazing, fearless, and a hero.

I can still picture the high-school-aged Anthony running laps around the gym, getting in shape and perhaps trying to drop weight for his next wrestling match. He’d grown his hair long his junior year, and I remember it streaming behind him as he ran. By his senior year, he’d cut his hair and was embarrassed by yesteryear’s mullet. When he asked me to draw him as Uncle Sam for the school newspaper, he begged me to leave the long hair out. That was easy, as it saved me some pencil strokes. I still have that picture somewhere.

He always spoke his mind. I remember him once declaring to our entire Calculus class, “I have a pimple on my butt and it HURTS.” I was mortified for him. He also freely confessed, after I’d paid off a $20 bet we had on our Calculus grade for a term, that he’d have never paid me had I won. I lost by 0.2%–it would have made a great story if I’d won. I would have said, anytime his name was mentioned, “Hey! That guy owes me $20!”

I once bailed him out of a jam when he needed a bag of ice for some school event. I sneaked off campus during school to a gas station down the road, shivering at my daring, and brought back a 5lb bag. He crowed and thanked me and nearly hugged me, and I felt like Sir Lancelot. Later, he sneaked into Iraq and Libya and Syria without quailing. I shake my head at the contrast.

When Anthony was held hostage in Libya, we all held our breath and marveled that this guy we knew made worldwide headline news and hoped and prayed for his humane treatment and safe return. For him to escape that and not this can’t really be rationalized.

I haven’t seen Anthony since high school, so the pictures I see of him now with gray hair speak to mortality–both his and mine. I was hoping one day to run into him again, to sit and reminisce about high school a little, but mostly demand that he recount his adventures until he can think of nothing more to tell. I mourn his death and hurt for his family. Farewell, Anthony–you were indeed a hero.