History repeats itself. Nowhere is this maxim more cruel than it is in Qana, Lebanon.

It’s been some three hours since I came back from Qana and I still can’t get the images out of my head. Today was probably the toughest day of my life in terms of taking control of my emotions.

We started off early since we wanted to get to Qana as quickly as possible. We drove through Beirut onto Saida and further into Tyre. This city too has been brutally assaulted by the Israeli fighter planes. Parts of the road have literally been spooned out. Banana plantations too bear the brunt of Israeli aggression.

‘We are just small farmers’ said Mohsen Qayyam, a local plantation owner. ‘This was all we had’

But destroying this area has obviously not been enough for Israel. We drove onwards to Qana, taking detours, passing through emptied houses and derelict villages. I almost immediately knew when we entered Qana…the place was dead silent.

For as far as I could see, there were building reduced to rubble. Remnants of a community that breathed and thrived in this area were speckled all around.

I saw UN Peace Corps personnel in the area and asked them to direct me to the building. I was guided by Andreas. As we came in front of a building with a massive crater at the entrance, I caught my breath. ‘Unbelievable, isn’t it?’ said Andreas.

And it was. The crater was easily twenty feet deep. I stood there…silent, almost petrified by the sight. My colleague Yasir Qureshi asked me to pick up my steps. We needed to get to the building which was the site of this Qana Massacre.

I walked with heavy feet till I noticed that there was buzzing noise in the air. I asked Andreas what it was and he told me that there was bombing going on in the area. ‘It’s in the Naqoura close to this place’.

The noise grew loud and resulted in sounds of blasts. I kept looking up trying to see the planes for myself but they were probably at very high altitude.

We walked till we came upon the building we were looking for. And my spirits dipped to an all time low. I know that I am a journalist but at that moment I found it very difficult to act accordingly. Maybe it were the Israeli planes flying over head or the proximity of the bombing or maybe it was the silence around the building that was getting to me.

I just wanted to stand still and not feel anything. But I had a job to do. My emotions will have to wait for a while.

I moved around the building which has been ruined beyond words. Strangely there were no blood stains anywhere. I learnt later on that all those who died, actually suffocated to death under the rubble.

Qana must have been a good place to live once for it’s twelve thousand inhabitants. I could see fig, olive & pomegranate trees in front yards, the entrances were covered with grapevine. There were some tobacco plantations as well. The houses and businesses remain, the owners are gone.

There were text books in almost every deserted house; some kitchens had groceries left outside, fridges open. Closets had been left ajar, few clothes probably taken out in a hurry. I moved from house to house, looking for some signs of life. There were none.

I then moved back to the warehouse in Qana where World Food Program was unloading the relief goods for the neighboring villages. Somehow the warehouse had survived the bombing.

I found a few locals who were Harkat-ul-Amal volunteers. I wanted to know how they felt. Fouad Kais spared no words in expressing his thoughts. ‘I don’t care…I don’t care anymore. We have lost everything’. I asked him about his family to which he replied’ yes! I am married, I have three kids, I want peace, my children want peace but we don’t care anymore after what we’ve seen’.

We moved towards the memorial for the 1996 Qana Massacre. 106 people buried in mass graves. I found a tablet which read ‘The New Holocaust. April 18, 1996’. I stood thinking, how will the massacre of 2006 be remembered?

I am back now, trying to complete my day’s assignments as a journalist should. I admit there, for a few minutes I lost my professional composure. But when all is said and done, I admit that even journalists are only human. Sometimes, we are only all too human.