A humbling moment

Monday night saw a gathering in London that, without wishing to sound hackneyed, was unique. The event was the dedication of a light sculpture atop the rebuilt Egton House, part of the BBC's Broadcasting House complex in the heart of the West End.

What was special was the fact that this sculpture, Breathing, was being dedicated to the scores of journalists and news support staff who have lost their lives in reporting the news to the world. The event, co-hosted by the BBC and the International News Safety Institute, brought together senior executives from the BBC and other news gathering organisations, such as UK's ITN (represented by David Mannion and Deborah Turness), as well as people who have suffered at the hands of men of violence, such as Alan Johnston, Frank Gardner, Terry Waite and Brian Keenan. I spoke briefly with Frank who last year, as an old boy, addressed Founders Day at my son's school, St Ronan's in Kent. Despite horrific injuries, he still works long hours as the BBC's security correspondent and on Monday had been reporting the heightened terrorist threat in the UAE.

The guest of honour was Ban Ki-moon, UN Secretary-General, who unveiled the sculpture at 2145 BST, sending a beam of light high up into the night sky above London. He spoke of the need to ensure journalists and others working in news gathering are afforded protection as they strive to bring the truth to people throughout the world. The UN has become heavily involved in the issue of news safety in the world of journalism and the organisation is to be congratulated for supporting the work of INSI and journalists worldwide.

Then John Simpson, the BBC's World Affairs editor movingly read the poem by war correspondent James Fenton whose words are inscribed on the sculpture:

We spoke, we chose to speak of war and strife –

a task a fine ambition sought –

and some might say, who shared our work, our life:

that praise was dearly bought.

Drivers, interpreters, these were our friends.

These we loved. These we were trusted by.

The shocked hand wipes the blood across the lens.

The lens looks to the sky.

Most died by mischance. Some seemed honour-bound

to take the lonely, peerless track

conceiving danger as a testing ground

to which they must go back

till the tongue fell silent and they crossed

beyond the realm of time and fear.

Death waved them through the checkpoint. They were lost. All have their story here.

It was a moving, and humbling, occasion and I was honoured to be there.