Lens of the Front Lines
By Elinor Tatum

Stockholm, Feb. 28 It was a beautiful summer day as I boarded a plane that would take me from Frankfurt to Stockholm. I thought it would be just like any other flight; unfortunately, it was a flight I will remember forever.

As I sat on the plane talking to the young woman in the row ahead, mymother placed a newspaper in front of me. She said nothing. Immediately my eyes drifted to the fold where in bold face print the headline read, "Dan Eldon killed."

For most people he would just be added to the list of the 50 or so other journalists killed in the previous months. But to me it was more; Dan Eldon was my friend.

Dan saw the world through his camera. He could find beauty in all things. He went to Somalia to send truth to the world through pictures. Somalia was Dan's first and last assignment for Reuters. On July 12, 1993, Dan's replacement showed up, but he decided to go out and shoot one more time. He went out, as usual, to where the action was.

On this particular day, tensions were high in war-torn Somalia, and Dan and the other journalists were caught at the wrong place at the wrong time. An angry Somali mob chased them and stoned them to death, expressing an anti-European and anti-American rage.

Dan Eldon was born in 1970 to Kathy and Michael Eldon. At age seven his family moved to Kenya. It was in Kenya where he learned about life, about people. Though he was not African-born, he was African. He knew everyone; he spoke the language and he loved the land where he spent his formative years.

Time after time he traveled through Africa. Every trip he made he learned more about the continent. In the summer of 1990 he led a group of 14 students from Kenya to Malawi. That is where I met Dan.

Over the last six months I have thought about him a lot. I remember the days in Africa with Student Transport Aid. Since Dan's death, I have spoken to almost everyone who was part of the group. Over the phone we remember the way he used to amused the children and talk with the elders. Every town we went through, they knew him.

He was a hero to me. He had a courage that I admired. It is hard to speak of [his death] with objectivity. When senseless tragedies occur, it hits the hearts of strangers and of friends.

Though I never knew Krauss or Maina, Dan Eldon was a friend. At age 22, he had already accomplished more than many other photojournalists in a lifetime. He went to Mogadishu because that is where the story was, a people's rage notwithstanding.

You rarely know what you have until it's gone, but not in this case. Dan was special. From the moment you met him, you knew he was a person who would change the world if given the time. He is missed by so many. His memory rests deep in our souls. We will remember the days of his antics on the many winding roads of Africa. His smile, his charm, all the things that he was driven by. Maybe we will meet him again; maybe we won't, but what is important is that we keep the memory of him alive and hope that those to come will learn of this wonderful young man who had lived the life of thousands at age 22.

Reprinted from The New York Amsterdam News March 5, 1994