“Brave” is one of those words that has been bleached of most of its meaning these days, thanks to far too many appearances in the glaring light of ad slogans and corporate public relations. I never thought about anything as brave anymore; it just seemed like a flabby, glib cliché.
A few months ago, though, I saw Sebastian Junger and Tim Hetherington’s documentary, “Restrepo,” and, for the first time in ages, I thought about what the word really means. The film explores a year in which Junger and Hetherington were embedded with Army platoons in Afghanistan. It highlights two distinct types of bravery: the pluck of the sweet-faced soldiers who are too young and ingenuous to doubt themselves or picture their own mortality, and the nerve of Junger and Hetherington, who had made the deliberate, knowing choice to be deep inside danger. I couldn’t get the movie out of my mind. I felt for the first time what a numbing terror a war really is, and how personal it is in its triumphs and losses. If you haven’t seen it, be forewarned that it will break your heart.
The movie also made me think a lot about the nature of being a reporter. In a million years, I would never have the bravery to put myself in such a dire situation, and I have always felt a little ashamed that I don’t have the guts to do anything close to what Junger and Hetherington have done, even when I know these are stories that need to be told. Their bravery is our gain. When I heard yesterday that Hetherington and another photographer, Chris Hondros, were killed working in Libya, I felt sick. It was a horrible reminder that bravery is a banner, but it is, unfortunately, not a shield.
