Stories from the Station: Iraq Journalist to be continued

A thin man, head covered with thick black curls that hang down to his shoulders, struggles out of his car that he has parked just in front of our protest.

He is leaning heavily on his cane, looking intently in my direction. I approach him. Photos of the Real Faces of War are lined up against the building he has parked next to.

He lifts his cane and points to the injured children: "This never happened in Iraq under Hussein" he says bitterly. "You never saw children like this in Iraq."

My heart thuds, aching with his pain.

"I was a journalist" he continues. I want to reach out, touch his arm, envelop him - but I hesitate. He is Iraqi, probably Muslim, he might not appreciate my touch.

"My wife" his voices breaks. His huge black eyes are filled with water. My tears stream down my face. "My baby" He struggles to keep his voice. "They were shot, killed right in front of me".

His horror fills me, his pain emerges like the San Francisco fog, immersing the whole block. "My wife" he sobs again, "My baby".

Then he points to his leg, "Me, I was shot, 4 times. I was shot. 4 times."