Newstalk ZB reporter Rachel Das embraces a Muslim woman the day after the mosque shootings. Photo / Jorge Silva
Like all Christchurch residents, Newstalk ZB reporter Rachel Das was shaken by the mosque shootings in the city she loves. But they will bounce back, even stronger, she writes.
Hushed voices and lowered gazes, no one knowing quite exactly where to look or what to do with themselves.
As I approached the Hagley Community College where Muslim families were gathering, a woman in a bright blue hijab met my eyes and stopped. I told her how this city of Christchurch is her and her family's home as it is mine, that my love and prayers are with her.
Tears ran down her cheeks and mine as we embraced and held each other.
The day before, I drove past the Al Noor Mosque on Deans Ave, on my way back to office after covering stories on a measles vaccination clinic for midwives. Measles was the big story. An hour later, our whole world changed.
Reports of a shooting and I got on the road - into crazy traffic, with police cars squeezing through double lanes of vehicles. Helicopters buzzed overhead, people were out on the streets, looking, wondering. Just before I arrived at the rumoured Deans Ave shooting site, work called. "Go back to the office, it's not safe".
The rumours continued. It's at the mosque. Numerous gun men, the Bangladeshi cricket team are there.
My husband phoned. He's half Bengali. That's when things began to hit home. He'd been outside the hospital's emergency department when police swooped in, armoured shields and guns hanging out the window.
Everyone was told to clear the area – right now. He managed to get back into work, soon seeing a carload of people racing to ED, six getting out, two seriously injured. He wouldn't even describe it to me.
Our peaceful city were turning to chaos. Confirmed rumours. Multiple fatalities, many injured.
I got on with interviewing affected people over the phone, while the office was in lockdown, people bringing cups of tea, giving hugs, looking out for each other. World media began bombarding our phone lines, wanting to know anything that was going on. Work mode, 'keep calm and carry on' really hit into gear but the reality of it was just below the surface. The second mosque shooting, was just minutes from our home.
The next day, I headed down to talk with Muslim families gathering at the community college, across Hagley Park from Al Noor Mosque.
The atmosphere was subdued, surreal. I met a man called John Milne. A group of women pushed me towards him saying, "He's the father". I had no idea what they meant. But I quickly found out.
John came beside me, a look of such deep love on his face. "My boy is in the morgue, my beautiful, 14 year old son".
With tears in his eyes, his voice catching as he went, John told me about his son. How he loved football and wanted to be a star.
"My baby who I nearly lost when he was born. Such a struggle all through his life, unfairly treated but he's risen above it. A brave little solider".
John told me someone had seen Sayyad lying on the floor of the mosque, bleeding from the lower parts of his body.
"It's so hard to see him gunned down by someone who didn't care a damn about anyone".
Sayyad was a student at Cashmere High School, in Year 10.
"I know where he is, I know he's at peace"
John told me his other son was on a school trip to Arthur's Pass, otherwise he would've been at prayers too.
We hugged and John stood, his heart for all to see and yet strong.
"We are the most beautiful city rising out of the dust. We will go forward. This won't bring us down. It will make us even stronger. United we stand, divided we fall ... the city is going to be a symbol of what it can do after it has been hit and hit and hit."
His message to Christchurch is simple and strong: "Everyone love everyone."
It still feels unreal and everyone says the same. This isn't our city, it cannot be real.
I approached one woman and all she could say was, "I'm too sad to talk".
A group of men going to volunteer at the community centre said how New Zealand has always seemed like a safe heaven to every refugee and migrant. And they want it to stay that way.
But Ahmed Khan is 27 years old. He came to Christchurch 12 years ago, as a refugee from Afghanistan, thinking he'd left violence and death behind him. He was at the Linwood Mosque.
His face looked haunted and empty. He told me how he backed up Abdullah Aziz as they took the gun off the shooter. His friend wanted him to stand behind him, saying he was younger and had more time with his family if he (Abdullah) was shot down first.
"If he shoots me, make sure you grab the gun".
The plan worked. Ahmed believes everyone would be dead otherwise.
"He would've kept shooting all the corners – all the women and children were there."
Ahmed talked through the horrific, gritty details. Of everyone screaming so you couldn't hear the gunshots. Of families bottled together in one small room, throwing themselves on top of each other in a corner, only one door out of the building. Of ducking bullets. Of holding his injured friend in his arms, who was asking for water. Of the shooter turning back and shooting his friend in his arms once, then through the head, twice.
Of blood and bodies covering him.
Of going home, not being able to sleep.
Ahmed says no one feels safe, even in their homes. His three children, instead of playing and laughing, were silent and still that first night. One of his uncles is now dead, shot down at Al Noor Mosque. His brother and cousin were running late, fleeing from the door at what they saw.
He sat there, on the park bench, looking into a calm, moody Hagley Park, relaying the most horrific actions and their impacts on his life.
"I'm a little bit nervous, it's very shocking, I've never seen this kind of thing. What should I do? I'm studying my Masters … I'll probably leave that after everything I've seen".
By Sunday, no one wanted to talk on tape. One Bangladeshi man told me how he'd just found his friend, after thinking he was dead. A young couple, baby in pram, were en route to the hospital to see a patient before visiting hours were over.
I went to the Deans Ave memorial site. People were converging, coming through the surrounding trees and streets. Silent and sombre, only broken by the sounds of traffic and children. Hundreds upon hundreds of bunches of flowers, flickering candles and messages of love: "This is not us".
The air was rent with sudden sobs, as a woman in hijab ran from the scene. Her husband and two young children followed.
I walk along these paths a few days a week, winding down in the beauty of Hagley Park after work. This is our home.
And that night, I sobbed. Gut-wrenching, ugly tears. Devastation and anger. To see people going through so much horrific, utterly avoidable pain. There are no words.
But this is our home. This is OUR home. We have to respond to what's happened, we must reach out in love. We have to have hard conversations and move beyond our comfort zone – to become a nation that is even more about love and not simply tolerance.
One week later and the call to prayer rang out across Hagley Park, across Christchurch, across Aotearoa, across the world. 20,000 people streaming together, gathered in silence and unity. You could hear the birds in the quiet.
I sat amongst the thousands with my husband, silent tears falling. But our hearts embraced the stunning response of Al Noor Mosque's Imam Gamal Fouda, of unity, love, compassion and forgiveness. It has to be the only way forward.
"New Zealand is unbreakable. We are broken-hearted but we are not broken. We are alive. We are together. We are determined to not let anyone divide us."
'I just knew that one day this would happen.'