Anyone having seen the resounding documentary Restrepo will have overwhelming feelings of angst, sadness, amazement, awe, injustice, wonderment, and all other things emotional when learning of Tim Hetherington's death in Libya this week. I'm not sure if it would be irony, poetic justice, or poetic injustice, that he died doing what he loved and what was so very, very dangerous in spreading the deep, complex messages of war. He, and several other journalists, were in the line of rebel fire in Misurata.
Of the few war documentaries and films I've seen, Restrepo will stand at the forefront of the one that had the most impact on me. WWI and WWII films were about grandparents. Vietnam and Korean conflict films were about fathers and uncles. But, Restrepo was about contemporaries, colleagues, friends, peers, brothers, and husbands. Identifying with the ages and faces of the soldiers in Restrepo, I was able to finally connect (albeit superficially) with war on the emotional, physical, mental, and spiritual level.
Rest in peace, Mr. Hetherington.