The Roanoke Times | File

Media swarm a Virginia State Police trooper during a briefing on April 18 on the Virginia Tech campus.

About this story

Donna Alvis-Banks has been with The Roanoke Times since 1988. She covered some of the most difficult stories a journalism can face after April 16. For her efforts, she was named a 2007 Dart Ochberg Fellow by The Dart Center for Journalism and Trauma, a global resource for journalists who cover traumatic events.

April 16 was supposed to be a slow day here at the newspaper's New River Valley bureau.

I arrived early by reporters' standards: 9 a.m.

My thoughts were on the next day's Christiansburg Town Council meeting. I planned to catch up on land use decisions and tourism agreements in preparation for the council's discussion of these matters.

I was dressed for an office day. No gloves, no scarf, no hat -- even though the weather outside was cold and blustery with biting winds and spitting snow.

I assumed I would stay inside all day, warm and comfortable at my computer.

The police scanner was chattering when I hustled into our small newsroom. An editor quickly filled me in on the news that there had been a shooting on the Virginia Tech campus.

With one word, the editor directed two young but experienced reporters to head for the scene.

"Go!" she shouted.

As journalists, they were being sent to the front line of the worst school shooting in U.S. history armed only with notebooks, pens and cellphones. A photographer dispatched from his Blacksburg home would arrive with camera to capture images that would startle and sadden the world.

None of us was prepared for the week that unfolded. Certainly, the community we cover day in and day out wasn't prepared.

On a bitter April morning, everything changed. What had once been a warm and comfortable place to live and to go to school suddenly became an international spectacle.

Our small corner of the universe went from tranquility to trauma in the slow blink of an eye.

I never imagined I would be in the midst of it -- or that it would afford me the opportunity to meet other journalists who have lived through events I thought I would only read about.

This is home

My roots in the New River Valley are deep. A 1971 Christiansburg High School graduate, I went to Radford College before it was a university. I taught for six years at Blacksburg High School before switching to my journalism career.

I left the teaching profession because I wanted to write, a calling I've felt as long as I can remember. My job at the newspaper -- which has given me the opportunity to meet the people who define our community -- has also given me the responsibility of telling their stories, even when those stories are tragic.

I have written of small children who perished in horrible calamities and of the loving parents who lost them, of brave police officers killed in the line of duty and of dedicated mothers who died of cancer. I've written obituaries.

But on April 16, there were no words to describe the magnitude of what happened at Virginia Tech.

How can anyone describe the senseless killing of 32 innocent people?

I can't say how my colleagues and I made it through that first day -- or those first weeks, for that matter.

As journalists, we're supposed to be trained for this. We must focus our attention on getting information to the public that is accurate, informative and timely. That became a nearly impossible task as rumors began swirling on national television, the Internet and other media outlets.

And then media began swarming into our community. To those of us representing the local news force -- reporters and photographers who cover the daily happenings and interesting people of Virginia Tech -- this felt like an obscene violation of our turf. Tech officials, police officers and others that we deal with on a regular basis were suddenly overwhelmed with hundreds of news organizations seeking answers to their questions and on-camera interviews. They simply couldn't talk to us.

Those first days of reporting and writing are now a blur. Emotionally, I was numb. I longed to grieve but the tears wouldn't come.

Most people don't think of journalists as first responders to a tragic event. Those of us who write the stories and take photographs are expected to push our feelings aside.

But the problem is we're human.

The human condition

The response to trauma is such an individual thing. Some of our staff seemed to have a firm grip on their emotional response while others grappled with it. One photographer, a Blacksburg native and an optimist by nature, described a feeling of utter despair as he faced the challenge of approaching a grieving community with his camera.

I, too, felt that gut-churning anguish as I interviewed people in pain.

In November, I was able to share these stories with other journalists. They nodded and their faces reflected my anxiety as I told them of the events that unfolded at our newspaper.

The nine journalists in my company -- all selected as 2007 Dart Ochberg Fellows -- understood my experience in a way no others could.

The Dart Center for Journalism and Trauma, a global resource for journalists who cover traumatic events, offers an annual fellowship in honor of Dr. Frank Ochberg, a founding member of the International Society for Traumatic Stress Studies and a pioneer in defining post traumatic stress disorder.

Dr. Ochberg and his cohort, Bruce Shapiro -- a veteran reporter and executive director of the Dart Center -- brought together this diverse group of which I was a part. We spent a week in Baltimore where we had open access to psychologists from all over the world who attended the International Society for Traumatic Stress Studies Conference.

But, even better, we had heart-to-heart conversations with each other.

From Susan Snyder, a writer for the Philadelphia Inquirer, I learned how violence has turned the lives of Philadelphia children upside down. In 2005, she spent six months reporting a series on how an eighth-grade class dealt with violence in their own families and communities.

From John Trotter, a freelance photographer, I learned how violence turned his own life upside down. In 1997, when he was a photographer and photo editor for the Sacramento Bee, he was nearly beaten to death by a gang while out taking pictures of children at play. He spent several months in rehab recovering from a traumatic brain injury, an experience he later documented in Life Magazine and his book, "The Burden of Memory."

And from Margarita Akhvlediani, an editor who manages and trains journalists in the Institute for War and Peace Reporting in the Caucases, I learned how continuous civil war impacts people in a way I never truly comprehended. Akhvlediani, who greeted me in a lilting accent with "I am from Georgia -- the country, not the state," told of how it feels to be hungry and frightened when bread lines shut down and gunfire riddles the streets.

There were others in the fellowship with equally harrowing experiences.

The Australian broadcaster who covered the 2005 Bali bombing, the photographer who covered 200 combat missions in Iraq, the editor who just published a book drawn from her interviews with women detainees at Abu Ghraib -- all were impacted by trauma.

Some, like Arnessa Garrett, an editor in Lafayette, La., are still feeling the impact.

Garrett's newspaper, The Advertiser, reflected some of the most personal accounts of the suffering that affected the entire Gulf region during Hurricane Katrina.

The suffering, she said, continues every day.

But so does the resilience.

For the Virginia Tech community, I discovered, that's important.

Resilient people

I must admit that I felt out of place when the week started. Among so many well-traveled, intelligent, powerful journalists, I felt inferior -- a small-town reporter with an ordinary life.

When it came my time to share during a fellowship seminar, I owned up to my insecurity.

"I'm not a worldly person," I told the group. "But sometimes, the world comes to you."

As I described our news staff's experience during and after the Virginia Tech shootings, I realized I did, indeed, have a connection with these other journalists. In the past year, I had joined them in their daily diet of stress.

I realized, too, the sad fact that violence is happening every day, every hour, every minute. Somewhere.

I learned a lot about trauma and its effects during the week I spent with those psychologists and journalists.

A neurologist explained post traumatic stress disorder in scientific terms, describing the brain's reaction to stress and trauma.

"The stress response is life-saving but if it continues too long, it can cause health problems," Dr. Steven Southwick said. "Animals can turn stress response off when they don't need it. Humans, however, can keep the stress response active 24-7."

"When stress is manageable, it is positive and can lead to growth," he added. "When stress is uncontrollable and overwhelming, it can be destructive."

As Dr. Southwick gave his presentation, I thought of the reports coming out of Blacksburg and Virginia Tech since the tragedy. On campus, the Cook Counseling Center has seen a 50 percent increase in students needing psychological help in dealing with stress.

In the community, the statistics are similar. New River Community Services has seen a 47 percent increase in the need for emergency services and a 49 percent increase in people needing clinical outpatient treatment for stress-related issues.

But when Dr. Southwick talked of a new concept -- post traumatic growth -- I realized our community has experienced that, too.

"Resilient people reframe or find positive meaning in adversity," he said. "At the heart of all anxiety disorders is avoidance. The military teaches that fear is your friend. Face fear as a behavioral friend."

I thought then of the strength students at the university and members of the community have shown since April 16. Projects such as VT Engage, coupled with the outpouring of generosity from everyday residents, has certainly united the New River Valley in the fight against fear.

The voice

Of all the words I digested during my week in Baltimore, the ones I'll remember came from Dr. Ochberg, the fellowship's father.

"PTSD victims," he said, "often feel inarticulate. They don't have a voice."

I left my colleagues with those words burned into my brain.

At the end of the week, we all went back to our homes. For some of the journalists I met, home is an airplane en route to the next disaster.

For me, it's the New River Valley.

But I realized that whether we're small-town reporters or journalistic globetrotters, our job is the same.

We have to tell the stories.

As much as we would like to think it's over, the story of Virginia Tech's tragedy continues. Three months from now when winter melts into spring, the national media may again swarm over our turf. On the anniversary of the shootings at Columbine High School, Littleton, Colo., was besieged.

I was warned by the fellows in Baltimore to fight the urge to tell the obvious stories arising from the first anniversary of April 16. Avoid the cliches, they said. Scrap all the threadbare ideas.

They're right.

The best stories we can tell are those that come from living in this place.

Some of the survivors of April 16 haven't yet been able to talk publicly about their experience, even though they need to talk about it.

I received a Christmas card from the father of one wounded girl.

"As you know," he wrote, "she has had very little contact with the press since April 16, which was her choice."

"Your respect for her privacy has been appreciated and helpful in her recovery," he went on, adding that his daughter is starting to realize that sharing her experience, her strength and her hope is part of the recovery process.

I hope to be a part of that process -- not only as a reporter but also as a member of the community.

Just like Philadelphia and Iraq and Georgia -- the country, not the state -- the New River Valley is now a place scarred by trauma.

It's also a place buoyed by resilience.

The best we can do as journalists is help it find its voice.