Colin Blane in London
WHEN Ethiopia’s long civil war reached a climax in 1991, cameraman Mohamed “Mo” Amin, who died at the age of 52 in the hijacked Ethiopian airliner crash off the Comoros Islands last weekend, was filming the rebel takeover of Addis Ababa and the shelling of the imperial palace. Mo had dramatic pictures but, since the airport and television station were closed, he couldn’t get them out. He convinced colleagues in Nairobi that if they flew to join him, he would make sure it was safe to land.
I was aboard that plane. As we made our approach, Mo was still negotiating with the military to have buses removed from the runway. We landed safely. Just as importantly from Mo’s viewpoint, he now had an aircraft to take his footage to the outside world. When a rival broadcaster tried to put his pictures on the same chartered plane, Mo would have none of it. He could be charming to work with, but utterly ruthless if he thought he could put one over on the opposition.
Mo Amin spent more than 30 years covering Africa’s trouble spots, but he was closely identified with one story in particular: the 1984 Ethiopian famine. Mo was shooting for the Visnews agency at the time and Michael Buerk was reporting for the BBC. Amin’s pictures and Buerk’s commentary produced some of the decade’s most powerful television reports, provoked an international outcry and led to an unprecedented relief effort, including Bob Geldof’s Live Aid concert. No one else could have covered the famine as Mo Amin had, Buerk told me. He bullied and wheedled the Ethiopian authorities to get them there and would not take no for an answer.
After 1984, Mo continued to cover East Africa from his Nairobi base. He was at the centre of the foreign press corps, fiercely competitive and a master at overcoming bureaucratic obstacles in a continent where getting to the story is often the most difficult job.
Ten days after the 1991 Addis Ababa takeover, as Ethiopia’s new rulers began imposing order, a huge ammunition dump caught fire on the edge of the city. The fire burned during the night and although few journalists had transport, Mo had “borrowed” a taxi some days earlier. When the curfew ended, a small group of us drove to the scene. Mo had moved his filming position for safety reasons and there were houses on fire all round the dump. It was as we were moving from one area cover to another that there was an enormous explosion.
Mo had his left arm blown off; his soundman, John Mathai, was killed, and his second cameraman, Nick Hughes, suffered a perforated eardrum. Only Buerk and myself escaped unscathed. Mo, entirely in character, was determined to return to work. He was fitted with a bionic arm and had a television camera adapted to allow him to continue filming.
His career began when, as a schoolboy, he had his first front-page picture in the Tanganyika Standard in 1958. His father had worked for East African Railways. Mo went on to film the East African Rally.
His life as a television news cameraman was a series of scrapes and escapes. He was imprisoned in Zanzibar; he escaped from jail in Dar-es-Salaam; he survived an unlikely number of road accidents. Mo also had – most of the time – the happy knack of being in the right place when a story happened. He is remembered in Kenya for his coverage of the assassination of the government planning minister, Tom Mboya. Mo arrived so quickly he was able to jump into the ambulance taking Mboya to hospital.
Mo believed television journalism was worthwhile, especially when its glare was turned on the shortcomings of governments. He drove himself hard, and often drove his employees harder than he should have. He ran a publishing company and undoubtedly made enemies in business.
Mo Amin was a buccaneering figure, enormous fun to work with, a formidable competitor. He had survived so much his friends were hoping that even this time he would somehow wade ashore. He is survived by his wife, Dolly, and son, Salim.