INTERNATIONAL WATERS ... activists look on as Israeli boats close in on the Mavi Marmara. Credit:Kate Geraghty My colleague, reporter Paul McGeough, told them: "We're with The Sydney Morning Herald." And another commando said: "We know you're with the Herald." I was stunned but for a completely different reason. "Bloody hell – Aussie accents." "No worries," the commando said.

Kate Geraghty. Credit:Paul McGeough I was frightened but, even more, I was really quite annoyed. What were Australians doing behaving like this? We had joined the Free Gaza Flotilla in Crete and had spent time on board the Mavi Marmara before being transferred to the Challenger1 to make way for two German MPs who were hoping to bring political punch to the bigger ship. All the time we were making it clear that we were there to observe and not take sides. What I saw were people from all countries, fishing, flying kites, singing and praying. They were optimistic that they would bring about a change. Some of them asked me what force to expect from the Israeli military. I said that they might use tear gas. Nobody expected the bloodshed that followed, with peace protesters killed and wounded in a hail of live gunfire. It happened just before dawn in international waters. The flotilla was about 110 kilometres north-west of the Gaza Strip and everyone was keyed up. We knew that if anything was going to happen it would be then. It was pitch black when McGeough and I set up our laptops and satellite phones on the exposed observation deck.

We picked up audio recordings of the Israeli Navy ordering the six-ship flotilla to turn around, then we saw red dots on the horizon. The activists were still praying on the deck of the Mavi Marmara when the Israeli boats started to zoom in. On board people were wearing lifejackets and gas masks when we saw the first explosions on the back of the ship. It was a blur of inflatable boats, explosions and gunfire. I had six camera cards and was shooting, swapping the cards and shooting more. I wanted to have shots of the storming of the boat on every card. Once I had shots on a card, I hid it on my body or among my personal possessions. I was shooting as the first commando came aboard the Challenger1. It would have been a brilliant shot but that was on one of the cards that I did not manage to save. My camera was wrenched from me and a commando swiped up all of our gear as we were marched below deck. We had gone as observers but were now part of the story. Back in Australia Herald editor Peter Fray was demanding that we be allowed to do our jobs. "Part of our role is to bear witness. This is why we sent two of our most experienced foreign correspondents, Paul McGeough and Kate Geraghty, to report on the flotilla's efforts to reach Gaza," he said. "Paul, an acknowledged authority on the Middle East, and Kate, one of the country's finest news photographers, were there as witnesses, to bring the story of the flotilla to Australia and to the rest of the world. They had every right to do so. We ask that Israel respect their right to do their jobs."

It did not work out that way. We spent days locked in a detention centre at Beersheba before being deported to Turkey. All that time I had three of my camera memory cards carefully hidden. I couldn't wait to get out and get the pictures to Australia. They ran with McGeough's story on the front page under a "world exclusive" banner. It was the second time in my career I had been detained. The previous time was in Burma after I took photographs of the Broken Arrow military band practising for national liberation day celebrations. What stuck with me from that trip was seeing dozens of men surrounded by swirling fog in the early hours of the morning working in groups in a paddy field as a man yelled orders at them. Journalists are banned and we could not ask whether this was forced labour or what was going on. Freedom is a privilege. For all photographers, getting pictures out of places like that is an honour. Taking the pictures is the easy part, getting them off the camera, on to the laptop and then over to the picture desk to be published is the hard part. Growing up in Penola, South Australia, I would never have thought my life would revolve around the technical problems of satellite phones and trying to give a voice to people in the most horrific circumstances. Until I went to Monivae College in Victoria, my only ambition as a child was to work in the Coonawarra store or to be a hairdresser.

My first overseas assignment for the Herald and The Sun-Herald was covering the aftermath of the Bali bombing. I had never seen the aftermath of a bombing and was hugely moved by the suffering of the Australian families. It was also the first time I realised the impact a news photograph could have when I witnessed the Australian public's reaction to pictures of bomber Amrozi smiling for the cameras. It was a different type of horror covering the aftermath of the tsunami in Indonesia. Standing on one of the main bridges in Banda Aceh, all I could see for miles was devastation. One of the men standing close to me said: "All the gods have got together to show us what hell is like." He was right. My job is to show that to the rest of the world. And then you come back to Sydney and the real work begins, processing all that you have seen. Everyone copes differently. My routine is to see my friends and then get back to work as quickly as possible. Sometimes it takes time to adjust. After a long stint in Lebanon, where sleep was at a premium because I spent all day shooting and all night trying to file to meet Australian deadlines, I got home to Petersham, dumped my gear and collapsed into bed. Anyone who lives there will know that Petersham is under the flight path to Sydney Airport and the first jet that roared over the next morning had me diving out of bed, pulling on my Kevlar, grabbing my cameras and bowling down the hall to take pictures of the next attack. I was at the front door before I realised where I was and that it was not another fighter but a Qantas jumbo. We take for granted the freedoms that come with living here along with the simple facts, such as if you need to go to hospital it will have medicine to treat you, or that you can call your family to tell them how you are.

In Baghdad, with war, death and destruction all around, I was approached by two young English-speaking Iraqi men and asked if I had a satellite phone. They handed me a number and said it was for their family in Britain who would be worrying about them. I stuffed it in my pocket and forgot about it. Once again I spent the night trying to send out photographs by satellite. I was still running on adrenalin once they had been sent, so I pulled out the number and called. The family were hysterical with joy and relief. One little phone call to those people was priceless. You find human kindness in the most unlikely situations. I have had people in refugee camps in the Democratic Republic of Congo offer me cups of tea when they had absolutely nothing else. It is humbling. Our investigation into why rape was being used as a weapon of war in the conflict gave women, living without a justice system, the chance to tell of the horrific crimes committed against them. And I have met extraordinary people. Australian Dr Catherine Hamlin opened a fistula hospital in Addis Ababa with her late husband. Seeing how the work she performed transformed women's lives was a great privilege. Dr John Elliott was another extraordinary man. I met him in Sydney and flew with him to Zurich to record his death through voluntary euthanasia. It was an intense experience. Every conversation for a week revolved around this man about to kill himself. His motivation in taking us along was to show that this could be done with dignity. It was sad saying goodbye to him and watching him and his wife walk away for the last time.

Of course it does affect you. You try to remain impartial but things like that are very emotional. You get upset but it is how you deal with that emotion that defines you. And of course you meet people at the other end of the spectrum. A hotel keeper called Innocent in Kigali in Rwanda springs to mind – I hope he is getting good use out of that camera I left locked in my hotel room. Another would be the driver I relied on to get me through border control in Jordan. I ducked to the toilet and when I came back the border guards had the seats of the car out on the pavement and were pulling cartons and cartons of cigarettes from the vehicle. I was travelling with a tobacco smuggler. After hours and hours and missing my flight, he was fined and we were allowed to continue. Finally pulling up at my hotel he asked me for a tip. "How about not smuggling tobacco, you crazy man," I said. He laughed and handed me a packet of cigarettes.