Not lost for words: The reporter's stutter which left him

Reporters always carry some kind of baggage with them when they head off to cover a story - whether it's the tools of their trade, a camera or a microphone, or something less tangible, such as memories of a past encounter or story. It was on a recent deployment that the BBC's Middle East analyst Sebastian Usher suddenly noticed that the often unwanted companion that seemingly always accompanied him on trips abroad had suddenly gone missing.

I got back from a reporting trip to Jerusalem, with all the usual highs and lows, and with the backdrop of one of the world's most utterly enthralling cities. And I realised on my return that something that habitually accompanies me on such trips had been missing.

Something that I have always somewhat resented, yet also jealously guarded as an essential part of who I am.

My stutter.

Even after all these years it is almost always there, just giving a little wave as I prepare to do the umpteenth live interview.

It's mostly very well-behaved these days and surprisingly flexible, even generous.

At one time, it would let me know that a certain word - say, "Syria" - was a no-go. That was fair and mostly allowed me a way around it. It had no objections, for instance, to "Syrian territory" or the "Syrian region".

Having to find fresh phrases can be an asset for a reporter. So it was perfectly liveable-with and to be honest - after a lifetime of listening to that little voice - quite companionable.

But high up on the windswept bureau balcony in Jerusalem, the voice was silent.

There have been times like this before, and it has always returned. But who knows - this time it might be for good.

And it makes me feel a little bereft.

When I look back, I can't really remember how it started but I do know that it was - to me at least - a relatively unobtrusive part of my childhood.

I was lucky to have a relatively sheltered, privileged upbringing where if it was noted at all, it was seen as a vaguely charming mark of distinction. A musty old Classics teacher would tell me about the great Athenian rhetorician Demosthenes standing on the beach with stones in his mouth to cure his stutter. It didn't really appeal.

Any time there was some distance that needed to be bridged - like speaking on a phone or asking for a bus ticket - it could be a problem. Anything too formal, too. And I found early on that it was really a stammer, not a stutter.

Words didn't fracture and become staccato. They simply sat in the path like great unblinking toads, slyly preventing anything from getting past. But a stutter always sounded classier to me, so I've stuck with that.

It's been everywhere with me - at school, university, work. It's been quite remarkably even-handed in showing up in formal or casual situations. And utterly capricious, suddenly coming up with an entirely new syllable or consonant to place out of bounds.

People would ask: Is it nerves? Are you very anxious? Which would of course give me anxiety - so I never mentioned it. This meant that if suddenly, halfway through a sentence, I was struck dumb, people would react as if it were some biblical curse.

Once in Jordan after a 12-hour bus journey through the endless scrubland from Riyadh, I was suddenly unable to sound out a single word, a great imaginary boulder having materialised on my tongue through the night.

Across the Middle East, beyond the endless strife and complication, certain things were at least clear to me - "Lebanon" was no problem, "Iraq" and "Iran" were easy - "Israel" too - "Egypt" a doddle - but "Tunisia", "Tel Aviv" and "Turkey" were temperamental, withdrawing access at a moment's notice.

I would try to avoid listening to a fellow correspondent on the same story before going on air, in case my inner voice should triumphantly extricate the key word from their report and place it in quarantine.

That voice has however become ever more forgiving and forbearing down the years; now it is mostly a whisper of itself. But it's never gone away - or so I thought.

Maybe I was just holding onto it as a precious fragment of a long-lost self - a sense that there was always something latent and untapped that lay beyond the surface. A connection - semi secret - to entire worlds of people that were gone.

As she sank ever deeper into Alzheimer's, my mother, who had helped make it so that I never felt it a burden or a hindrance, simply denied outright that my stutter had ever existed - a last link broken with the past.

Perhaps it's her gentleness and elegant humour that the trace of sudden silence on my tongue still keeps alive. Or did.

So, the next time I am lost for words, it may simply be because there are none left to convey what is happening in Gaza, Israel and beyond.