ei8ht
photojournalism
Vol.1 No.3
editor ’sletter Dear Friend of ei8ht,
We have put together an exciting edition this quarter that portrays a number of important issues in a new light. Beginning with two photo stories from Israel and Palestine I hope to show you different perspectives on a subject which, I believe, all too often we have become apathetic to in the West. These two stories challenge our perception about the conflict and I hope in doing so will give voice to some vital questions. In a completely different vein, two Swiss photographers have shown us that landscapes can tell their own story. The barren topography of the new EU frontier provides a backdrop for their work and goes some way to help us discover what really lies at the edge of our own European existence. In the second half of the magazine we showcase stories by photogra-
phers who have sought simple ways to tackle very difficult and intricate subjects. AIDS in China is shown with sensitivity through they eyes of a four-year-old girl as she struggles to survive. Likewise when it comes to the horrifying reality of dowry abuse it is a simple email from the photographer that reveals so much about the tragedies unfolding as well as his, and our own, attitude towards them. I hope you will find it inspiring and refreshing to read the photography and words of these stories. Please offer a word of thanks to the journalists who will not be deterred from pursuing photojournalism so that it may be brought to light in the pages of this magazine.
Jon Levy
contributor biographies Peter Beaumont is the Foreign Affairs Editor for The Observer in London, the newspaper for which he has worked for the past 15 years. During this time he has acted as the foreign desk “firefighter” travelling extensively to cover events on the ground. His experience spans the fall of Communism in Russia, the civil war in Bosnia and the intervention in Kosovo as well as lead stories in Africa and, for the past three years, the Middle East. More of Peter’s work can be read online: ~www.observer.co.uk
the rave scene, and the proverbial British greasy spoon cafe. More recently his photography has led him to investigate the phenomena of the Indian hair trade and dowry abuse. Adrian’s images have appeared in The Guardian, The Independent Magazine and ID and he is represented by Eyevine: ~ www.eyevine.com
Alan O’Connor was born in Dublin in 1971. After finishing a degree in philosophy he became a freelance photographer in1993. Since then he has covered stories in Northern Ireland, Lebanon and Bosnia. He is based in Ireland and works for a range of clients including The Observer, The Irish Times Magazine, Time and Business Week.
Grant Scott’s broad career includes art directing leading magazines: Tatler, and English Elle where he worked alongside photographers such as William Klein and Don McCullin. He has compiled a number of photographic monologues including Trevor Leighton’s Jokers and in recent years has moved behind the lens achieving acclaim for his own photography as a finalist in the 2000 Kobal awards. Grant is currently working on personal projects of which Crash Happy, featured here, is his most recent.
Adrian Fisk graduated from Blackpool College of Art and Design in 1995. He has worked on a number of projects in England including stories on environmental protest,
Qilai Shen was born in China and emigrated to the US in 1987 at the age of 12. Having spent his student years pursuing a career in medicine he decided to return to China in
1998 and whilst travelling began to rediscover the country. It was during this time he met several photojournalists and was inspired to take up the camera. He has been freelancing ever since, concentrating on stories about the lives of ordinary Chinese as the country goes through dramatic change. Qilai is represented by Sinopix: ~www.sinopix.com Kai Wiedenhöfer embarked on his chosen career in 1989 with a place studying photography at Essen University. In preparation for his course he visited Jerusalem, a trip that was to be the first of many to the region over the next 12 years. In 1991 he moved to Damascus in order to learn Arabic and immerse himself more fully in the culture. Kai is the recipient of numerous awards including: World Press Photo, The Leica Medal of excellence and the Bildberg/Agfa International Young Photojournalist. A new book of his work entitled Perfect Peace, was published in September 2002 by Steidl. Kai is represented by Lookat Photos: ~ www.lookat.ch
cover Alban Kakulya and Yann Mingard are members of Strates Photographies, a collective of freelance photographers based in Switzerland. They met in 1992 in Nicaragua, working for different humanitarian organisations and have undertaken projects together ever since. Alban graduated from the School of Photography in Vevey, Switzerland. Yann also studied there as well as at the Geneva School of Fine Arts. They continue to work both separately on personal projects and together on assignment. More of their work can be seen at: ~ www.strates.ch Prints of ei8ht covers are available for sale, please phone +44 (0)20 7636 0399 for details.
ei 8 ht Editor: Jon Levy Contributing Editors: Photo Sophie Batterbury, Marion Mertens Text James Loader Editorial Assistant: Phil Lee Art Direction: Grant Scott Design: John Bowling Publisher: Gordon Miller Special Projects: Peter Elliott European Associate: Arnaud Blanchard Reprographics: Graphic Facilities Printer: Jigsaw Colour/Centurion Press Publicity: Ash Communications
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Contents:December 2002 “Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter”– Martin Luther King (1929-1968) Editor’s Letter
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Contributors
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Contents
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Agency Listings p.44 Partners, Advertisers, & foto8 News
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Perfect Peace Kai Wiedenhöfer has studied and lived among the Palestinians. His images portray a closeness to, and appreciation of, their daily struggle p.4 The Human Detail An essay by Peter Beaumont on the experience and
aesthetic of working with Kai and Alan on assignment for The Observer p.14 Nothing Personal Alan O’Connor’s vivid journey through Israel and the Palestinian territories p.16 Dowry Abuse Imagine being set on fire, slashed and/or
beaten by your husband, and all this with the help of his family. Adrian Fisk investigates the alarming incidence of abuse in India p.24 Staying Alive As AIDS devastates families and communities in villages across China Qilai
Shen documents the plight of four-yearold Jiajia as she travels to Beijing for medical help p.26 East of A New Eden Two photographers, Alban Kakulya and Yann Mingard, plot the border zones of the recently expanded European Union. Their photographs
trace the barren landscapes of this new frontier p.32 Border Incident A short poem by Ruth Fainlight p.35 Crash Happy Grant Scott relives the excitement of his youth amongst banger racers in South London p.40 3
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PERFECT PEACE
The Palestinians from Intifada to Intifada by Kai Wiedenhöfer
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Previous page: Onlookers watch a masked Hamas member as he waits outside the Nablus hospital morgue to receive the body of Achmed Marschud, an activist of his organisation, who was assassinated by the Israeli secret service. Left top: Israeli soldiers take aim and advance towards Palestinian stone throwers in the Jabaliya Refugee Camp, Gaza Strip. Left bottom: Fatahhawks, members of the armed Palestinian resistance, keep an eye out out for an Israeli army patrol searching for them in the Schabura Refugee Camp, Rafah, Gaza Strip. Right: Waiting for a body to be carried out of the Schifa Hospital morgue in Gaza. (The posters on the telephone pole depict other “martyrs� killed in the first months of the current intifada.)
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Left: A Palestinian boy plays with a horse’s tail on the beach of Gaza City. Right: Palestinian children observe an Israeli tank entering the Palestinian controlled area in Hebron.
Following pages. Left: Palestinians receive their cards for a United Nations Works and Relief Agency food distribution in Jabaliya Refugee camp, Gaza . top: Israeli soldiers check identity cards of Palestinians in Hebron. Bottom left: A boy climbs the fence of Gaza central prison one day before the Israeli withdrawal in May 1994. Bottom right: Israeli settlers visit an outpost of the Israeli army which overlooks the centre of Palestinian controlled Hebron.
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A man is prepared for burial in the Schifa Hospital morgue, Gaza. He was shot in the head during a stone-throwing incident. His colleagues have placed a pistol in his hands as he had been due to complete training to be a policeman.
Kai Wiedenhöfer’s book: Perfect Peace, Palestinians from Intifada to Intifada, 174 pages, 125 duotone plates 24.5 x 33 cm hardback, is published by Steidl in Germany, ISBN 3-88243-814-2, priced £27.00, $40.00, E44.00, distributed by Thames and Hudson in the UK and Scala in Europe.
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The Human Detail by Peter Beaumont
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AROUND THE TIME of the first anniversary of the present Palestinian intifada I was travelling with Alan O’Connor and Kai Wiedenhöfer. We had decided that day to go to Bethlehem to cover a funeral. During the late morning gunfire broke out. I remember watching from a street corner not far from Nativity Square as gunmen flitted in front of us, darting through the cobbled streets. A little later Israeli tanks entered the city. And somewhere along the line we lost Kai. We left Bethlehem with difficulty. Arriving at Rachel’s Tomb, the site of a large Israeli checkpoint, my mobile phone went off. It was Kai. He explained that someone had stolen his phone. There were no taxis – because of the fighting – could we come and fetch him. And so we drove back, retracing our steps, on the grounds that we had run into no trouble on the way out. This time, of course, we ran into an Israeli tank fighting its way down a street and sped past it to where Kai was waiting. It was a little later, I think, back in the safety of the Jerusalem hotel, that Alan pointed his camera at the vine on the trellising above our heads and photographed the autumn leaves, layered with light. If it was not that day precisely, then it was another like it. It doesn’t matter in a way – just the location – and the sense that he captured a moment of beauty and respite. I recall sitting at the same table on many other occasions with other friends, most of them travelling photographers. On quiet afternoons they would work on their journals. By then I had started carrying my own camera again, to keep my own journal – a photographic one. Writing and photography are complementary processes. For pho-
tographers the process of keeping a journal is both impressionistic and organisational. To write is to filter impressions and ideas, to keep track of a story even when writing in the most personal and private of capacities. For writers, photography performs an opposite but equal function forcing the reporter literally to look more closely into the human detail of what is going on. From a writer’s point there is a discipline in photographic reportage that is missing in much reporting. There are few writers that I know who dedicate years of their lives to individual projects – or even weeks. And there are few photographers working today who are more persistent and dogged than Kai, who has been photographing the West Bank and Gaza for over a decade. Kai once told me how he got involved in this story. He had been studying the language and decided to spend some time among the Palestinians to work on his spoken Arabic. He did learn some Arabic. But mainly Kai took pictures – living first in Gaza and then elsewhere among the Palestinians. I have one of Kai’s pictures in front of me, even as I write, taped to my computer screen. It is one of the selection printed here – a wide-angle shot of a smiling boy his t-shirt wet from bathing. He is pulling on what looks like the tail of a horse. In the background other Gazans are visible, bathing fully-clothed in the surf. What I like about this picture – and many of Kai’s photographs – is that for all the tragedy that they contain, his pictures also contain the element that truly defines the essence of the tragic, the potential for a more fulfiling, happier and better life. Kai’s images – like that of so many great documentary photographers – are born as much of a special kind of patience as a special kind of eye and a special kind ei8ht
of humanity. Indeed, there is something of Kai at work that always reminds me of a heron fishing on a bank. It is a strange, still and attentive poise that communicates itself to his work. I MET ALAN O’CONNOR a little later in the intifada through another mutual friend, Bryan McBurney, a Canadian photographer then based in Jerusalem, whose then partner wrote for The Observer. Always hospitable, determined and with an enviable knowledge of every sneaky dirt road round every Israeli checkpoint on the West Bank, he was a catalyst for many of the abiding friendships that I have made in Israel and Palestine with photographers, Alan not least among them. Alan’s photography is very different. He has an unusual, sometimes anarchic, eye for detail. In comparison with Kai, Alan is positively skittish. Alan gets behind the story in a different way, often by simply looking in another direction to the action; by being guided by what grabs his attention. Often it is shapes and colours and unusual textures. In this, his project on Israel is not so much the work you might expect from a reporter and documentarist but from an artist. It is a deeply impressionistic take. Alan shot most of these pictures with an autofocus Hexar with a single fixed 35mm lens. (Kai shoots with Leicas that look as though he has used them to bang in nails.) It is simple and yet incredibly effective. A potent reminder that it is not what camera you have, or how many, but how and where you look that is the critical issue. We were together when he shot the exhausted Israeli soldiers sharing a cigarette that is shown here. The soldiers had been involved in
a night time raid on the large village of Beit Rima in retaliation for the assassination of Rehaviam Ze’evi, Israel’s right wing tourism minister. Five Palestinians were killed in the raid, two of them policemen who were sleeping under the olive tree shown in the previous pages. Like many others we had spent a whole day trying to evade Israeli army road blocks and reach the village. We finally got there at dusk, where we were stopped. But as we waited two columns of exhausted soldiers, faces blacked up walked out. Alan’s picture encapsulates that moment: the men tired, but cocky; nervous about speaking but anxious to be photographed. It speaks of macho bravado mixed with a wariness of outsiders. It is the conundrum of Israeli Defence Forces – of Israel itself – summed up in an instant ❽
In addition to the stories about the current conflict which are featured on the preceding and following pages foto8.com, our sister website, is hosting a special section with the work of award winning photographers Tony Olmos, Judah Passow and Ilkka Uimonen. To view these stories as well as to find out how you can contribute images and words to this special section go to: www.foto8.com/ei8ht/ or send your comments by email to: letters@foto8.com
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Nothing Personal by Alan O’Connor
Nothing Personal
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Nothing Personal
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Nothing Personal
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(Photography and unedited email by Adrian Fisk) Dowry Abuse: DELHI, INDIA, 06 OCTOBER 2000 Adam Here is where I’m at. Now back from the field and in Delhi. This going to be one of those e-mails where words seem pretty meaningless in regards to how I am feeling. Been very on the case regards the dowry story, it feels good to be back deep in a story trying to put something back into life. So much to say about what has been happening, but haven’t got the energy to type an epic letter. Got back a few hours ago from Gwalior about three hundred kilometres south of Delhi where I have spent the last four days. I have been staying with Usha, a social worker helping me with the story, in gwalior which I have thoroughly enjoyed, it has been an enlightening insight into an Indian household.The dowry piece started off slowly but has picked up momentum and has become pretty full on in the last few days. This is good as in the beginning I wasn’t sure where it was going. We have interviewed and photographed several cases now. I don’t know what the fuck is going on but if I am seeing it clearly then there is an epidemic of problems regarding the issue of dowry. I am not going to go into all the facts and stats of it all now but I am feeling overwhelmed by it all, so is Usha. Here are a few examples of the last four days. We arrive in Gwalior having gone to another town first which provided only false leads. We go to Usha’s house and I meet her relations and explain what I am trying to do. They know of several cases close to their house, they send someone out and within a short space of time three girls arrive all in their early twenties who are victims of dowry abuse. The abuse they had suffered from varied from being of a sexual nature to regular beatings. Such things as being beaten about the head with bricks to hot oil being poured onto the hands, you get the picture. The next day we are at the main police station waiting to interview the Inspector general, opposite me is a man who turns out to be a lawyer. He knows of hundreds of dowry cases but thinks many are false. Two men sit to me and Ushas’s left, one looks tearful and highly distressed. We later find out that his daughter inlaw has committed suicide, her parents say he, his wife and their son, the girls husband, were demanding more dowry she couldn’t provide it so they killed her. To his left is a policeman, he is the Inspector General’s driver and he is waiting to take him home. Usha talks with him. He tells her that not so long ago his wifes sister was murdered by being set alight after having kerosene poured on her because of insufficient dowry. Yesterday we went to a police station specially for women, many of the cases reported there are dowry related. In one of the cells they are holding a mother, father and brother inlaw for insitement to dowry attack. The husband has done a runner, the inlaws are escorted to the court whilst we are there. Today I photographed Shadnum Begum, the girl who had accused them of being involved in the beatings. She has bruising under her sari, both wrists are bandaged where with an iron rod her husband beat the wrists until finally they were bleeding, both wrists have suspected fractures. She says her mother inlaw was holding her whilst egging on her son to beat her. Their bail was refused and today they are in prison waiting their hearing, which of course could be a long way off. As ever, as I am finding out, the girl wants to get back with her husband rather than face a bleak future alone. This afternoon I photographed Alkar Dahori, her story was a particularly unpleasant one. She was kidnapped with a gun held to her head as she was leaving school, three days later she was forced to marry the kidnapper a man who came from a criminal family. Alkar is from a wealthy family of carpet makers. They left to another part of India. After a few months her husband begins to beat her whilst making demands for dowry. She says she will not go to her parents to get it. They return to Gwalior. Over the year she sees her parents once, during this time they have been told
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by a local MP that if they go to the police they will be killed. A few weeks ago her so called husband and his parents were as ever hassling her to get the dowry, and she, as ever, said she would not demand this from her parents. Her husband fuelled by alcohol and encouraged by his mother and father got a razor blade and proceeded to lacerate her face, he made a pretty good job of it. Last Wednesday her husband furious that she would still not go to her parents for the dowry beat her with a bamboo cane then got a stone slab and dropped it on her feet breaking the bone in one foot. Just after this happened the neighbours surrounded Alkar and got her into a rickshaw so she could get away, warning her that if she didn’t he would probably kill her. She managed to get to her parents who then took her to the police. Yesterday her husband went to the neighbours of her parents and said he was going to kill Alkar and her mother and father. The police feel that as she has reported the case she doesn’t need protection. You know what, she could still fucking smile although it was somewhat crooked with her new face. Strange old world ‘aint it. The last few days have made me realise how lucky I am, what a good life I have. Hope at this moment you have as well. Adrian
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Staying Alive Jiajia’s JOURNEY by Qilai Shen
Four-year-old Wang Kaijia jumps up in kid heaven at the news that she will be going to Beijing with her father and granduncle. “She loves taking trips, even if it is for a blood test,” sighs 31-year-old Wang Weijun while looking at his ecstatic daughter. “She gets so bored at home because no one dares to let their children play with her.” People fear Wang Kaijia, or Jiajia as most call her, because she has AIDS.
offered no help, and neighbours shun the Wang family as if it has been cursed. Even Wang’s younger brother decided to pack up and live somewhere else. “1999 was the toughest year of my life,” recollects Wang, stroking his rock star like long hair and moustache that he let grow as a sign of mourning and protest. 4. “I had no one to turn to and no idea of what to do with Jiajia, but I knew I had to keep her alive.” Fortunately for the Wangs, not all are apathetic towards their
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2. Jiajia contracted the HIV virus when she was still an infant. Out of profit, a local hospital in Xintai, Hebei Province, gave unnecessary blood transfusion to Jiajia’s mother while she was giving birth to her, blood that was tainted with the deadly virus. Jiajia’s mother died of AIDS shortly after in 1999, but the damage to her daughter was already done: Jiajia got the virus through breast milk. 3. With his wife gone and his daughter sick, Wang Weijun saw the world turn away from him. The hospital vehemently denies any wrongdoing, the local government
misfortune. With the help of some daring journalists, Wang told his plight to the country. Moved by Jiajia’s innocence and Weijun’s determination, people across the country began to offer their help. Some offered money, while others donated clothing and toys. 5. A Beijing-based centre that provides legal assistance to women, established by the prestigious Beijing University with help from the Ford Foundation, voluntarily
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took the Wangs’ fight into the courts. “I consider myself lucky despite of everything, at least I have hope,” says Wang in reaction to the charitable acts. “So many people in China have AIDS now and most of them live and die as outcasts.” 6. But despite the help from others, the Wangs still live in relative poverty. On their frequent trips to Beijing, where Jiajia undergoes regular checkups to monitor her
comes over to him. She climbs on to his back and starts to comb his long hair, and she laughs, sweet and innocent
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condition, the Wangs stay in squalid rooms and prefer to take the midnight train to save a night of lodging in Beijing, where accommodations are relatively expensive. Wang Weijun, however, does not mind. “All I want is recognition,” he says. 7. “The government is trying to say that AIDS only infects drug addicts and prostitutes, what about my daughter?” Jiajia somehow senses the frustration in Wang and
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East of a New Eden By Alban Kakulya and Yann Mingard
To draw a line north to south on a map from the Baltic Sea to the Black Sea traces the European Union’s unofficial border. It’s not a concrete border, you won’t find a wall its entire length, nor is it a recognised boundary but it functions as an effective economic corridor, separating rich member nations in the West from poor non-members in the East. Seven countries that previously formed the buffer
zone between the former USSR and Western Europe lie between the two seas: Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Poland, Slovakia, Hungary Romania, and, not forgetting, the Russian enclave of Kaliningrad. Each country has its own border patrols, often supplied with the latest thermovision and infra-red surveillance equipment, and each is charged with controlling illegal immigration from the East.
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Equipped with GPS devices photojournalists Alban Kakulya and Yann Mingard documented this often invisible barrier to the West by starting at opposite ends – its northern and southernmost points and travelling towards one another. Journeying by car, hovercraft, snowscooter or on foot they photographed the desolate landscapes which make up this contested line of divide as well as the people and the evidence of people (signs, border posts etc.) in a style closer to contemporary topographic photography than to classic reportage. After six weeks travelling the pair met in a
barren landscape of yellow grass at the point where Poland, Ukraine and Belarus intersect. On checking their GPS readings they found that they each had the same distance written on their screens: 860km – a total of 1600km between them. To mark the end of their journey they each took a picture at the same spot. The compilation of images here goes a long way towards showing the beauty of these forbidden zones and the ambiguity of creating borders across the continuum of nature ❽
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A BORDER INCIDENT a poem by Ruth Fainlight Gleaning olives, hard and black as droppings or green as lizards, where they had fallen below the trees and now lay hidden under faded leaves (some leathery others sodden from the autumn rains) or lodged between thorny bushes on the stony ground — an old Ligurian peasant woman, gaunt faced like a gypsy sibyl, with sun-stained skin and work-warped hands, clutched her back, straightened up, smiled a greeting.
I was ignorant, and thought this border territory seemed more archaic, classical, than twentieth century, more Italy than France; wished I could answer in Etruscan or Roman Latin, so smiled and muttered, ‘Buon giorno’. From forty years ago I still recall that look of furious insult as her gap-toothed mouth spat out, ‘Bonjour’. An incident which could have started a border war. 35
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CRASH HAPPY BY GRANT SCOTT I didn’t come to banger racing. It came to me. I was born in Tooting, above a car showroom and next door to a petrol station. My dad was a bricklayer, mum a hairdresser. They were the very proud owners of a red MG. But there’s no room for a child in an MG, so they bought a Ford Zodiac. It was two-tone, black and grey, with white-wall tyres, red leather interior and bench seat in the front. The classic Ford Zodiac. A beautiful car. Its beauty didn’t last. It disappeared in the West End, Spring,1969. My parents had driven up from South London for the opening night of Hair. When they came out of the theatre their beautiful car had gone. Stolen. The police found it a few weeks later. It was a scarred, sad mess. It had been hand-painted with black household gloss and someone had taken the cat mascot from a Jaguar and bolted it to the bonnet. Did they really think that it would pass as a Jag? (My father still has the cat statue.) This left my parents with a difficult question: what to do with such a sad heap of metal which, broken and busted as it was, still held the memory of our family’s dreams? Its passing from our lives needed to be marked in a way that somehow fitted with its own shiny South London life. My parents
decided to send it to an honourable death, in the demolition derby at Wimbledon Stadium. It was my first experience of banger racing – a cold Sunday night wrapped in scarves and topped with bobble hats. My brother and I were allowed to stay up way beyond our usual 6 o’clock curfew for this special occasion. We went as a family, booked a table. Everything seemed so glamourous in the brightly-lit, over-heated grandstand. A wall of glass stood between us and the track, muting the sound of the cars as they careered around, bouncing off each other. They looked like no cars I’d ever seen. They’d all been painted with the names of wives and girlfriends – many of whom sat around us eating, drinking and laughing as their men did automotive battle below. When our Zodiac came out on to the track we cheered, certain it was the best-looking out there. It was the car we had grown up in, photographed on its bonnet at Christenings. It was the car which had taken us on family days out to Brighton. And now we were to witness its almost certain destruction – in a demolition derby, victory goes to the last car still moving. So we sat and watched the death of our first, beloved family motor. A Ford Anglia won ❽
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