Masum Ghar, Kandahar Province, Afghanistan

Operation in Sanjaray

Embedded with the Canadian Army in Kandahar.

On May 16th I reached the forward operating base (FOB) after traveling in an convoy of armoured vehicles that left from Kandahar Airfield.

We set out from the FOB in a different armoured convoy traveling for a “secret cleaning operation” in Sanjaray village. I was told that the only condition for me to go was to not send pictures until the end of the operation.

We followed the tracks left by the tanks in the burning desert sand, surrounded by orange-colored mountains, until we reached an improvised base belonging to the Afghan National Police (ANA). This base offers a view of Sanjaray and the entire valley.

The Afghan soldiers based there don’t have electricity or running water, and they sleep on blankets stretched over the ground under a half-constructed building that still has no windows. We spent the night sleeping in the open next to the tanks.

The joint operation in which more than a thousand soldiers from Canada, the U.S. and Afghanistan were participating, was one of the largest ever carried out in this region considered to be rife with Taliban fighters.

At daybreak on the 17th we were already on the march into the valley. We watched the sun rise from behind the mountains as we entered Sanjaray. Our goal was to hike between three and four km each day, and thus cover the 12 square km in which the operation was focused.

The soldiers hiked for hours but advanced slowly with their backpacks weighing some 30-40 kilos. One other factor that determined their speed was the work of mine-sweepers that cleared the way ahead with the help of dogs.

The streets of Sanjaray, where the call to prayer is heard morning and night, are a capricious labyrinth of mud-brick, circular houses with not one straight line; no two windows or doors are the same size. No houses are alike but they all have their courtyards full of grape vines and cherry trees. Their fields abound in wheat and sorghum, as well as poppy and wild cannabis.

The landscape is biblical with waterholes, small streams, men with long beards walking their donkeys and children dressed in shirt-like robes. The mechanized soldiers with their high tech equipment are practically extraterrestrial.

The searches began early in houses and compounds that were on the soldiers’ list. At one house they found material to make homemade explosives (HEDs), and at another they arrested three men suspected of belonging to the Taliban, but they didn’t allow me to photograph them. I was told they were taken immediately to Kandahar.

We continued until noon checking courtyards, yards, stables and kitchens, and interrogated those present and asked about those family members that were absent. They took photos, climbed up to attics, jumped over walls, crossed rivers, and on and on. They stopped to rest often in the shade, and as the day went on they stuck closer to walls for cover.

At the end of the day we found a place to sleep, a narrow strip between cherry trees and a stream, where the village gives way to wheat fields. A Chinook helicopter landed to replenish our food and water. We had consumed five or six liters of water each after a day that peaked at 45 degrees Celsius.

The following day began a 4 am. In just a few minutes the soldiers had their sleeping bags rolled up, did a quick wash-up and swallowed some form of energy to begin the nine hours of hiking to come.

We crossed through plantations searching the mountains that crown the valley to the north. Helicopters flew overhead all day long as we hiked for hours together with an Afghan Army platoon working parallel to us. For hours we found nothing and nobody, crossing one river with water up to the waist and another by walking across a pipe that serves as a bridge.

The heat and lack of water finally made us stop, and a Chinook brought us more. We got ready to spend the night in what looked to be a quiet place, until we were ordered to sleep with our boots on.

I was told that the Taliban planned an attack for that night. Sure enough at around midnight I awoke to the whistle of rockets, but I couldn’t tell where it came from. A sergeant told me not to worry. If you could hear the rockets it meant they were aiming for someplace far, he said, because the rockets travel faster than sound.

More rockets followed and then came flares to light up the night for snipers, and that continued until almost daybreak. It was only later that I found out that the rockets were fired by the Canadians, and that we weren’t attacked. They told me that the Taliban had “decided to remain in hiding.”

A Chinook woke us at 5 am when it brought more supplies, landing very close to us and blowing towels and bags around the camp with its powerful rotors. We were ready for the final hike.

The second officer in charge of the operation assured me that it had been a success, with the best result being that all his men were unharmed. “We showed the Taliban that we can come and go whenever we want.” Even though they never showed their face.

During nearly two decades of violent Kashmir conflict, I have covered fierce gun battles, between Indian soldiers and Muslim militants, suicide bombings, rebel attacks, massacres, protests, mayhem, violent elections and disasters.

But the question that always comes to mind is “what is the hardest to shoot?’

I always remember protests or riots, clashes between stone throwing protesters and gun-toting Indian troops. Stress levels quickly rise as me and my text colleague, Sheikh Mushtaq, realize that our assignment will not be easy whenever we go out, mostly on Fridays, the day when Muslims offer congregational weekly prayers, which turn into weekly protests against Indian rule in Kashmir.

There is literally no place to hide and shooting is nearly impossible when angry protesters take to the streets and rocks rain down; Indian troops retaliate with tear gas shells, rubber bullets and many times with live ammunition. Most of the time we, with protective gear and camera equipment strapped to our shoulders in backpacks, are stuck in the narrow streets of downtown Srinagar as impatient crowds and ruthless troops battle for hours.

Blood is always spilled in the streets of Kashmir where tens of thousands of people have been killed in two decades of an anti-India insurgency.

It was a pleasant and beautiful day in Srinagar, a city of over one million ringed by snow-capped Himalayan mountains, but tear gas brings bittersweet tears to my eyes and rocks sometime make me bleed. I clutch my camera, adjust the focus and aperture and keep on shooting masked rioters and police replying with slingshots, teargas shells and bullets. A rock came towards me, I ducked but it hit another cameraman. He was bleeding lying beside me. On many occasions, I had to drop my camera and take care of injured reporters and photojournalists. Several times even I was not lucky.

Years back I was hit by a tear gas shell and then enveloped by a cloud of dust and tear gas smoke. As the tear gas shell exploded between my legs and tore my calf muscle badly. Mushtaq from a distance was looking at me helplessly as the rattle of gun fire followed screams and cries for help. I was bleeding and fell unconscious. After hours I found myself in a hospital and later spent months in bed missing the thrill of photography.

When Kashmir last year faced some of the biggest anti-India protests in nearly 20 years, photojournalists faced the wrath of security forces and angry protesters.  Many of us were beaten up by riot police and demonstrators, protesting Indian rule in the disputed region. They break our cameras and sometimes beat us with batons and gun butts.

It is painful and disturbing but when I see people writhing in blood and dying with bullet wounds, my pain disappears and I feel guilty when police do not allow us to photograph the tragedy. I feel disappointed when they stop us after ambulances and hospitals are attacked.
People often ask “what is the most difficult to shoot in a conflict zone?”  I always say “protests or rioting.”

What’s in U.S. Treasury Secretary Timothy Geithner’s wallet? Not much.

While testifying in front of a House Appropriations Subcommittee on Capitol Hill Thursday Geithner was shown a $50 Billion Zimbabwean bank note (rendered worthless by Zimbabwe’s hyperinflation) by U.S. Representative John Culberson (R- TX) and asked if he had ever seen one himself. Geithner immediately pulled a piece of Zimbabwean currency out of his own pocket and showed it off to the committee. At the next break in the hearing I approached Geithner and asked how he happened to have a piece of foreign currency in his pocket. His response was “I often have some foreign currency in my wallet. Want to see?” He pulled a very thin and mostly empty wallet from his pocket.

Amongst many empty slots in the thin weathered leather wallet there could be seen three credit or debit cards with Visa and Mastercard logos (all inserted into the wallet upside down so that the card issuers could not be seen) and an old and yellowed looking identification card of indeterminate origin.

From inside the wallet Geithner extracted a small pile of receipts and paper including a New York City MTA farecard, pointing out that there were European Euros tucked amongst the paper.

Notably not seen in the U.S. Treasury Secretary’s wallet? Any U.S. dollars.

- Photo Credits:  Jim Bourg/Reuters  (U.S. Treasury Secretary Timothy Geithner puts a piece of foreign currency back after showing off the contents of his wallet to a photographer during a break in his congressional testimony in Washington, May 21, 2009.)

News coverage is a daily activity for me, and however I get involved in a story it’s not just a job; it’s also what I enjoy doing. Sometimes I’m just an observer behind a camera, but other times I also end up being affected personally. When the new H1N1 flu virus broke out in Mexico there was an additional factor for me; it was impossible not to suffer the first days of the epidemic as the head of a family.

I thought of the photos that I wanted to take, but I couldn’t help thinking of my daughter, my wife and my mother. As Colombians living in Mexico City we were all exposed to the unknown virus. Fear and uncertainty dominated my family, friends and the millions of people with whom I share the streets of this metropolis.

Very early on Friday, April 24, I put on rubber gloves and a facemask that I bought from the corner pharmacy. The masks were still easy to find, but a day later their scarcity would become a problem. My daughter celebrated along with countless others of her age the sudden onset of vacation, not yet understanding that the break from school would become a virtual quarantine. It was recommended that children not leave their homes during the emergency. In the early days of the outbreak, the government said that the majority of the victims were young adults, but in normal flu outbreaks children and the elderly are always the most vulnerable.

Limited knowledge about the disease and the recommended precautions caused Mexico City residents to avoid physical contact, even between people who a day earlier would greet each other with two kisses, as is the custom in Mexico. Friends and colleagues began to stand at a distance in hopes of preventing the spread of something that we knew little about. But we were learning more about it minute by minute.

Early news about dying victims was disconcerting. Before the government declared that the current flu vaccine was useless for this strain, I went to a vaccination clinic where people were begging for the shot. I had hoped to get one for myself to be safe while covering the story, but I was denied as everyone else. People left the clinic with fear in their faces and voices when they asked each other, “What do we do now?”

Fearful of catching the flu, I climbed into a taxi to continue covering the outbreak. There were fewer people, fewer cars in the city’s normally congested streets. The human landscape changed to one of blue-masked pedestrians. By the end of the first weekend the population was better informed. Most were less frightened in spite of the fact that the virus was among us and spreading.

Monday was the beginning of the first full week with the virus in Mexico. The day was hot and strange, without traffic. Then, a few minutes before noon, the earth shook. My taxi tilted from left to right. Electric cables swung back and forth. I grabbed my camera and yelled to the driver, “Stop! It’s shaking!” I jumped out and the near-empty street was still trembling. I walked to the corner and saw people rushing out from buildings and houses all around me. I could see the fear in their eyes.

In front of Aragon Hospital the street filled with doctors and patients. Some couldn’t take the crisis and fainted. Dozens of people muttered, “…just what we needed…”

At that moment I remembered that my family was alone in our fifth floor apartment. I called my wife but she didn’t answer. I called my daughter’s cell phone but again, no answer. I kept taking pictures with one hand while calling with the other, and hoping that everything was alright.

In the end I confirmed that my family was fine and I felt momentary relief, but then I remembered my mother who had died just two days earlier. Just one day into the flu coverage, Saturday at 5 a.m., my mother, who also lived with us in Mexico City, passed away for reasons unrelated to the epidemic. In that difficult moment I had called my editors to tell them that I couldn’t continue with the coverage plan that day, and I was told to take all the time I needed.

I had the choice of not working due to my family emergency amidst the sudden appearance of the new flu virus. But then I realized that the best therapy for me and the best tribute to my mother would be to go out and report the news. Even in the most difficult moments I couldn’t stop observing the world and my own life through photography.

SAPPORO, Japan - Retirement can be a death knell for guide dogs, creatures who spend their lives caring for others, but a home in Japan is giving these canines a new lease on life in their twilight years. The Sapporo Retirement Home for Dogs, in the northern island of Hokkaido, has sheltered more than 200 animals since it opened in 1978, giving them the best possible care until they are either adopted by sighted humans or die.

“This is the last gift we can give these dogs who worked for people all their life,” said the home’s director Keiko Tsuji as she caressed the coat of Rick, a dog who is now paralyzed due to old age and can only feed from a tube. “Most of these dogs only live for 2 or 3 years after their retirement, and I want them to live comfortably for the rest of their lives,” she added.

Japan’s guide dogs must retire at the age of 11 or 12, because that is when their abilities, and physical strength, start to fail, according to the home’s staff. These aged dogs are then taken away from their masters because, after years of guiding, they will continue to perform their duties, putting themselves and their owners at risk.

The separation is difficult for both human and animal, and Tsuji, who has cared for dogs for more than 20 years, said that easing the transition from working dog to retiree is what the facility aims to do.

“What they need most is affection. They have lived very closely with people for a long time, so it’s very hard for them to feel isolated suddenly. It is essential for them to keep interacting with people,” she explained.

Only a few dogs live at the center permanently. Some are sent back to the home that raised them as puppies, and others are adopted, usually by workers at the center. Rick, whose emaciated body lies beneath a child’s blanket all day, is set to remain at the center, as is Yell, another guide dog who enjoys the facility’s sun room and all the affection he gets from the 12 caretakers.

The dogs are groomed, bathed, fed and exercised every day. The facility, which was refurbished recently, also has an on-site veterinarian and rehabilitation center for dogs who develop physical disabilities due to age.

While the center hopes to prolong the lives of the dogs and make them more comfortable, it also has a cemetery nearby for the canines who have passed on. A tomb stone commemorates the 250 guide dogs who died in Hokkaido and a memorial service is held in August of each year.

In this audio slideshow, fighting cow owner Jean-François Rossat talks with Reuters photographer Denis Balibouse about traditional cow fights in the Alpine region of Valais, Switzerland.

I was relaxing Sunday evening killing zombies on the Xbox, when I got a news alert on my blackberry stating Tamil protesters were blocking two lanes of traffic on the Gardiner Expressway.  The Gardiner is a major freeway that goes through downtown Toronto. We don’t often see big protests or demonstrations, so my excitement begins to build.

The freeway snakes in between high rise condo buildings, and my first instinct was to figure out a way to get a vantage point up in the building to shoot the protest from a high angle.  I spotted a couple of guys enjoying a few beers on their 10th floor balcony  and shouted up. They were happy to come down and take me up to a spot overlooking the site of the protest. I took my pictures of the blockaded road, filed them, and got back down to street level to see if I could get in nice and close.

I ran up the onramp to the freeway, and spent a few minutes shooting the flags in the crowd, before making my way to the front lines. The demonstrators were peaceful, and the police seemed to be somewhat patient with the large crowd. Demonstration leaders kept the crowd calm with megaphones, telling them to keep the peace, but that didn’t keep a few aggressive situations from developing.

After I made my way to the front of the protest, some of the demonstrators and police began pushing and shoving, and a protester got hit in the back of the head with a baton by a police officer.  I’m still unsure why tempers escalated, but the man emerged from the scuffle with a bloody head. It was extremely dark and though the batteries in my flash were dying, I was able to shoot a frame every 3 seconds and managed to catch the police officer hitting the protester in the head.

The crowd began to yell “Sit down, let the media see what happened!”. People started to sit down as the man emerged from the crowd with a bloody face. I ran down to try to get in nice and close, where I was able to make some frames of him.

Shortly after the scuffle, the demonstrators agreed to leave the freeway, and it was over.

With all the fuss kicked up about the premiere in Rome of director Ron Howard’s film Angels & Demons, I thought it would be fun to hop on a bus tour based on the novel by Dan Brown. I must stress that I am not a fan of Brown’s writing, but it’s surely a different way to see many of the Eternal City’s sights.

In the following audio slideshow the tour guide, who can’t be named due to his company’s policy, discusses the book and how it relates to the landmarks of Rome

Angels & Demons by bus in Rome from Chris Helgren on Vimeo.