Who would be a policeman in Pakistan???

This was the question on my mind as I travelled to Quaid E Azam Airport from the Avari Hotel on my last day in Karachi, having listened earlier to an eyewitness report from Reuters photographer Mohsin Rasa of a suicide bombing in Lahore.

At the end of last year following Bhutto’s return I had rushed to Pakistan ahead of the elections planned for January 8, 2008. Following her assassination it was no surprise that the elections were postponed. I was planning to travel to Lahore to follow former Prime Minister Nawas Sharif and while waiting in Islamabad for the new election date to be announced we photographed people mourning the death of Bhutto at makeshift shrines marking the place where she had been killed on December 27, 2007. Men and women, young and old, of every class appeared to have been traumatized by her brutal murder. After spending a week in the capital, I went to the southern harbor city of Pakistan, Karachi to give our Chief Photographer Zahid Hussein a break after all the long days he had put in following Bhutto’s return to Pakistan.

On my second day in Karachi there was news of a suicide bombing in Lahore. Typical, the minute you move the proverbial hits the fan in the place you have just left. As soon as I saw the first pictures I could not help but be shocked by the blood and the piles of bodies - bodies of dead, dying and injured policemen scattered over the street.

But if I was shocked and pumped full of adrenaline just by seeing the pictures, my reaction was nothing compared to that of Mohsin Raza our photographer on the spot.

He told me, “we photographers usually gathered at the gate of the Lower Court every time there was a demonstration by the lawyers protesting against President Musharaf”. But not that day because, “we started at the Higher Court to join lawyers gathering at the Lower Court”. The only ones left at the gates were the police, deployed as usual, quietly waiting to escort the demonstrators during their protest. Resting on their shields, wearing helmets and body armor, they had no idea what was going to hit them in the next few minutes. “As we approached the gates there was the enormous explosion. I was caught totally off guard, disorientated and did not immediately understand what was happening. Strangely enough I was not really scared and after a few minutes got my self together, became rational and was thinking straight again. My first reaction was run to the scene, but, in the back of my mind I could hear the voice of Zahid (his boss) telling me, ‘whenever there is a bomb blast do not run to the scene as nine times out of ten there will be another blast destined to wreak even more death and destruction’.”

Zahid had impressed on his staff the need to stay safe, to avoid obvious targets. If the bombers want to kill a specific person they have to be close to them. The same Zahid told our staffer in Islamabad, Mian Kursheed the same thing just before he went to cover the rally at which Benazir Bhutto died. Zahid, a veteran in this world of conflicts, suicide bombing and political assassinations, still remembers the lessons hammered in by the instructors at the Centurion Hostile Environment Course - stay safe, never approach a bomb scene unless the scene has been cleared, the bombers might planted a second bomb or booby trapped a body, car or motor cycle in order to cause more devastation.

“First I rang Karachi to inform Zahid and our correspondents in the Islamabad head office”, Mohsin said. “I kept a close eye on the opposition and after a while we all agreed to get nearer to the place. What I saw there was hard to believe, but strangely I was thinking clearly enough to function normally. The ground was littered with bodies and bits of dead and injured policemen, protection shields, batons, helmets and blood - lots of it, thick, deep, dark red blood. My attention was drawn to a sound, the sobbing sound of a child. I found a boy of about 12 years old, by a motorcycle, crying over the body of his elder brother. The two had been on the motorbike in traffic waiting for the light to change when the explosion happened”.

“Nearby I discovered a dead horse still in the shafts of a traditional Pakistani carriage known as a “Tonga”. The horse was lying peacefully on the ground, stone dead. It looked as if it was finally getting a rest from a life of hard labour”.

“After a while I moved on to the hospital, by now I was working on remote control with no conscious emotions, barely registering the scenes taking place around me. People arrived seeking news of their loved ones. I remember one big man weeping, heartbroken”.

“Later that evening I covered the first funerals. In the West it is unusual to bury the dead so soon afterwards but in Islam our dead are buried as quickly as possible. There I was photographing people laying flowers on the graves of the dead and mourning their loved ones in misery, deep deep misery. For the first time that day my emotions began to surface, maybe I was just tired but it is impossible not to react to such sadness and grief. 

But it was only when I got home that the full impact hit me. When I greeted my son and daughter and my dear wife I realised for the first time just what I had witnessed that day.  Men who, just like me, had left their homes that morning to go to work as they did every day and who, just like me, had exchange goodbyes with their loved ones, were never coming home again.  This was the harsh reality, the harsh reality many of us photographers live with. We take pictures of misery and are part of that misery. We face similar dangers to those faced by the policemen”.

“It could so easily have been me”. 

This is a brief tribute to all the Hassans, Ahmeds, Cems and Sputniks who have been my second pair of eyes in my search for beautiful and sometimes horrendous pictures.

As a child I would get really angry when others called me four eyes. I was not cross eyed but did wear glasses. Usually this resulted in a fight with my older sister mediating and bringing a small gift to the victims of these close encounters with a garbage can and/or me.

If I had only realised at that time having four eyes, or more precisely, a second pair of eyes is a huge advantage over anyone with only one pair.

On one of my last trips, to Lebanon, I began to realise just how important it is to have a good driver. Some call them “fixer”, others “driver” but to me it became clear that they were my second pair of eyes.

Hassan, a veteran Reuters driver, has worked for us since the Lebanon civil war days.

Hassan (C ) checking the bread which was delivered by the Red Cross to the Nahr Al Bared camp.

Essentially he is a better journalist, cameraman or photographer than any one of us with the only difference being that he is unaware of it. It is something he does instinctively, just as my hands go up and grab the guitar out of thin air as soon as Deep Purple’s “Smoke on the Water” or Thin Lizzy’s “the Rocker” blasts out of the speaker of my stereo set at home.

By better I mean that from time to time all of us professional journalists are guilty of pretentiousness in what we want to say or try to show but with Hassan it is just a matter of ‘what I see is what you get’. As we were driving down the road from Tripoli to the Palestinian refugee camp, Nahr al Bared, we saw many movements of troops and other people.

Many times I said “no that’s not a picture” or “hmm, I don’t know, I don’t see it, it looks nice but it just doesn’t make it”. For him it was news and he was right, it was news. What were seeing was news and what was happening was worth reporting but for us “professionals” often we don’t bother because it doesn’t look sexy enough.

Waiting for many hours at the gates of a refugee camp it’s difficult maintaining  your concentration. So we killed the time discussing what could happen next. Will the army roll in, in the next few days or so? Will they destroy the camp completely? If they destroy the camp will they do it with the refugees in it?

We discussed the humanitarian crisis inside the camp although we had no idea of what was going on inside at all? We would discuss which lenses and cameras work best in these circumstances? Where could we get barbequed lamb sandwiches?

“OK. Look out, there’s an ambulance. Will they let the refugees walk? Oh, come on, please let the refugees walk, it looks much better for pictures and TV. Oh come on now, what are those soldiers doing over there? Come on man!!!!!! You are ruining my frame. Get away…. Thanks Buddy!!!! ”

So after two weeks of jumping on a few refugees with the few remaining photographers, camera teams and journalists it was time to change the strategy. But how?

Refugees were being evacuated by the Lebanese Red Cross. After being taken out of the camp they had to switch from the Red Cross ambulance into a Lebanese Red Crescent ambulance in a so called no man’s land where Lebanese soldiers checked for weapons and fighters from Fattah al Islam. From there they were escorted through the last checkpoint and again switched into a private car or bus before being transported to another refugee camp.

The pictures were all of refugees emerging, crying and hugging; the elderly being carried out by the young and strong and the sick and wounded being loaded into ambulances. There are too many photographers even though you are only two or three. It’s too embarrassing to jump on these poor people who have just emerged from hell, shoving a 14mm lens into kid’s faces to get an even more frightened and even better, a crying child.

Hassan wondered what I was doing at the back behind everyone else but after asking me just once he understood right away just what I wanted. No more words. We waited for the next ambulance to arrive and while the media pack ran after it, Hassan and I jumped into the car without anyone noticing us and drove to another camp where refugees were being given shelter with relatives or friends.

The scenes there were heart breaking. Young and old reunited; mothers and fathers looking for sons and daughters and children looking for their parents.

Photographers try to show the world as objectively as possible but do not always manage to do so. We only have one pair of eyes and can only look in one direction at a time and so we do miss beautiful or dramatic pictures. We are lucky to have our drivers, fixers and translators. Sometimes they have been watching us for years and years, they may even in some circumstances be better photographers than us. They take the necessary step back. They have the overview that we sometime don’t have - the framed, well cropped or perfected view on a story or on the world. Often they tell you of the small things happening to your left or right that you can’t see because you are concentrating on the obvious.

They are the ones who carry your extra camera body with a long lens or your backpack with all that extra stuff you need. They are the ones who tell you to put on your flack jacket or take cover when things get hairy.

They are the ones who see you cry when you come back from shooting something horrific  who put their arm around you,  give you some comfort and help you to accept what you have just photographed.

They chat cheerfully and make you that nice cup of coffee or that nice fish sandwich while you’re filing your pictures. They wait for you, while resting on  your bed watching the news on Al-Jazeerah, to take you to your next assignment.

Our favourite coffee brewer in downtown Tripoli

I am always struck by just how many people they know – as well as photographers, cameramen and journalist -  and how many people know them. We arrive somewhere and they approach the people there saying, “just wait, let me ask if they know”. Kisses and cigarettes are exchanged and it’s always, “luckily I just met a guy I was with during so and so, or, luckily I just met my cousin who is the head of so and so. They are always the ones to find the right way.

I don’t listen to just anybody, we all have a tendency to believe that we know it all and there is not much anyone can tell us. Last summer in Lebanon, on the way back from a small town near the Syrian border where we had been covering a funeral of two Lebanese soldiers,

we had to pass the Nahr-Al-Bared refugee camp which was under heavy mortar fire by the Lebanese army.

On the small roads we saw ambulances of the Lebanese Red Cross passing us at the other side of the road. We looked at each other and Hassan began to drive faster and faster. All of a sudden he pulled the car over some hundred meter in front of an army check point and said to me , slowly but very determined,” jallah habibi flack jacket, jallah habibi flack jacket, JALLAH HABIBI FLACK JACKET”. He meant serious business, no time for discussion. Just put on your god damn flack jacket. I saw in his eyes that this was not a joke. We took our body armour and helmets out of the boot and slipped them on.

Hassan adjusted his seat to accommodate his gigantic flak jacket, hit the gas pedal and manoeuvred his car through the road block which was in the process of being erected and speeded down the highway straight through the frontline.

The scene was out of Apocalypse Now. Soldiers taking aim, the streets littered with empty cases, army vehicles positioned strategically alongside the road and a burning, decomposing cow, shot a few days previously. The smell was just unbearable. This scene was one we are not able to photograph. One that you will always remember as of one of these pictures that, “if only I heen able to. ….”. Maybe it just has to be that way. Maybe some pictures should not be shot. When we speeded down this road it all was happening in slow motion and it seemed to take us a lifetime.

The soldiers preparing their weapons; carrying in fresh ammunition; soldiers taking a rest; the empty bullet cases; the army vehicles; the incredible loud explosions of the shells hitting the buildings and the Howitzers firing them. The warmth of the Lebanese evening sun which coloured everything red.

The smoke which made everything so hazy and mysterious and in the middle of it all, the burning and decomposing cow, which was just lit up by two Lebanese soldiers who pointed and smiled at me and made sure that the camera I was raising and attempting to point at them would go back on my lap,  to just observe this surreal scene.

When we safely reached the end of the road, in record time and not the lifetime I had imagined, I looked at Hassan who didn’t blink an eye, although I could see he was tense. The only words he said were, “I think we deserve a nice cup of coffee.”.

This was the man to trust. This was my bodyguard.  This man was my second pair of eyes.

 Hassan taking a nap in his car.

Het Algemeen Dagblad, the second largest newspaper in The Netherlands has a regular section in which they comment on a picture, old/historic or new/spot.

The text is usually divided into five segments with varying headings to suit the picture.

This time it’s Who, What, Where, Art and Winner. 

The headline shouts, “ THE ART OF ATTACKING”.

Who : Good question. According to the real experts these are the female fencers Ilaria Salvatori (left) and her compatriot and multiple World and Olympic Champion Valentina Vezzali.

What: The fencers are seen during their World Fencing Championships Quarter Final Match.

Where: The World Championships that will last until Sunday and are held in St Petersburg, Russia.

Art: Yes FOR SURE. Fencing is considered  an art, it is known as the “art of defending and attacking” and this picture underlines it.

Winner: As expected the champion Vezzali won this duel. But for us the man on the other side of the lens, photographer Alexander Demianchuk is THE WINNER!!!!

 A fantastically nice and touching way to see one of your pictures used isn’t it…?

Reproduced by kind permission AD