Seeing children: a photographer's view from the Arab world.

In this testimonial essay, the author introduces some of the children he has encountered while covering events in the Arab World for over twenty-seven years. It is a personal account with illustrations from Palestine, Algeria, Iraq, and Egypt. Looking beyond stereotypical images, and behind the scenes, the author creates a dialogue of text and photographs on the role and insights children have on current events he has witnessed. For the photographer, capturing images of children's daily life often provided a larger context for a story he was conveying. Photos and their narratives are shared as personal mementoes from his extended "family" album.

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In the West, the image of the Arab World is primarily viewed through television and print media. In the US, most people do not even have passports. Many who do travel abroad would never consider going to the Middle East, because they perceive it all as a dangerous place. Inevitably, news focuses on conflicts and tragedies and that is the image which remains of the region. But in the case of the Arab World, there seems to be little space in western media for anything else. The common use of the adjective 'Islamic' to describe extremists, insurgents, fanatics, and suicide bombers does little to promote an accurate picture of Islamic societies in the minds of western audiences. Published images of children from the region often depict the wretched, the poor, refugees, child combatants, and laborers but rarely ordinary moments of daily life.

All of us as editors, photographers, and consumers have a role in confronting the proliferation of stereotypical images. Because despite the emergence of touted new media outlets for photography, such as satellite stations, internet sites, blogs, etc. the same kinds of images seem to dominate just as they did the 'old media.' I believe that the understanding of a news story is more acute when the audience sees an element of the living conditions and daily life situations the subjects face.

As I searched for images to accompany this essay, I had no trouble finding a large number of images of children. That is not so surprising since most of the countries I work in often have fifty percent or more of the population under the age of eighteen. Many of the photographs of children were taken as a sidebar to a news story I might be shooting for a magazine or a newspaper. Some I took for myself. Others were taken in the context of a specific story about children. But few of them had been widely published. When choosing pictures for an exhibit or publication, where I am in control of the editing process, I try to look for images that will question, rather than reinforce, stereotypes.

Taking photographs of kids anywhere can be difficult, and the Arab World is no exception. When shooting on the streets, inevitably, groups of children will gather when they see a photographer. Soon they all want to have their pictures taken. If you are carrying professional cameras and lenses, they might ask you if you are with CNN. A photographer can only hope to get more than a posed picture in situations like this, as children would all be jumping and pushing to be closer to the camera. Sometimes an adult figure steps in and brings the riot down. Many photographers will try to flee or yell at them. Those strategies rarely work. I try to find the leader among them, and often he will take you under his 'protection,' disperse the rest, and become your guide. Children have led me around Israeli checkpoints in Palestine, shown me the address I was looking for in Egypt, saved me from a mob in Sudan, and brought me to tears in Iraq. I try to get close to my subjects and, whenever possible, I avoid using telephoto lenses. Being able to speak Arabic helps immensely.

Palestine

In Palestine, children are one of the main protagonists in a sad, violent story that plays out in Gaza and the West Bank. They protest and throw stones at the Israeli army, and in return receive tear gas, rubber-coated metal bullets, or live ammunition. Inevitably, these images became all too familiar to viewers. A visual cliche emerges that adds little further understanding to the situation. I knew a photo editor who claimed she did not want to see another picture of a Palestinian waving a flag, throwing a stone, or giving the victory sign. Though the newspaper continued to publish similar images, I found myself getting away from conflict images, where hordes of photographers scurry to document the 'flashpoints' and the wounded. I try to look for images that go beyond the fact that children throw stones and are wounded and killed by the Israeli army. I showed how they coped with closed checkpoints by using alternate routes, walking long distances carrying their daily purchases. I showed how a Palestinian family squeezes through a crack in the barrier wall the Israelis are building, carrying a baby and a pushchair. One of my favorite images is of a twelve-year-old Palestinian boy dressed in traditional costume selling licorice juice, as demonstrators throw rocks at Israeli jeeps in Ramallah, West Bank. As I took cover from a volley of rubber-coated metal bullets and tear gas fire by the Israeli army, I asked why he came to sell juice in the middle of this danger. He simply answered: "to make money."

During the second Palestinian Intifada, I spent a month or so in Gaza, and witnessed a daily ritual of violence. In Khan Younis refugee camp--in an arena-like sand bowl next to an Israeli settlement--Palestinian youths would gather almost every afternoon. They formed small groups or squads that would attempt to get near to the fence of an Israeli settlement. They would face off with Israeli troops holding up sheets of corrugated tin to form a perceived level of protection. The Israelis would race up in pairs of jeeps when the youths approached too close, often jumping out quickly to shoot tear gas and bullets.

One afternoon in what the journalists dubbed the "play of the day," an Israeli soldier leaped out of the back of his jeep and ran to take aim at the kids. Before he could get a shot off, he tripped and fell on his face. The audience went wild with laughter and taunts, providing a light moment in a rather macabre scene. Non-participant spectators sat on low walls on the fringe with a view of the whole 'battlefield.' They would shout out warnings when the army jeeps were approaching. Others gathered buckets of stones and brought them to the front lines in the sand pits. Mothers would come, often distraught, calling out names and looking to bring their children home. A stray, or deliberately aimed, bullet (even those infamous rubber-coated ones) can kill--but most often, all too often, they injured. Ambulances waited in the relative cover behind the first row of houses, advancing as soon as the shouts for is'af (ambulance) were heard. Daily, the screaming and the silent injured were taken to the hospital.

One day, after a particularly close call with a stray bullet, I decided to take a walk a few streets behind the skirmish. I came upon a group of very small kids playing wounded and taking turns being carried in a makeshift stretcher. As soon as they saw me, and before I could take a photo, they broke up their game and ran over to pose for a picture. I remember sitting for over half an hour before they forgot about me and went back to their game and I was able to make the shot I wanted.

Another time in Hebron, I was taken into the home of our street-smart teenaged guide who had given us a tour of the clashes. There was another journalist with us. We had come to cover the aftermath of a massacre of Muslims at the hand of an Israeli settler who killed worshipers in a mosque. When the Israelis declared a curfew, we ended up being hosted by our guide's family. They insisted on giving us food and shelter for the night. At night, Israeli Army patrols roamed the neighborhood with loud speakers, telling everyone to stay away from the windows. The family closed the shutters and went about their life away from the windows on the street. The older children took us to the roof for a sneak view.

Algeria

Due to a long history of strife in Algeria, the most common image of the country portrayed in the world's media, and etched in the minds of most outsiders, has been one of a vast desert country ravaged by violence, suffering, and despair. It is not immediately obvious to a newcomer to Algeria that the country has just survived a bloody civil war, which left between one hundred and fifty thousand and two hundred thousand dead, and many more injured and missing. Many of the victims were women and children. The war became an escalating cycle of violence, of random and indiscriminate murders. It was not a civil war like the one Lebanon experienced, where competing militias waged war with heavy weapons, destroying buildings and infrastructure, and leaving a scarred urban landscape along with the dead and injured. The national trauma of Algeria's civil conflict left psychological and invisible scars.

I witnessed a dramatic change in public life during the year I spent in Algiers (March 2005-March 2006) as a healing process emerged. More cultural events were held: On Thursdays, colorful public wedding processions noisily filled the street; new restaurants, discos, and art galleries opened. During Ramadan, families ventured out at night. In the summer, children flocked to beach areas that had only recently been deemed safe. It was a period of coming out.

In Algeria, I had the luxury of having more time to work on a broader personal photo documentary project. I did not have to answer to a photo editor looking for 'art' to go with a daily story. I had a Fulbright grant to teach in Algiers. I was also working on my own photographic project, documenting a new era in Algerian history, as it came out of a period of bloodshed. I spent a lot of time on the streets as I got to know the country. One of the first images I made in Algeria was of some children doing gymnastics on the beach in the center of Algiers--an image of a boy flying in mid-air. It became the first of many of what I called "my flying pictures." Many of the scenes I witnessed on the streets of Algerian cities would not have existed just a few years before, during what the Algerians call "the black years," when nobody wanted to stand out in public, and by sunset most people wanted to be in their homes with their families.

The new generation of Algerian youth I encountered went to Internet cafes to chat, played games, or looked at dubious websites. They met their girlfriends in the park. In the summer, they performed break dance, listened to hip-hop in public spaces, and they rollerbladed down the winding hills of Algiers. They looked to Europe for fashion trends and hairstyles. In Algiers, as housing is at a premium, many extended families share a small apartment, having to push the young (mostly boys) to hang out in the streets. While the political violence in Algeria has waned, petty crime is on the rise. As I walked the streets of Algiers, I ended up using small digital cameras more often. People had warned that it was dangerous to expose valuables, including a mobile phone. I was worried that big, expensive, professionally-looking equipment would attract thieves, and if I felt uncomfortable, then it would reflect in my pictures.

Capturing special moments with children is easier if you know your subjects and are welcomed into their private space. In Algeria, I was invited to photograph celebrations of weddings, circumcisions, feasts, fasts, and birthdays. Access to these kinds of situations gave me opportunities to document a part of society most outsiders never see. I could also use my full range of professional equipment. For a joint circumcision celebration, two young brothers, dressed in traditional costumes, were put on display in ornate chairs. Despite the loud music and dancing filling the room, the younger one could not stay awake more than a minute.

Iraq

During a visit to Iraq in May 2003, my biggest shock was to see the amount of looting damage that occurred after the US invasion. Besides government ministries, museums, and hospitals, many primary and secondary schools had been damaged, burned, looted, and some used as weapons depots. Years of international sanctions against Iraq had deprived a whole generation of technology, and now even these simple schools were unusable. Though many schools in Iraq have reopened, many parents are reluctant to send their children due to the increasingly volatile security situation.

Seeing children in war situations was always hard, but I found it even more so after becoming a parent. In most cases, I am able to put my emotions on hold while taking pictures. I must concentrate on the job, at least until I edit the images, write the captions, and file for publication on deadline. I remember one story in Iraq where I just could not let the camera give me the emotional distance. The only spinal care hospital in Iraq was severely damaged when the UN headquarters next to it was bombed in August 2003. I visited the hospital two months later, and found a dedicated staff, working in ruined buildings. They tried as best they could to care for patients who could not be moved nor had anywhere else to go. That is where I met Ahmed Ali Swedan, eleven, as he lay in bed at the Ibn Al-Qiff Spinal Cord Injury Hospital, after injuries from shelling in July 2003 left him paralyzed from the waist down. His mother was at his side when the Iraqi doctor read the grim prognosis off his chart. I asked him if I could take his picture and his smile beamed at me as I took a few frames. I had to leave before I burst into tears.

Another time in Basra I wanted to distribute some candy that I had to a group of four boys I met while shooting a destroyed school. In Arabic, I told the oldest one of about twelve years to share this big bag with the rest. He agreed, and the rest acknowledged the deal. The second he had hold of the bag, he ran like a gazelle leaving the others with nothing.

While driving in Southern Iraq in 2003, I came across some schoolboys at dusk, playing soccer in a dusty field with wind strewn garbage and a home-made goal. Just as I got out the car to shoot some pictures, the game broke up and they scattered. Two boys paused at a pool of filthy water and washed up before heading home.

Egypt

As a news photographer I often have encounters with children. They tend to be on the streets when you are shooting. Sometimes they follow you like a pied piper. I remember once I was sent by the LA Times to shoot pictures of a village in the Egyptian Delta. The writer had already done his reporting and called me to make a quick trip to get something to go with his story. I arrived to this small village--a couple of hours out of Cairo--in the late afternoon. Within minutes of getting down from the car, I was surrounded by children, yelling the usual: "What's your name? What time is it?" etc. I gave them my name as "Karim," hoping that they might think I was from Egypt. They formed a circle around me chanting: "Ahlan ya Karim, Ahlan ya Karim" (hello, Karim) until the dust rising from them made it clear I was not going to have any freedom to shoot a picture, and perhaps my cameras were going to need a good cleaning. I ended up having to make a few obligatory pictures to calm them down, before I could get to my car and drive to another area before the sun set.

I have had several opportunities to do stories where children were the actual focus of the story. I shot a "day-in-the-life" feature story of two middle-class Egyptian children for Time for Kids, an American publication. It was not a high-profile assignment, and the pictures were more normal than exciting. The editors asked me to follow an Egyptian boy and girl through their daily routine from morning to evening. Their mothers made them breakfast. The children took a bus to school, played sports and computer games, did homework, etc. I wanted to show the large young American audience how similar their lives were to Shoruk Mandil and Amr Ezzeldin, and to remove the exotic Egyptian preconceived image. I often cite this story when asked about the most important photo story I have done. Seeing the cultural similarities that came across in that series of images helped the young American audience begin to relate to differences between societies. Being able to run multiple images for a story is a luxury news photographers rarely get.

Sometimes children can come up with a fresh analysis of a news story. During the Egyptian row over the Danish cartoons criticizing Prophet Mohammed in 2006, my wife and I took her twelve-year-old nephew, Nabeel, to the upscale Alpha supermarket in Cairo to buy him a present. He came running from the toy department so upset he could not get the words out fast enough: "There are no Legos!" They had all been removed, and a sign proudly posted announced that all Danish products had been removed from the store. He had not heard about the boycott of Danish goods. When it was explained to him that some Danish people had insulted the Prophet Mohammed by publishing cartoons, he went silent for a few seconds before clearly responding: " So those people will go to hell for what they did, but I still should be able to buy a Lego set." It seemed to me the most rational reaction to the much-publicized affair.

Seven-year-old Mariam had her own take on Middle East peace. On a school outing to the pyramids of Giza, she instigated an uprising in the bus to boycott a lunch stop at McDonalds. This was during the second US-led war on Iraq, and her father had taken up a boycott of American products, and she had joined the cause. Her teachers were forced to re-route the bus to Felfela, an Egyptian restaurant to calm the situation. Months later, she saw President Bush meeting with Yasser Arafat, Egyptians, and Israelis on live TV at a summit in the Sinai resort of Sharm El Sheikh. She asked the adults watching what was going on. They said the leaders were meeting to try to make peace. She replied: "Good. Then the Palestinians can grow food and sell the extra to Israel and I can eat McDonalds again."

During conflicts, the act of photographing and interacting with children can provide the human connection that--at the time of shooting--temporarily alleviates the grimness of the main event. They document the moment I want to remember, and, in that sense, they become personal. Looking at these images, I relive the generosity, perseverance, intelligence, and understanding I encountered in taking them.

My pictures of the kids I have met along the way, while covering news stories, are personal mementos, not unlike ones you would take of relatives at a big family gathering. I visit them irregularly, and sometimes struggle to remember a name or event associated with the image. Like a family photo album, sometimes an image brings back an estranged relative or a moment shared--the struggles and hopes of an extended family.

Illustrations of the Essay

(Photographs by Thomas Hartwell)

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Wounded (Palestine, 2001)

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Playing Wounded (Palestine, 2001).

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Break in the Wall (Palestine, 2004).

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Juice Seller (Palestine, 2002).

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Man and Child (Algeria, 2005).

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Boy Flying (Algeria, 2005).

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Henna Tattoo (Algeria, 2005).

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Circumsion Party (Algeria, 2005).

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Clean-up After a Match (Iraq, 2003).

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Ahmed Ali Swedan (Iraq, 2003).

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Child After School (Iraq, 2003).

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Directing Traffic (Iraq, 2003).

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Prayer in Al-Azhar Mosque (Egypt, 2004).

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A Ride on a Motorcycle (Egypt, 2006).

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Classes at Nasr Al-Islam Mosque (Egypt, 2004).

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Nabeel with Lego (Egypt, 2004).