For Part 1 click here.
Seven years passed, filled with images of war and peace, sports and politics. I learned every hamlet in Bosnia, criss-crossing the country on its mountain roads. When the madness known as “The Balkans War” died down, I did a tour in Chechnya, which was just gearing up for the second round of onslaught. Yugoslav refugees in front of my lens were replaced by the Chechens; Bosnian and Serbian soldiers with Russian and Chechen fighters; but the dead looked the same. That’s when I realized how tired I was. Tired of war, of catastrophe, of tragedy. I was numb to tears and pain, and frustrated with the fact that the top news somehow always involves immense suffering. I wanted peace and quiet somewhere far away, where war exists only in the title of Tolstoy’s book. So I moved to Canada.
I worked for a number of newspapers across Canada, trying to figure out what constitutes a photo in the country where not much happens. I learned to appreciate extremely talented Canadian photographers who always managed to get a picture out of nothing.
While I worked to blend in, the earth shifted beneath my feet. The film disappeared, replaced with pixels, everything became digital, and by going digital, everything was getting fast. The news and pictures are being filed straight from the event. Media companies, whether they were print, broadcasters or online, had no time to fact-check the news. Mistakes were made, competition grew fiercer, credibility destroyed. Soon, we were all chasing sensations, celebrities, and rushing to publish any kind of gossip we stumbled upon, proven or not.
To be absolutely honest, this is not the situation specific to Canada. It is happening all around the world. To make matters worse, in rush to save money, most media organisations cut their international staff, relying on local freelancers instead. By the nature of things, local journalists are more affected by the events in their own neighborhood, which impairs their neutrality. All of that contributed to journalists falling from grace, not revered any longer as informed intellectuals, but rather despised as mercenaries and liers.
Along with my colleagues, I sold my own ideals for a paycheck. In 1991, just as the war started swallowing Yugoslavia, I shot a long lineup for water in a refugee camp. A woman from the line asked why am I photographing them. I explained that, by showing the world this image, they’ll get help and recognition, and soon the war will be stopped.
In 1994 I crouched in a dilapidated school gym turned into the living quarters for over a hundred people. I was taking picture of an old woman sitting on the floor, with her life’s belonging in two plastic bags. She looked me straight in the eye and asked the same question - why am I taking picture. By then, we all knew there is no help coming. My picture will not make a difference. All I could say is “It’s my job, grandma, that’s what I do for living.”
From the offices of a newspaper in Toronto, I keep witness to disintegration of once-noble profession. I see the focus shifting from informing to advertising, and I can’t help but mourn. My dream of being a bearer of news to people is gone. All that’s left are memories, and that 9-5 office job. Some new kids are carrying the torch of telling the story. Only, they are telling it for the money, and not for the story.
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