Just Yannis

Just Yannis Foreword by Sir Harold Evans

Contents Foreword Sir Harold Evans 9 The Conflicts (1989–2015):

Funeral of Ayatollah Khomeini (1989) 19

Kurdish Refugees: The Gulf War (1991-1992) 23

Somalia (1992) 29

The Balkans (1993-1999) 35

Battle Of Grozny, First Chechen War (1994-1995) 57

Sierra Leone Civil War (2000) 63

Afghanistan (2001-2010) 71

Iraq (2003) 83

Israel/Palestine (2006-2009) 91

Greek Debt Crisis (2010-2015) 101

Arab Spring (2011) 115

Unrest in Turkey (2013) 129

Ukraine (2014) 135

Kurdish Refugees: The Battle Against ISIS (2014) 141

Migrant Crisis (2014-2015) 147

Epilogue Mark Chisholm 163 The Range of Yannis (1999–2015) 167 Yannis Behrakis 173 About the Authors 175 Acknowledgments 176

Contents Foreword Sir Harold Evans 9 The Conflicts (1989–2015):

Funeral of Ayatollah Khomeini (1989) 19

Kurdish Refugees: The Gulf War (1991-1992) 23

Somalia (1992) 29

The Balkans (1993-1999) 35

Battle Of Grozny, First Chechen War (1994-1995) 57

Sierra Leone Civil War (2000) 63

Afghanistan (2001-2010) 71

Iraq (2003) 83

Israel/Palestine (2006-2009) 91

Greek Debt Crisis (2010-2015) 101

Arab Spring (2011) 115

Unrest in Turkey (2013) 129

Ukraine (2014) 135

Kurdish Refugees: The Battle Against ISIS (2014) 141

Migrant Crisis (2014-2015) 147

Epilogue Mark Chisholm 163 The Range of Yannis (1999–2015) 167 Yannis Behrakis 173 About the Authors 175 Acknowledgments 176

Foreword

11 Aug 2015/Kos, Greece

A red sun rises over an overcrowded dinghy, its motor broken, as it drifts in the Aegean Sea between Turkey and Greece.

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YANNIS Behrakis died on March 2, 2019, at 58, beloved by all who knew him. To say he was a master photographer is a half truth. He was a humanitarian first, his empathy responding to the rhythm of visceral and intellectual instincts manifest in the uncanny timing and framing of his pictures. He was the antithesis of Weegee, the night hawk of New York City who garnered his celebrity scoops in the flash of a Speed Graphic camera. Yannis had a reverence for the one image—“the picture,” he called it—that would distill the essence of the story emerging from bewilderment and confusion.

Photography today yields an infinity of images with the lifespan of a snowflake. What mysterious alchemy gives eternal life to a few of the evanescent snowflakes so that, in the phrase of Mark Lubell, they become iconic in an instant? Yannis was never interested in being told one of his pictures was beautiful. Perhaps he feared that “beautiful” meant he had missed the one-shot focus he sought.

He was forceful in his disdain in conversation with Anastasios Papapostolou. “When I take pictures, I’m a photojournalist. I’m not an artist. I don’t care if it is beautiful or not, I care to tell the story in an ethical way and in a way that captures the interest of the person looking at it. If you have a picture that is not interesting, that doesn’t have all these elements that make pictures interesting, people don’t look at it.”

In other words, they’re just a scatter of snowflakes.

We can remember various photographs that survive Behrakis’s test of “interesting” images: The toddler lying dead on a Turkish beach at Bodrum.

A child hearing speech for the first time. A lone 9

Foreword

11 Aug 2015/Kos, Greece

A red sun rises over an overcrowded dinghy, its motor broken, as it drifts in the Aegean Sea between Turkey and Greece.

8

YANNIS Behrakis died on March 2, 2019, at 58, beloved by all who knew him. To say he was a master photographer is a half truth. He was a humanitarian first, his empathy responding to the rhythm of visceral and intellectual instincts manifest in the uncanny timing and framing of his pictures. He was the antithesis of Weegee, the night hawk of New York City who garnered his celebrity scoops in the flash of a Speed Graphic camera. Yannis had a reverence for the one image—“the picture,” he called it—that would distill the essence of the story emerging from bewilderment and confusion.

Photography today yields an infinity of images with the lifespan of a snowflake. What mysterious alchemy gives eternal life to a few of the evanescent snowflakes so that, in the phrase of Mark Lubell, they become iconic in an instant? Yannis was never interested in being told one of his pictures was beautiful. Perhaps he feared that “beautiful” meant he had missed the one-shot focus he sought.

He was forceful in his disdain in conversation with Anastasios Papapostolou. “When I take pictures, I’m a photojournalist. I’m not an artist. I don’t care if it is beautiful or not, I care to tell the story in an ethical way and in a way that captures the interest of the person looking at it. If you have a picture that is not interesting, that doesn’t have all these elements that make pictures interesting, people don’t look at it.”

In other words, they’re just a scatter of snowflakes.

We can remember various photographs that survive Behrakis’s test of “interesting” images: The toddler lying dead on a Turkish beach at Bodrum.

A child hearing speech for the first time. A lone 9

young woman in Baton Rouge confronting three armed and armored cops to protest at a police shooting. Teenage child soldiers sprawled on a death machine, nonchalantly nursing their weapons. An Arctic polar bear stranded on a fragment of broken ice…

And we will always remember Yannis Behrakis poignantly identifying with a refugee father and daughter.

July 15, 2015, was dank and miserable in Greece.

Small clumps of refugees headed for the border with Macedonia, some draped in black garbage bags against the rain. Yannis and Vassilis Triandafyllou, a Reuters producer, had done what they came to do, photograph refugees.

The next day they left their hotel early, none too cheerful in the gloom.

On the way to the border their car passed a sprinkling of more refugees. “Yannis started taking pictures,” said Vassilis. “After awhile, I said, ‘Ok let’s go, let’s go.’”

Yannis refused. “No, No, wait, I don’t have the picture.” He got out in the rain with his cameras and was gone 15 to 20 minutes. A chirpier Yannis came back to the car, drenched but exultant. “I got my picture.”

This is it. You can feel the rain and the cold.

A man huddling with a child shuffles forward in the middle of an empty road. Taken by Behrakis, the photograph envelops us in the isolation and loneliness, the symbolism of a family forced from their home, the mother absent, the bareheaded father embracing and kissing their child.

“For me,” Behrakis said later, “this represents the universal father and the unconditional love of father to daughter. I think every child would like to have a father like this…I’m a romantic. This picture proves

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10 Sept 2015/Idomeni, Greece

A Syrian refugee kisses his young daughter as he carries her towards Macedonia’s border with Greece. This image was one of Behrakis’ personal favorites.

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young woman in Baton Rouge confronting three armed and armored cops to protest at a police shooting. Teenage child soldiers sprawled on a death machine, nonchalantly nursing their weapons. An Arctic polar bear stranded on a fragment of broken ice…

And we will always remember Yannis Behrakis poignantly identifying with a refugee father and daughter.

July 15, 2015, was dank and miserable in Greece.

Small clumps of refugees headed for the border with Macedonia, some draped in black garbage bags against the rain. Yannis and Vassilis Triandafyllou, a Reuters producer, had done what they came to do, photograph refugees.

The next day they left their hotel early, none too cheerful in the gloom.

On the way to the border their car passed a sprinkling of more refugees. “Yannis started taking pictures,” said Vassilis. “After awhile, I said, ‘Ok let’s go, let’s go.’”

Yannis refused. “No, No, wait, I don’t have the picture.” He got out in the rain with his cameras and was gone 15 to 20 minutes. A chirpier Yannis came back to the car, drenched but exultant. “I got my picture.”

This is it. You can feel the rain and the cold.

A man huddling with a child shuffles forward in the middle of an empty road. Taken by Behrakis, the photograph envelops us in the isolation and loneliness, the symbolism of a family forced from their home, the mother absent, the bareheaded father embracing and kissing their child.

“For me,” Behrakis said later, “this represents the universal father and the unconditional love of father to daughter. I think every child would like to have a father like this…I’m a romantic. This picture proves

10

10 Sept 2015/Idomeni, Greece

A Syrian refugee kisses his young daughter as he carries her towards Macedonia’s border with Greece. This image was one of Behrakis’ personal favorites.

11

there are superheroes after all. He doesn’t wear a red cape. His poncho is a black cape.”

He had such a fizzing personality, it was surprising to hear him reflect he might have been an NGO worker, a priest, a doctor, if he had not become obsessed by the ethical camera. It took some time to realize its potential. His first inspiration was a 1983 movie, Under Fire, about a bunch of reporters working in Nicaragua in the days leading up the revolution. It was enough to stimulate him to study photography at the Athens School of Art and Photography, followed by an honors degree at Middlesex University, which led in 1987 to freelancing for Reuters. His first foreign assignment was in Libya in 1989. And then war and conflict dogged every obsessive move—until Reuters assigned him a posting in 1991 that changed his whole approach to photography.

“This is the first time I have covered a humanitarian crisis,” Yannis wrote, “and I am stunned by what I see—by the scale of the disaster and by the cruelty some people can inflict on unprotected humans.” At the end of the Gulf War, some 1.5 million Kurds were the target of Saddam Hussein’s murderous Republican Guard.

About 600,000 of the refugees fled to Turkey, but half of them were stranded in the snowcapped mountains at the Iraqi-Turkish border.

Getting up the mountain to cover the story was difficult. Yannis left the hotel every morning at 4 a.m. to reach the bottom of the mountain two-and-a-half hours later. Then he clung to a tractor or snow removal vehicle carrying bread, his hands so frozen he lost skin freeing them to use his cameras. He managed to reach an aid distribution center at the Iraqi-Turkish border in time to photograph frantic Kurds struggling for 12

loaves. Hundreds of them fought against each other and the aid workers. “The men I was riding in the tractor with tried in vain to stop them taking the bread, but they were absolutely desperate and the aid workers gave up.” The refugees grabbing for a loaf put pressure on the Turkish government to allow humanitarian aid. It was a lesson he absorbed for life. “I came to understand how photojournalism is a very strong medium that can make a difference and help people in need.”

As his editor-in-chief, Stephen Adler, acknowledged in 2016, “Some of the events this year have been so traumatic that words have failed.

Pictures don’t.”

For more than 30 years of his career, Yannis worked adventurously with Reuters: In Iran at the funeral of Ayatollah Khomeini; in the conflicts in Eastern Europe and the Balkans; the wars in Croatia, Bosnia and Kosovo; the first and second Gulf Wars; the Arab Spring in Egypt, Libya and Tunisia; the civil wars in Afghanistan, Lebanon, and Ukraine; the NATO bombing in Kobani, Syria; the Greek financial crisis.

But he never forsook his driving commitment, his empathy of an almost devout nature guided by an instinct for the magical moment. An Albanian father prepared to place the body of a two-year-old next to the coffins of three other members of his family. Yannis assumed a high position, then waited.

He used a zoom burst technique to create a sense of the boy floating in the air: “It almost looked like his spirit was leaving his body for the heavens.”

On a seashore in Lebanon he spotted an isolated woman contemplating the Mediterranean she had recently survived. She sat very still, her head covered in a lace veil.

Yannis framed the picture, and then hesitated.

He felt it would be intruding, breaking her spell.

An emotional moment in the discussion of war reporting at a conference organized by Reuters and International Center of Photography in New York on 5 December, 2016. Yannis Behrakis (far left) photographed the war in Libya.

He recalled how he had been shaken to hear that two dead people he had just photographed were his colleagues Tim Hetherington and Chris Hondros. At this point panelist Michael Kamber reminded everyone they were meeting on the day of Hetherington’s birthday. Yannis seized the hand of Harold Evans, the panel chair, who was comforted by Goran Tomasevic and Greg Marinovich. The audience observed a minute of silence. (Photo by Enrique Shore.)

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there are superheroes after all. He doesn’t wear a red cape. His poncho is a black cape.”

He had such a fizzing personality, it was surprising to hear him reflect he might have been an NGO worker, a priest, a doctor, if he had not become obsessed by the ethical camera. It took some time to realize its potential. His first inspiration was a 1983 movie, Under Fire, about a bunch of reporters working in Nicaragua in the days leading up the revolution. It was enough to stimulate him to study photography at the Athens School of Art and Photography, followed by an honors degree at Middlesex University, which led in 1987 to freelancing for Reuters. His first foreign assignment was in Libya in 1989. And then war and conflict dogged every obsessive move—until Reuters assigned him a posting in 1991 that changed his whole approach to photography.

“This is the first time I have covered a humanitarian crisis,” Yannis wrote, “and I am stunned by what I see—by the scale of the disaster and by the cruelty some people can inflict on unprotected humans.” At the end of the Gulf War, some 1.5 million Kurds were the target of Saddam Hussein’s murderous Republican Guard.

About 600,000 of the refugees fled to Turkey, but half of them were stranded in the snowcapped mountains at the Iraqi-Turkish border.

Getting up the mountain to cover the story was difficult. Yannis left the hotel every morning at 4 a.m. to reach the bottom of the mountain two-and-a-half hours later. Then he clung to a tractor or snow removal vehicle carrying bread, his hands so frozen he lost skin freeing them to use his cameras. He managed to reach an aid distribution center at the Iraqi-Turkish border in time to photograph frantic Kurds struggling for 12

loaves. Hundreds of them fought against each other and the aid workers. “The men I was riding in the tractor with tried in vain to stop them taking the bread, but they were absolutely desperate and the aid workers gave up.” The refugees grabbing for a loaf put pressure on the Turkish government to allow humanitarian aid. It was a lesson he absorbed for life. “I came to understand how photojournalism is a very strong medium that can make a difference and help people in need.”

As his editor-in-chief, Stephen Adler, acknowledged in 2016, “Some of the events this year have been so traumatic that words have failed.

Pictures don’t.”

For more than 30 years of his career, Yannis worked adventurously with Reuters: In Iran at the funeral of Ayatollah Khomeini; in the conflicts in Eastern Europe and the Balkans; the wars in Croatia, Bosnia and Kosovo; the first and second Gulf Wars; the Arab Spring in Egypt, Libya and Tunisia; the civil wars in Afghanistan, Lebanon, and Ukraine; the NATO bombing in Kobani, Syria; the Greek financial crisis.

But he never forsook his driving commitment, his empathy of an almost devout nature guided by an instinct for the magical moment. An Albanian father prepared to place the body of a two-year-old next to the coffins of three other members of his family. Yannis assumed a high position, then waited.

He used a zoom burst technique to create a sense of the boy floating in the air: “It almost looked like his spirit was leaving his body for the heavens.”

On a seashore in Lebanon he spotted an isolated woman contemplating the Mediterranean she had recently survived. She sat very still, her head covered in a lace veil.

Yannis framed the picture, and then hesitated.

He felt it would be intruding, breaking her spell.

An emotional moment in the discussion of war reporting at a conference organized by Reuters and International Center of Photography in New York on 5 December, 2016. Yannis Behrakis (far left) photographed the war in Libya.

He recalled how he had been shaken to hear that two dead people he had just photographed were his colleagues Tim Hetherington and Chris Hondros. At this point panelist Michael Kamber reminded everyone they were meeting on the day of Hetherington’s birthday. Yannis seized the hand of Harold Evans, the panel chair, who was comforted by Goran Tomasevic and Greg Marinovich. The audience observed a minute of silence. (Photo by Enrique Shore.)

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Eventually, he wandered over to talk about her experiences. She was blind. She was pleased to agree to the photograph he had almost taken.

One of his pictures in the Reuters group that won the 2016 Pulitzer became renowned for its blazing sunrise over the Mediterranean. It is more remarkable for what he told me.

He was entranced by the great red orb he saw on waking up at the beach at Kos. Nobody else was around. It was a perfect photograph—but he didn’t take it. He also recognized the significance of the black blur mid-sea in the Mediterranean. A tiny inflatable raft! It had a score of refugees—and it wasn’t moving. It was drifting. Yannis had done enough photographing of refugees to know they were in trouble. So instead of taking a photograph, he called SOS to the coast guard. Once assured they would come, he ran to his car to pick up his camera with a long lens. The humanitarian impulse might have cost him the image, but he cared more for the rescue the coast guard carried out.

Yannis won a series of prizes, including his Pulitzer for leading a Reuters team assigned to cover the refugee crisis in Europe. He was so discomfited by the acclaim he stopped an interview in Greece to make a statement. “I never in my life—and this is a statement—worked for a prize.

For me this is unethical…” He wanted nothing to distract from the refugees he could still see in his viewfinder. “Greece is full of people who arrive every day, becoming immigrants. How would you like it if your brother…goes to the States, and they treat him badly. The way the Greeks handled the crisis…was remarkable. You know they gave money 24 May 2000/Sierra Leone

“I get out on the street and I realize that in all these hours I have crawled no more than 200 meters... I start walking and thinking, ‘Maybe it’s time to do my last story.’ And I take a photo of myself. That handkerchief helped me, because I squeezed it and drank the sweat.”

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out of their own pockets…The Pulitzer should go to the Greek people.”

He felt deep bonds with the families forced to leave their homes, the thousands he photographed and the millions behind them. He was haunted by imagining his wife, daughter and son as a typical family caught in the miseries he had photographed.

“My mission,” is the way he came to put it, “is to make sure that nobody can say: ‘I didn’t know.’”

He was devoted to his circle of photographers and reporters who shared the risks of alerting the world in three decades of reporting, among them his buddy Kurt Schork, renowned for covering the Kurds, and Spain’s Miguel Gil Moreno de Mora, for opening a window into Chechnya. He saw both shot dead in front of him in the horrific civil war in Sierra Leone. On May 24, 2000, Yannis and Mark Chisholm joined Kurt and Miguel in two cars with government soldiers. Near Rogberi Junction, rebels—some no doubt drugged-up child soldiers— sprang from the bush firing wildly with automatic weapons. They killed four soldiers, but Yannis and Mark scrambled into the deep bush and separated.

To see Yannis at his scintillating best, find time to hear him talk on how he survived.

He told us that waiting for a fusillade of bullets during his ordeal hiding in the Sierra Leone jungle made him dive deep into the most uncharted waters of his soul. “I am not a very religious person and I felt very uncomfortable and difficult…At some point I thought in English, ‘Yannis, time to pray.’ Meaning it was time to pray.”

And being Yannis, he made a joke of it: “And then I say, ‘No, Leave it for next time.’”

—Sir Harold Evans

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Eventually, he wandered over to talk about her experiences. She was blind. She was pleased to agree to the photograph he had almost taken.

One of his pictures in the Reuters group that won the 2016 Pulitzer became renowned for its blazing sunrise over the Mediterranean. It is more remarkable for what he told me.

He was entranced by the great red orb he saw on waking up at the beach at Kos. Nobody else was around. It was a perfect photograph—but he didn’t take it. He also recognized the significance of the black blur mid-sea in the Mediterranean. A tiny inflatable raft! It had a score of refugees—and it wasn’t moving. It was drifting. Yannis had done enough photographing of refugees to know they were in trouble. So instead of taking a photograph, he called SOS to the coast guard. Once assured they would come, he ran to his car to pick up his camera with a long lens. The humanitarian impulse might have cost him the image, but he cared more for the rescue the coast guard carried out.

Yannis won a series of prizes, including his Pulitzer for leading a Reuters team assigned to cover the refugee crisis in Europe. He was so discomfited by the acclaim he stopped an interview in Greece to make a statement. “I never in my life—and this is a statement—worked for a prize.

For me this is unethical…” He wanted nothing to distract from the refugees he could still see in his viewfinder. “Greece is full of people who arrive every day, becoming immigrants. How would you like it if your brother…goes to the States, and they treat him badly. The way the Greeks handled the crisis…was remarkable. You know they gave money 24 May 2000/Sierra Leone

“I get out on the street and I realize that in all these hours I have crawled no more than 200 meters... I start walking and thinking, ‘Maybe it’s time to do my last story.’ And I take a photo of myself. That handkerchief helped me, because I squeezed it and drank the sweat.”

14

out of their own pockets…The Pulitzer should go to the Greek people.”

He felt deep bonds with the families forced to leave their homes, the thousands he photographed and the millions behind them. He was haunted by imagining his wife, daughter and son as a typical family caught in the miseries he had photographed.

“My mission,” is the way he came to put it, “is to make sure that nobody can say: ‘I didn’t know.’”

He was devoted to his circle of photographers and reporters who shared the risks of alerting the world in three decades of reporting, among them his buddy Kurt Schork, renowned for covering the Kurds, and Spain’s Miguel Gil Moreno de Mora, for opening a window into Chechnya. He saw both shot dead in front of him in the horrific civil war in Sierra Leone. On May 24, 2000, Yannis and Mark Chisholm joined Kurt and Miguel in two cars with government soldiers. Near Rogberi Junction, rebels—some no doubt drugged-up child soldiers— sprang from the bush firing wildly with automatic weapons. They killed four soldiers, but Yannis and Mark scrambled into the deep bush and separated.

To see Yannis at his scintillating best, find time to hear him talk on how he survived.

He told us that waiting for a fusillade of bullets during his ordeal hiding in the Sierra Leone jungle made him dive deep into the most uncharted waters of his soul. “I am not a very religious person and I felt very uncomfortable and difficult…At some point I thought in English, ‘Yannis, time to pray.’ Meaning it was time to pray.”

And being Yannis, he made a joke of it: “And then I say, ‘No, Leave it for next time.’”

—Sir Harold Evans

15

The Conflicts (1989–2015)

7 Nov 2014/Suruc, Turkey

One of the older sisters of Perwin Mustafa Dihap, a 19-yearold fighter with the Kurdish Women’s Protection Force, grasps her sister’s coffin during a funeral procession for fighters killed while battling ISIS in Kobani, Syria.

The Conflicts (1989–2015)

7 Nov 2014/Suruc, Turkey

One of the older sisters of Perwin Mustafa Dihap, a 19-yearold fighter with the Kurdish Women’s Protection Force, grasps her sister’s coffin during a funeral procession for fighters killed while battling ISIS in Kobani, Syria.

Afghanistan (2001-2010)

Afghanistan, an arid landscape dotted with high, jagged peaks, is a notoriously difficult country to pacify, much less govern. Its nickname, “Graveyard of Empires,” is well-earned. This reputation didn’t stop the U.S. from invading after the September 11 attacks, though it did presage the bottomless quagmire that awaited. Afghanistan would become the longest ground war in American history.

Things got off to a quick start. Hoping to dislodge the Taliban, a hardline Islamist group that took over Afghanistan in 1996 and gave safe harbor to alQaeda, U.S. forces aligned with the Northern Alliance, a coalition of militias ensconced in the country’s northeast. With American support, the group stormed south and toppled the Taliban within two months, entering the capital, Kabul, on Nov. 13, 2001. It was a joyous occasion for many civilians, who were glad to be rid of the Taliban and its severe interpretation of Islam. For some, however, the triumph of the Northern Alliance augured a return to the chaos and bloodshed of the civil war years.

24 Oct 2001/Khoja Bahawuddin, Afganistan

Opposite, top: An Afghan man walks over a footbridge at sunset in the northern Afghanistan town of Khoja Bahawuddin. The U.S. had invaded the country just weeks before in the wake of the September 11 attacks.

4 Nov 2001/Jabal Us Seraj, Afghanistan

Opposite, below: An Afghan woman wearing a burqa walks on the side of a road as a Northern Alliance vehicle moves to a new position on the outskirts of Seraj, some 60 km north of Kabul.

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Afghanistan (2001-2010)

Afghanistan, an arid landscape dotted with high, jagged peaks, is a notoriously difficult country to pacify, much less govern. Its nickname, “Graveyard of Empires,” is well-earned. This reputation didn’t stop the U.S. from invading after the September 11 attacks, though it did presage the bottomless quagmire that awaited. Afghanistan would become the longest ground war in American history.

Things got off to a quick start. Hoping to dislodge the Taliban, a hardline Islamist group that took over Afghanistan in 1996 and gave safe harbor to alQaeda, U.S. forces aligned with the Northern Alliance, a coalition of militias ensconced in the country’s northeast. With American support, the group stormed south and toppled the Taliban within two months, entering the capital, Kabul, on Nov. 13, 2001. It was a joyous occasion for many civilians, who were glad to be rid of the Taliban and its severe interpretation of Islam. For some, however, the triumph of the Northern Alliance augured a return to the chaos and bloodshed of the civil war years.

24 Oct 2001/Khoja Bahawuddin, Afganistan

Opposite, top: An Afghan man walks over a footbridge at sunset in the northern Afghanistan town of Khoja Bahawuddin. The U.S. had invaded the country just weeks before in the wake of the September 11 attacks.

4 Nov 2001/Jabal Us Seraj, Afghanistan

Opposite, below: An Afghan woman wearing a burqa walks on the side of a road as a Northern Alliance vehicle moves to a new position on the outskirts of Seraj, some 60 km north of Kabul.

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4 Nov 2001/Jabal us Seraj, Afghanistan

5 Nov 2001/Jabal us Seraj, Afghanistan

Afghan villagers sit atop a hill for a better view of troop movements in the outskirts of Gulbahal, a village some 70 km from Kabul. With U.S. support, the Northern Alliance rapidly drove the Taliban from power.

Northern Alliance troops wait for their president, Burhanuddin Rabbani, at a training camp near Jabal us Seraj. Rabbani briefly served as Afghanistan’s president after the fall of the Taliban.

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4 Nov 2001/Jabal us Seraj, Afghanistan

5 Nov 2001/Jabal us Seraj, Afghanistan

Afghan villagers sit atop a hill for a better view of troop movements in the outskirts of Gulbahal, a village some 70 km from Kabul. With U.S. support, the Northern Alliance rapidly drove the Taliban from power.

Northern Alliance troops wait for their president, Burhanuddin Rabbani, at a training camp near Jabal us Seraj. Rabbani briefly served as Afghanistan’s president after the fall of the Taliban.

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12 Nov 2001/Kabul Afghanistan

13 Nov 2001/Kabul Afghanistan

Residents of Kabul celebrate as Northern Alliance fighters enter Kabul. To mark the occasion, people blared music from their radios, which were banned under Taliban rule.

An Afghan man and his son ride a bicycle past the body of a Taliban fighter killed on a road near Kabul as Northern Alliance fighters approached the Afghan capital. Roughly 2,000 alliance fighters entered the city on Nov. 13.

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12 Nov 2001/Kabul Afghanistan

13 Nov 2001/Kabul Afghanistan

Residents of Kabul celebrate as Northern Alliance fighters enter Kabul. To mark the occasion, people blared music from their radios, which were banned under Taliban rule.

An Afghan man and his son ride a bicycle past the body of a Taliban fighter killed on a road near Kabul as Northern Alliance fighters approached the Afghan capital. Roughly 2,000 alliance fighters entered the city on Nov. 13.

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13 Nov 2001/ Kabul, Afghanistan

Opposite, top: Afghan civilians observe dead Taliban fighters killed near Kabul. Looting and executions became common as Northern Alliance fighters closed in on the Afghan capital.

14 Nov 2001/ Kabul Afghanistan

Opposite, below: A young Afghan woman shows her face in public for the first time in five years after the fall of the Taliban, whose strict interpretation of Islam required women to wear head-to-toe burqas.

13 Nov 2001/Near Kabul, Afghanistan

Northern Alliance fighters ride on a tank past a dead body on a road near Kabul as anti-Taliban forces converged on Kabul. While many residents rejoiced, some feared a return to the chaos and civil war that gripped the city until the Taliban seized control in 1996.

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13 Nov 2001/ Kabul, Afghanistan

Opposite, top: Afghan civilians observe dead Taliban fighters killed near Kabul. Looting and executions became common as Northern Alliance fighters closed in on the Afghan capital.

14 Nov 2001/ Kabul Afghanistan

Opposite, below: A young Afghan woman shows her face in public for the first time in five years after the fall of the Taliban, whose strict interpretation of Islam required women to wear head-to-toe burqas.

13 Nov 2001/Near Kabul, Afghanistan

Northern Alliance fighters ride on a tank past a dead body on a road near Kabul as anti-Taliban forces converged on Kabul. While many residents rejoiced, some feared a return to the chaos and civil war that gripped the city until the Taliban seized control in 1996.

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Yannis is the sole reason I am a photojournalist.

He was my teacher, mentor, colleague and friend for the 25 years I knew him. He was the best photojournalist of his generation and a sensitive human being. He contributed a vast body of compelling photographs that serve as historical records of our world in crisis. Yannis’ ethics, empathy, dedication and determination were unparalleled. His genuine, unwavering care for the people he photographed remains seared in my memory.

I’ll never forget the day I met him as a photography student in Athens. My peers and I were all struck by his engaging personality and the quality and depth of his work. We were stunned when he took several photographs of the class and developed them right then and there; using a black bag, he nestled the film in a developing tank, added developing chemicals, rinsed the film in the bathroom,

16 Nov 2001/ Karizmeer, Afghanistan

An Afghan boy stands by a dead Taliban fighter killed on the highway north of Kabul. American officials vowed to hunt down the fleeing Taliban troops, who had fled to the mountains as the noose tightened around them.

dried it, selected a few frames, scanned the negatives onto a laptop and filed a picture to Reuters.

That was the moment I decided to become a photojournalist.

Yannis always stood by me throughout the years, helping me at each stage of my career and introducing me to The Associated Press, where I have worked since 1998. We often crossed paths on demanding assignments around the world, and he was always the one friend I knew I could rely on. He was tough and demanding, but it was his pursuit of fair, accurate and honest reporting that made him intense. I grew up personally and professionally alongside him, watching as he matured into a wiser man and journalist.

His loss to all of us who knew him personally is huge.

His loss for the world of photojournalism is massive.

I have no doubt his legacy will continue to inspire and inform generations to come.

—Lefteris Pitarakis Associated Press Chief Photographer, Turkey

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17 Nov 2001/ Kabul, Afghanistan

A Pakistani prisoner accused of fighting with the Taliban sits in his prison cell in the basement of Kabul’s Security Ministry in Afghanistan. Many of the group’s fighters hailed from foreign countries, making interrogations difficult.

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Yannis is the sole reason I am a photojournalist.

He was my teacher, mentor, colleague and friend for the 25 years I knew him. He was the best photojournalist of his generation and a sensitive human being. He contributed a vast body of compelling photographs that serve as historical records of our world in crisis. Yannis’ ethics, empathy, dedication and determination were unparalleled. His genuine, unwavering care for the people he photographed remains seared in my memory.

I’ll never forget the day I met him as a photography student in Athens. My peers and I were all struck by his engaging personality and the quality and depth of his work. We were stunned when he took several photographs of the class and developed them right then and there; using a black bag, he nestled the film in a developing tank, added developing chemicals, rinsed the film in the bathroom,

16 Nov 2001/ Karizmeer, Afghanistan

An Afghan boy stands by a dead Taliban fighter killed on the highway north of Kabul. American officials vowed to hunt down the fleeing Taliban troops, who had fled to the mountains as the noose tightened around them.

dried it, selected a few frames, scanned the negatives onto a laptop and filed a picture to Reuters.

That was the moment I decided to become a photojournalist.

Yannis always stood by me throughout the years, helping me at each stage of my career and introducing me to The Associated Press, where I have worked since 1998. We often crossed paths on demanding assignments around the world, and he was always the one friend I knew I could rely on. He was tough and demanding, but it was his pursuit of fair, accurate and honest reporting that made him intense. I grew up personally and professionally alongside him, watching as he matured into a wiser man and journalist.

His loss to all of us who knew him personally is huge.

His loss for the world of photojournalism is massive.

I have no doubt his legacy will continue to inspire and inform generations to come.

—Lefteris Pitarakis Associated Press Chief Photographer, Turkey

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17 Nov 2001/ Kabul, Afghanistan

A Pakistani prisoner accused of fighting with the Taliban sits in his prison cell in the basement of Kabul’s Security Ministry in Afghanistan. Many of the group’s fighters hailed from foreign countries, making interrogations difficult.

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11 May 2010/Kandahar Province, southern Afghanistan

A record 520 U.S. and NATO troops were killed in Afghanistan in 2009 after a dramatic spike in insurgent attacks. That year, President Obama ordered a “surge� of 33,000 troops to pacify the country. In this photo, American soldiers board a Black Hawk helicopter during a medical evacuation in Kandahar Province.

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11 May 2010/Kandahar Province, southern Afghanistan

A record 520 U.S. and NATO troops were killed in Afghanistan in 2009 after a dramatic spike in insurgent attacks. That year, President Obama ordered a “surge� of 33,000 troops to pacify the country. In this photo, American soldiers board a Black Hawk helicopter during a medical evacuation in Kandahar Province.

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Israel/Palestine (2006-2009)

The Second Intifada began with Israeli politician Ariel Sharon’s visit to the Western Wall, one of Judaism’s holiest sites, and ended with Israel’s construction of a concrete wall in the West Bank. The intervening four years were marked by waves of terror and rocket attacks by the Palestinians and bloody reprisals by the Israeli military. Thousands were killed.

The concrete barrier, built in stages from the start of the violence in September 2000, is seen by the Israelis as a bulwark against terrorism. For Palestinians, it is a symbol of racial segregation and apartheid. It remains one of the clearest fault lines in the region’s intractable religious violence.

Even the name of the structure is contested. In Hebrew, descriptions include separation fence and security fence; in English, many publications use separation barrier or West Bank barrier; in Arabic, the structure is called simply the Wall of Apartheid. The International Court of Justice has settled on “wall,” noting that “the other expressions sometimes employed are no more accurate if understood in the physical sense.”

31 March 2006/Bilin, West Bank

Amid the violence of the Second Intifada, the Israeli government began building a controversial security barrier separating the West Bank from Israel. Here, Palestinian youths throw stones at Israeli soldiers during demonstrations against the barrier in the village of Bilin.

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Israel/Palestine (2006-2009)

The Second Intifada began with Israeli politician Ariel Sharon’s visit to the Western Wall, one of Judaism’s holiest sites, and ended with Israel’s construction of a concrete wall in the West Bank. The intervening four years were marked by waves of terror and rocket attacks by the Palestinians and bloody reprisals by the Israeli military. Thousands were killed.

The concrete barrier, built in stages from the start of the violence in September 2000, is seen by the Israelis as a bulwark against terrorism. For Palestinians, it is a symbol of racial segregation and apartheid. It remains one of the clearest fault lines in the region’s intractable religious violence.

Even the name of the structure is contested. In Hebrew, descriptions include separation fence and security fence; in English, many publications use separation barrier or West Bank barrier; in Arabic, the structure is called simply the Wall of Apartheid. The International Court of Justice has settled on “wall,” noting that “the other expressions sometimes employed are no more accurate if understood in the physical sense.”

31 March 2006/Bilin, West Bank

Amid the violence of the Second Intifada, the Israeli government began building a controversial security barrier separating the West Bank from Israel. Here, Palestinian youths throw stones at Israeli soldiers during demonstrations against the barrier in the village of Bilin.

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25 May 2006/Ramallah, Palestinian Territories

A man reads the Koran next to the body of Melad abu Alawayes, 21, during a funeral in the Al Amari refugee camp in the West Bank city of Ramallah. The day before, four Palestinians were killed and 30 more wounded during a raid by Israeli security forces.

28 June 2006/Nahal Oz, Israel

On June 25, a group of militants from Gaza emerged from a secret tunnel and killed two Israeli soldiers, wounded three and kidnapped another. Within days, Israeli tanks rolled into Gaza to rescue the soldier as warplanes screeched overhead and artillery rained down. The ground operation brought a temporary stop to Hamas rocket attacks but failed to rescue the Israeli soldier, who was not freed until 2011.

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25 May 2006/Ramallah, Palestinian Territories

A man reads the Koran next to the body of Melad abu Alawayes, 21, during a funeral in the Al Amari refugee camp in the West Bank city of Ramallah. The day before, four Palestinians were killed and 30 more wounded during a raid by Israeli security forces.

28 June 2006/Nahal Oz, Israel

On June 25, a group of militants from Gaza emerged from a secret tunnel and killed two Israeli soldiers, wounded three and kidnapped another. Within days, Israeli tanks rolled into Gaza to rescue the soldier as warplanes screeched overhead and artillery rained down. The ground operation brought a temporary stop to Hamas rocket attacks but failed to rescue the Israeli soldier, who was not freed until 2011.

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22 Feb 2008/Bilin, Palestinian Territories

Shanbo Heinemann, a pro-Palestinian activist from San Francisco, California, is tended to by Palestinian medics after he was hit with a rubber bullet fired by Israeli troops during a violent protest against Israel’s security barrier in the West Bank village of Bilin.

25 Feb 2008/Nahal Oz, Israel

An Israeli soldier walks through a field near Kibbutz Nahal Oz, just outside the Gaza Strip. The Israeli Army massed additional troops near the border fence with Gaza in February 2008 in response to demonstrations on the Palestinian side. Israel had imposed a blockade on the enclave since Hamas took power there the previous summer.

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22 Feb 2008/Bilin, Palestinian Territories

Shanbo Heinemann, a pro-Palestinian activist from San Francisco, California, is tended to by Palestinian medics after he was hit with a rubber bullet fired by Israeli troops during a violent protest against Israel’s security barrier in the West Bank village of Bilin.

25 Feb 2008/Nahal Oz, Israel

An Israeli soldier walks through a field near Kibbutz Nahal Oz, just outside the Gaza Strip. The Israeli Army massed additional troops near the border fence with Gaza in February 2008 in response to demonstrations on the Palestinian side. Israel had imposed a blockade on the enclave since Hamas took power there the previous summer.

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10 Jan 2009/Gaza, Palestinian territories

24 Jan 2009/Gaza, Palestinian Territories

Israeli ground forces invaded Gaza on January 3, 2009 in a three-week offensive aimed at stopping indiscriminate rocket fire into Israel. In this photo, a weapons system fired by Israeli forces explodes over northern Gaza.

A Palestinian man carries flour back home on his horse-drawn cart in the devastated village of Mughraqa following an Israeli offensive in Gaza. The fighting killed between 1,166 and 1,417 Palestinians and 13 Israelis.

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10 Jan 2009/Gaza, Palestinian territories

24 Jan 2009/Gaza, Palestinian Territories

Israeli ground forces invaded Gaza on January 3, 2009 in a three-week offensive aimed at stopping indiscriminate rocket fire into Israel. In this photo, a weapons system fired by Israeli forces explodes over northern Gaza.

A Palestinian man carries flour back home on his horse-drawn cart in the devastated village of Mughraqa following an Israeli offensive in Gaza. The fighting killed between 1,166 and 1,417 Palestinians and 13 Israelis.

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9 Oct 2009/Qalandiya, Palestinian Territories

Smoke rises from tires set ablaze as a Palestinian throws a stone at Israeli soldiers during clashes at the Qalandiya checkpoint near the West Bank city of Ramallah.

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9 Oct 2009/Qalandiya, Palestinian Territories

Smoke rises from tires set ablaze as a Palestinian throws a stone at Israeli soldiers during clashes at the Qalandiya checkpoint near the West Bank city of Ramallah.

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Epilogue

May 24, 2000, appeared to be no different to any other day covering the conflict in Sierra Leone.

But this was a particularly brutal civil war.

As I set off on a reporting trip to the frontlines outside the capital Freetown, I was in good company.

There were my Reuters colleagues Kurt Schork, a veteran war correspondent, and Yannis Behrakis, one of the best photographers in the business.

The three of us had often worked together in some of the world’s most dangerous places and were considered by some to be one of the best “multimedia” teams working for Reuters at the time.

We were joined by Miguel Gil Moreno, an award-winning Associated Press cameraman. Even though Miguel worked for a competitor, he was a friend and colleague.

Little did I know, as we left our hotel early that Wednesday morning, that our lives were about to change forever. Yannis and I would be the only ones to survive an ambush by rebel soldiers, and our miraculous escape would bind us together forever.

Junction on the Frontline After negotiating 23 government-held checkpoints, Yannis, Kurt and I finally arrived at Rogberi Junction—some 90 km from Freetown.

Miguel was already there.

The Sierra Leone army had recaptured the strategic junction from the rebels only days earlier, and it was the new front line. One of the roads also led to the country’s prized diamond mines.

We were there to do a follow-up story on four U.N. peacekeepers whose bodies were discovered in a shallow grave after the rebels fled the area.

Not long after we arrived, we heard heavy fighting 162

in the distance. After a brief discussion all four of us decided to continue on towards the fighting.

The drivers of both vehicles were reluctant to go on, however, so we switched seats before driving off. Who sat where would soon determine who lived and died.

Kurt drove the Reuters car, Miguel followed close behind. After about 7 km we were suddenly caught in an explosion of gunfire and rocketpropelled grenades being fired from just a few meters away.

“Go, go, go!” I screamed from the passenger seat, and looked over at Kurt. He was already dead.

A bullet hit my right hand just before I managed to scramble from our car and run into the dense bush. Unbeknownst to me at the time, Yannis had also escaped the hail of gunfire.

Into the Unknown I cannot properly express the terror and fear of running into the undergrowth, not knowing whether the rebels were waiting to finish us off.

Yannis had been following the trail of blood from my wound but I did not know it at the time.

I wrapped my t-shirt around my bleeding hand, so the trail ended. We went our separate ways.

After hiding for two hours, I was rescued by about 150 government soldiers who had returned to the ambush site after hearing the commotion and seeing the black smoke rising from our burning car.

At that point I saw Miguel’s car and realised he had also been caught up in the ambush. Three soldiers helped me pick up Kurt and Miguel’s bodies and load them onto an anti-aircraft truck.

We also collected the dead bodies of four soldiers who had been escorting us.

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Epilogue

May 24, 2000, appeared to be no different to any other day covering the conflict in Sierra Leone.

But this was a particularly brutal civil war.

As I set off on a reporting trip to the frontlines outside the capital Freetown, I was in good company.

There were my Reuters colleagues Kurt Schork, a veteran war correspondent, and Yannis Behrakis, one of the best photographers in the business.

The three of us had often worked together in some of the world’s most dangerous places and were considered by some to be one of the best “multimedia” teams working for Reuters at the time.

We were joined by Miguel Gil Moreno, an award-winning Associated Press cameraman. Even though Miguel worked for a competitor, he was a friend and colleague.

Little did I know, as we left our hotel early that Wednesday morning, that our lives were about to change forever. Yannis and I would be the only ones to survive an ambush by rebel soldiers, and our miraculous escape would bind us together forever.

Junction on the Frontline After negotiating 23 government-held checkpoints, Yannis, Kurt and I finally arrived at Rogberi Junction—some 90 km from Freetown.

Miguel was already there.

The Sierra Leone army had recaptured the strategic junction from the rebels only days earlier, and it was the new front line. One of the roads also led to the country’s prized diamond mines.

We were there to do a follow-up story on four U.N. peacekeepers whose bodies were discovered in a shallow grave after the rebels fled the area.

Not long after we arrived, we heard heavy fighting 162

in the distance. After a brief discussion all four of us decided to continue on towards the fighting.

The drivers of both vehicles were reluctant to go on, however, so we switched seats before driving off. Who sat where would soon determine who lived and died.

Kurt drove the Reuters car, Miguel followed close behind. After about 7 km we were suddenly caught in an explosion of gunfire and rocketpropelled grenades being fired from just a few meters away.

“Go, go, go!” I screamed from the passenger seat, and looked over at Kurt. He was already dead.

A bullet hit my right hand just before I managed to scramble from our car and run into the dense bush. Unbeknownst to me at the time, Yannis had also escaped the hail of gunfire.

Into the Unknown I cannot properly express the terror and fear of running into the undergrowth, not knowing whether the rebels were waiting to finish us off.

Yannis had been following the trail of blood from my wound but I did not know it at the time.

I wrapped my t-shirt around my bleeding hand, so the trail ended. We went our separate ways.

After hiding for two hours, I was rescued by about 150 government soldiers who had returned to the ambush site after hearing the commotion and seeing the black smoke rising from our burning car.

At that point I saw Miguel’s car and realised he had also been caught up in the ambush. Three soldiers helped me pick up Kurt and Miguel’s bodies and load them onto an anti-aircraft truck.

We also collected the dead bodies of four soldiers who had been escorting us.

163

Yannis was still missing. I had no idea whether he was dead or alive. The commander insisted we walk back to the junction as he was afraid the rebels would launch a counterattack.

I often wonder what it must have been like for Yannis, out there, all alone.

He was well aware of the dangers of covering the conflict in Sierra Leone. Some 16 months earlier, an attack on an AP car in Freetown killed producer and cameraman Myles Tierney. The rebels deliberately targeted media, killing a dozen journalists the previous year.

Sometimes maddened by drugs and alcohol, the rebels were also known to routinely hack off the limbs of men, women and children.

As he hid, Yannis must have assumed that, if found by the rebels, it would have meant certain death.

Confusion, Desperation Eventually Yannis decided to try and get back to safety.

The photograph he took of himself as he started the long, terrifying walk along a road towards government-held territory summed it up for me. In it I see fear, confusion, desperation.

Yannis took that picture because he believed he would not make it out alive.

Back at Rogberi Junction, I was sitting with Kurt and Miguel’s bodies trying to process what had just happened.

After a while, a soldier came running up to me, shouting “Your friend, he is alive, he is coming down the road.”

I jumped off the truck and saw Yannis walking towards me. We ran and embraced each other— that moment meant the world to me, as it meant someone else had survived the horrific ordeal.

He immediately asked where Kurt and Miguel

were. I told him they were both dead and on the back of the truck. Yannis was very emotional and immediately fell to the ground on his hands and knees and started punching the earth.

Yannis knew that Kurt had been shot during the ambush, but he still held out hope that he had somehow survived.

We both spent the next hour with Kurt and Miguel—it was a special and personal time together.

Sole Survivor As I write this, it has been almost 19 years since that fateful day in Sierra Leone. Every day for 19 years I have woken in the knowledge that my fellow survivor Yannis was there too.

But on March 2, 2019, I heard the tragic news that Yannis was gone, succumbing after a long battle with cancer.

There are others I can turn to, but the one person who experienced what I had at Rogberi Junction was gone.

Yannis’ journey over the past three decades has taken him to wars in Bosnia, Kosovo, Chechnya, Somalia, Iraq, Afghanistan and Libya.

He was one of a rare breed of photographers who covered war and chaos and who risked their lives daily—and who fought with passion to be allowed to do it.

Yannis would often travel at a moment’s notice, camera at the ready, documenting unspeakable horrors in some of the world’s most dangerous places. His sharp eye and passion for the story ensured that the world paid attention to his images.

My world will be an emptier place now that Yannis is not there, and I know many other people’s will be too. I will miss knowing that he is there. I will just miss him. After all, he was one of the best and most loyal people I ever knew.

—Mark Chisholm

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Yannis was still missing. I had no idea whether he was dead or alive. The commander insisted we walk back to the junction as he was afraid the rebels would launch a counterattack.

I often wonder what it must have been like for Yannis, out there, all alone.

He was well aware of the dangers of covering the conflict in Sierra Leone. Some 16 months earlier, an attack on an AP car in Freetown killed producer and cameraman Myles Tierney. The rebels deliberately targeted media, killing a dozen journalists the previous year.

Sometimes maddened by drugs and alcohol, the rebels were also known to routinely hack off the limbs of men, women and children.

As he hid, Yannis must have assumed that, if found by the rebels, it would have meant certain death.

Confusion, Desperation Eventually Yannis decided to try and get back to safety.

The photograph he took of himself as he started the long, terrifying walk along a road towards government-held territory summed it up for me. In it I see fear, confusion, desperation.

Yannis took that picture because he believed he would not make it out alive.

Back at Rogberi Junction, I was sitting with Kurt and Miguel’s bodies trying to process what had just happened.

After a while, a soldier came running up to me, shouting “Your friend, he is alive, he is coming down the road.”

I jumped off the truck and saw Yannis walking towards me. We ran and embraced each other— that moment meant the world to me, as it meant someone else had survived the horrific ordeal.

He immediately asked where Kurt and Miguel

were. I told him they were both dead and on the back of the truck. Yannis was very emotional and immediately fell to the ground on his hands and knees and started punching the earth.

Yannis knew that Kurt had been shot during the ambush, but he still held out hope that he had somehow survived.

We both spent the next hour with Kurt and Miguel—it was a special and personal time together.

Sole Survivor As I write this, it has been almost 19 years since that fateful day in Sierra Leone. Every day for 19 years I have woken in the knowledge that my fellow survivor Yannis was there too.

But on March 2, 2019, I heard the tragic news that Yannis was gone, succumbing after a long battle with cancer.

There are others I can turn to, but the one person who experienced what I had at Rogberi Junction was gone.

Yannis’ journey over the past three decades has taken him to wars in Bosnia, Kosovo, Chechnya, Somalia, Iraq, Afghanistan and Libya.

He was one of a rare breed of photographers who covered war and chaos and who risked their lives daily—and who fought with passion to be allowed to do it.

Yannis would often travel at a moment’s notice, camera at the ready, documenting unspeakable horrors in some of the world’s most dangerous places. His sharp eye and passion for the story ensured that the world paid attention to his images.

My world will be an emptier place now that Yannis is not there, and I know many other people’s will be too. I will miss knowing that he is there. I will just miss him. After all, he was one of the best and most loyal people I ever knew.

—Mark Chisholm

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“ My mission is to tell you the story, and then you decide what you want to do. My mission is to make sure that nobody can say: ‘I didn’t know.’”

—Yannis Behrakis

Specifications: Just Yannis Foreword by Sir Harold Evans Photojournalism October 2019 Release $50 | 176 pages | 8½ x 10" Hardcover with acetate jacket 143 four-color photographs ISBN: 978-0-9992430-0-8

The massacres of the Sierra Leone Civil War, the bloody struggle for liberation during the Arab Spring, the plight of the Kurdish refugees in the Gulf War and the ongoing devastation of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict—in the midst of the upheavals that have shattered and re-shaped the late-20th and 21st centuries, there was Yannis Behrakis—just Yannis, just a man with a camera and a mission to capture history unfolding.

As a Reuters photojournalist for over three decades, Behrakis put his life on the line, braving riots, sniper fire and air raids to seek out the best of humanity in the worst of circumstances. Behrakis’ Pulitzer Prize-winning images have recorded the brutality of war while highlighting the dignity of his subjects and the tenacity of the human spirit.

Just Yannis​looks back at the iconic photographs that have shaped our understanding of the world—its sorrows, pain, despair, courage and hope—and pays homage to the legacy and enduring impact of the man behind the viewfinder.

$50.00 ISBN 978-0-9992430-0-8

55000

ARTS

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Published by G Arts glitteratieditions.com Printed and bound in China

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