Volume 1 Number 1

ei8ht Vol. 1 No. 1

photojournalism

editor ’sletter Dear friend of ei8ht, Welcome to the first of many—ei8ht, where we print it as we see it! ei8ht is a magazine of photojournalism, it tells stories: stories that challenge and inspire how we see the world; stories that convey feelings and inform; and stories that pose questions and deliver refreshing points of view.

In this and subsequent volumes we will pay homage to the work and dedication of photographers and writers around the globe who continue to pursue stories that they feel are important. These journalists are constantly seeking ways to

bring their stories to a wider audience. In this vein, the authors have contributed their work to ei8ht without charge.

For this I am forever grateful. ei8ht is an independent publication founded and financed through subscriptions. I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for your support as well as to thank the many individuals who have encouraged me and helped to make this into a magazine of which we can all be proud.

Yours Sincerely, Jon Levy

contributorbiographies Marie Dorigny, based in Paris, spent four years photographing a personal long- term project on European slavery following the narrative of one story to another: documenting the plight of domestic slaves in France; sweatshop workers; clandestine immigration; and the trade in women for sex. The story on immigration, shown here, was completed as part of an assignment for a major magazine but was not published. Dorigny is an advocate for the preservation of independence in photographic reporting and is a member of Freelens which acts on behalf of freelance photojournalists in France. Her work is currently represented by Sipa Press in Paris.

Mikhail Evstafiev served in Afghanistan between 1987 and 1989, spending as much time with the “grunts” as with the generals. After working for Reuters in Moscow he spent three years in London as an overseas correspondent before moving on to Washington D.C. to work as photo editor on the Reuters USA picture desk. Two Steps from Heaven, a novel he wrote based on his experiences in Afghanistan, was first published in Russian by Soldier of Russia Publishing in 1997. The extracts printed here are the first English translation.

Porter Gifford began his career in New York City working as an assistant for master sports photographer and diarist Walter Iooss, who himself honed his diary-making skills alongside the über-diarist Peter Beard. After assisting, Porter shot news and feature stories in New York for 10 years before moving to Boston, where he now lives with his wife and two children. He cur-

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rently shoots a mix of editorial and corporate assignments, and his work can be viewed on his personal web site: www.portergifford.com Max Houghton is a freelance writer and researcher living in Brighton, UK. A previous contributor to foto8, she decided to use the launch issue of the magazine to explore the issues raised by journalists searching for a more stable existence whilst remaining dedicated to the cause of reporting and changing things for the better. Houghton, who is expecting her second child in July, and her husband, photojournalist Andrew Cloke, expect that the debate will continue throughout their marriage.

Lorenz Kienzle has been freelancing since he graduated from the Berlin School of Photography in 1993. After attending the 1996 Eddie Adams workshop in New York he has concentrated on a number of long-term projects including the one featured here concerning the town of Guben, photographed in association with Internationale Bauausstellung FuerstPueckler Land and the Technical Museum of Brandenburg.

Gilles Mingasson is a French photojournalist based in Los Angeles. He divides his time between assignments in the US and abroad, and personal projects. La Reconquista, a photoessay and book project, is an in-depth look at the Hispanic community in Los Angeles, and its influence–on an economic, social, political and cultural level–as the city's new majority ethnic group. Mingasson is represented by Getty Images. See also: www.mingasson.com

Tim Pershing is currently living in Cambridge, Massachusetts, working on a Ph.D. in politics at Brandeis University, in the fields of international development and transitional democracy. He plans to undertake field research on microfinance in Haiti this summer. His photographic art work is represented by Soapbox Gallery in Venice, California, and can also be found in The Art of Enhanced Photography, RockPort Press.

Julien Oppenheim, lives in Paris, comes from the south, loves the light and the frame, and tries to work on the border between different fields of photography (documentary, fashion, art). He takes his inspiration from reality.

Chantal Regnault spends the majority of her time living and working in Haiti with the occasional trip to New York. Since the first election of Jean-Bertrand Aristide she has trained her camera on the people, society and culture of this island nation. Chantal is presently working towards a book on Haitian artisans financed by USAID and an American NGO(Aid To Artisans).

Les Stone started out in photography working with the MTA subway authority in New York City. For over 10 years Les has covered international news for magazine clients, as well as personally motivated feature stories, for which he has received widespread acclaim. Les is a resident of Brooklyn where he is celebrated for his passionate photograph and festive barbecues.

He is represented by Matrix International.

ISSN # 1476-6817 . Editor: Jon Levy. Contributing Editors: Photo–Sophie Batterbury, Sue Brisk, Marion Mertens. Text–Max Houghton, James Loader. Editorial Assistant: Phil Lee. Design: The Underground Print Wing, Arnaud Blanchard, John Bowling, Mika Mingasson. Managing Editor: Gordon Miller. Reprographics: EC1. Printing: Jigsaw London/Centurion Press. Publicity: Ash Associates. Subscription prices including delivery by priority post: 1 year (4 issues) UK: £24.80, Europe: £27.60, World: £32.00; 2 years (8 issues) UK: £43.60, Europe: £49.20, World: £58.00. For subscription by secure online payment visit: www.foto8.com. ei8ht is published quarterly by foto8 ltd. Registered in England. Company Number 4347348 . Registered offices: 18 Great Portland St., London W1W 8QP, England. Tel: +44 (0)20 7636 0399. Fax: +44 (0)20 7636 8888 . Email: editor@foto8.com. The views expressed in this magazine are not necessarily those of ei8ht or foto8 ltd. Please address all letters to the editor at the above address. Please do not send unsolicited material. Contributors should email: submit@foto8. com or call the editor: +44 (0)20 7636 0399 with story proposals before submitting any work. © 2002 foto8 Ltd. All Rights Reserved. No part of this magazine may be copied or reproduced without prior written consent. ei8ht

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Cover: Seven year-old Anita from Kosovo waits for her fate to be decided at the Gyor detention camp in Hungary after being arrested with her family at the Austrian frontier.

Photograph by Marie Dorigny

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Contents: 01 June 2002 “It is better to light one candle than to curse the darkness”–Confucius Editor’s Letter

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Contents

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they attempt to breach the borders of Eastern Europe p.4

p.46

Two Steps from Heaven

Listings:

Agencies Partners, Collectives Links

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Clandestine Immigration in Europe

Marie Dorigny charts the fate of refugees and asylum seekers as ei8ht

Mikhail Evstafiev, who served in Afghanistan with the Soviet Army, shares extracts from his novel and pictures he took during the time he spent in the army press corps p.12

The Young British Soldier

A poem written in the 19th Century

by Rudyard Kipling now has an ominous relevance p.15

September Diary

Porter Gifford’s visual diary offers a personal perspective on the September 11th WTC attacks p.18

La Reconquista de Los Angeles

Originally a Latin town, the most recent census confirmed that the Latino community is once again in the majority.

Gilles Mingasson investigates p.22

Haiti ... it seemed so normal An essay on the new millennium

by Tim Pershing.

Photos by Chantal Regnault and Les Stone p.29

Travails in Malawi

Portraits by Julien Oppenheim p.32

The Last Hat Factory

Lorenz Kienzle’s photos from Guben, Germany, capture the end of an era p.37

Leaving War

Max Houghton talks with Corinne Dufka, Alex Renton and Alice Wynne Wilson about their motivations for leaving successful careers in journalism in order to work for aid and human rights agencies p.43

BacktoFront

Joachim Ladefoged p.48 3

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Photographs by Marie Dorigny Every night, thousands of people attempt to cross the frontiers of Eastern Europe undetected. Hidden in trains, trucks, cars or trying to cross on foot, these would-be immigrants—Afghans, Indians, Ukrainians, Chinese and others—stake everything on their hope of crossing successfully. They are fleeing war, misery or religious, political or ethnic persecution. They dream of a land where everything is possible, where people can work and find dignity whilst keeping their family free from want.

Money passes from hand to hand; the traffic in clandestine immigrants has become hugely lucrative and minimally risky for the mafias who control the routes into Fortress Europe. Different groups of frontier runners have divided up the border crossings, each steering a flock of souls in transit. On the opposite side the police keep watch. Better and better equipped, financed and armed, they strive to contain the waves of refugees and illegal immigrants. Chased from one state to another, from police post to detention camp, entire families find themselves wandering, stateless, sometimes for years, and often without a way of safely returning to their homeland. 5

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Thermal cameras at the frontier detect would-be immigrants crossing the border under cover of darkness on foot

Night arrest in the forest of Ebersbach by the Bundesgrenzschutz (BGS), German frontier police

Police process the arrest of a Czech frontier runner caught transporting clandestines into Germany. His price for the short ride into Europe: approximately $5000 per person

Searching for papers, police pay special attention to this Afghan child in the hope they may find hidden papers that can give clues to the route used by this family to enter illegally

An impossible task. In Cinovec on the German-Czech border there are over 450 kilometres of forest and open terrain for a handful of guards to patrol. Winter snow hampers the operation

Adjusting to camp life, refugees in Vysne Lhoty in the Czech Republic make use of the only phone kiosk, perhaps to speak to relatives or plan their onward journey into Germany

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Miranda and her mother, from Kosovo, are searched by German frontier police after their arrest in the forest outside Ebersbach

Miranda seeks comfort in her father’s arms. Bound to each other they are held at the police station with other Kosovars after being duly registered and numbered

Pleading with a Czech immigration officer in Prague, a Ukrainian woman despairs at the prospect of expulsion

Beyond consolation, she is comforted by a fellow emigrĂŠ, from Belarus, also arrested in Prague. Together they endure a common misfortune

Previous page Dawn arrest by German police at the GermanCzech border. A group of eight Sri Lankan clandestines accompanied by their Czech frontier runner are stopped by police operating with tracker dogs Following pages A brief respite for new camp arrivals. They will stay here at Vysne Lhoty whilst asylum requests are processed and medical records established. For families this period provides a glimmer of hope to the children

An arrest for prostitution in Prague. Bulgarian women with invalid papers, the youngest of them 17, are detained and questioned before being given eight days to leave the country

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Stopped an Afghan mother and her three young daughters are spotted and apprehended in the forest outside Ebersbach, Germany

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Pimps, prostitutes and clients find themselves face down on the floor of the Cotton Club as the police raid the notorious establishment on the Austrian frontier in the Czech Republic Abandoned babies in the frontier town of Teplice, Austria belonging to anonymous mothers who operate in the underworld of the sex industry. The unwanted are cared for in orphanages across the region

Waiting in the cold in temperatures as low as -15ËšC, a young prostitute walks the street of Dubi, Germany, in search of business. An organised mafia illegally transports women, who are recruited in the most part from former Soviet Bloc countries, into Germany. Upon their arrival the women find themselves kept in conditions close to slavery, often sold and moved to brothels across Western Europe.

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For four months, photographer Marie Dorigny travelled the arduous routes taken by immigrants in their bid to cross into Europe. From Hungary, Slovakia and the Czech Republic to the former East Germany she documented the plight of these men, women and children. She followed the police as they patrolled night and day, lay in wait with them for the frontier runners and clandestine immigrants, watched vehicles being searched and people interrogated, and visited detention camps where those whom luck has abandoned wait with little hope. She also saw the endless traffic in women destined for prostitution, and the children born of this sordid business and abandoned in orphanages. â—? ei8ht

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Two Steps from Heaven

What lessons are to be learnt from the Russian engagement in Afghanistan?

A former Soviet soldier’s novel provides a timely reminder of the pitfalls of intervention Words and photographs by Mikhail Evstafiev

S

enior lieutenant nemilov had no gift

for retelling political studies in his own words. He droned out passages he had underlined in various pamphlets or the Armed Forces Communist Magazine. It would have been naïve to expect the men to remember anything out of what they heard during political studies, so Nemilov made them write out certain sentences he dictated. Should there be a sudden inspection, every soldier would have a notebook with suitable entries.

“Now! Write this down: ‘The Democratic Republic of Afghanistan ...’”

“Sounds familiar,” sniggered Private Prokhorov. “I’ve heard that somewhere before.”

“Stop clowning! You don’t know the history of the country you’re in. Right! The official languages are Pashtu and Dari. The population numbers ... who the hell knows what their population is now? Don’t write that down!

And now a bit of history. Write this: ‘Britain’s attempts to subjugate Afghanistan in the 19th century failed. Due to the support granted by Soviet Russia, the next Anglo-Afghan war in May-June 1919 ended with victory for

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Afghanistan. In 1919 ...’”

“What year?”

“For the benefits of the morons in this room, I repeat:: ‘In 1919, Afghanistan declared independence. Now ...’ no, you don’t need this ...”

Nemilov turned a page. “Here we are: ‘The USSR and Afghanistan have been bound by ties of friendship for a very long time. After the April 1978 revolution, these ties have become truly fraternal and an example of revolutionary solidarity. On the basis of the Agreement of Friendship, Good neighbourliness and Co-operation, the government of Afghanistan has addressed numerous appeals for military aid to the USSR. The government of the USSR decided to offer such assistance and sent the Limited Contingent of Soviet Forces to help the fledgling republic defend itself against the forces of global imperialism and domestic reactionary circles.’ New paragraph: ‘Soviet soldiers have proved themselves true friends of the Afghan people and carry out their international duty in Afghanistan with honour...’ Panasyuk, why aren’t you writing?”

In fact, the sergeant had started on a letter

home, but after the first two sentences (“How are you all? I’m fine”) had run out of ideas and sat staring at a Lenin quote on the wall which asserted that a revolution is worthy only if it can defend itself. Even an idiot knows that, thought Panasyuk, and cast an oblique glance at the iconostasis of the Politburo members. A Lenin Room existed in every subdivision and its walls were covered, church-like, with images of the most celebrated Party angels beside the Holy Trinity of Marx, Engels and Lenin. The men were supposed to come here in their free time–to play chess, write home, watch television–all under the vigilant gaze of the leaders of the world’s Proletariat.

Inspiration visited the sergeant briefly once more and he added another two lines to his letter: “It’s very warm here. Summer will be coming soon.”

“Experience has shown–don’t write this down!” continued Nemilov, “that Afghan citizens often ask Soviet soldiers to tell them about the USSR, how Soviet people live, the history of the revolutionary struggle of the USSR..”

“Nobody’s ever asked me,” drawled ei8ht

Facing page, an Mi-8 helicopter delivers supplies to a Soviet outpost outside Kabul.

Above, Soviet and Afghan soldiers

Prokhorov provocatively.

“They will, Prokhorov, they will!”

“So how the hell will I know what they want if I don’t understand their lingo?”

“You will! Through an interpreter ...”

Nemilov broke off. There was no point in responding to stupid questions. They were just playing for time. “You must always be prepared to converse with our Afghan comrades.”

“What the shit do we need to talk to them for?” burst out Panasyuk. “They should all be shot, that’s what! They’re all spooks!” .≈ “As you were! Resume writing! ‘Without Soviet aid, the forces of imperialism and internal counter-revolution would have stifled the April revolution ...’”

Junior Sergeant Titov rapped on the glass door.

“Comrade Senior Lieutenant?”

“What?”

“Two men needed for kitchen duty.”

“Take them and get out! ... Now, where were we?” Nemilov opened the Memorandum for the Soviet Soldier-Internationalist. “Write this down: ‘The Afghan people are naturally trusting, receptive of new information, have a fine ei8ht

sense of good and evil …’”

A wave of laughter rolled through the room.

“That’s enough of that! ‘In particular, the Afghans appreciate courtesy towards children, women and old people.’ That’s very important!

‘While in the DRA, observe all customary Soviet moral values, manners and laws, show tolerance of the customs and mores of the Afghans.’ Write it down! Write it down!

‘Always be friendly, humane, fair and honourable in your dealings with the workers of Afghanistan.’”

The men wrote laboriously, with numerous spelling mistakes, missing out entire sentences. The old-timers only pretended to write.

“You all have to be able to give specific examples to illustrate the honourable behaviour of Soviet soldiers towards the local population. Who can name a few examples…

Nobody? Wonderful! You should read the newspapers. Why do we keep files of them in this room? So that brainless idiots like you should read them, that’s why! Everyone’s got to know at least two examples for next time.

I’ll be testing you!”

H

********

ead muffled in a blanket, sayeed Mohammed shivered in the snow, touched his frostbitten feet with frozen fingers and whined like a forlorn pup. It had been several days since he left the bomb-devastated village.

It was amazing that he had not frozen to death during the past night, a particularly cold one.

It must be the will of Allah.

His cracked lips whispered: “In the name of Allah the merciful and charitable. The Lion of Panjsher, the wise Ahmad Shah Massoud has been right, you should never believe the shuravi. The Russians promised to leave Afghanistan for good. Ahmad Shah opened the road to the north, go ahead, buru bahai! Go back to where you came from! The mujahedin won’t fire a single shot! Not touch a single infidel.” Then why had the Russians proceeded to bomb and shell poor Afghanistan after that? Why had they killed so many people for nothing? Sayeed had been caught by the air strike, too; he had not stayed with his unit but headed for his native village.

At last he saw two kerosene lamps. Two

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specks of light. The one to the left shone through the window of their house. The other one was their neighbours’. Other families did not waste money on kerosene. He had lain unconscious the whole night. And just as well that he had not regained his senses earlier. If he had, he would have heard the cries and moans under the ruined houses, including the voice of his youngest sister, crushed by clay and rocks. When he came to, a noise like a roaring mountain torrent filled his ears and its icy water crackled and rang, drowning out weak, dying human voices. Semi-conscious and disorientated, he remained alone with the mountains and clouds that flowed across the sky like that phantom river, not knowing what had happened to the village.

By evening, the moans ceased. There was no need to bury anyone. The Russians had buried them all. Alive. Unsteady on his legs, Sayeed wandered around the village, which had been transformed into a large graveyard, hoping at first to find at least someone alive, to dig them out, save them.

Useless. He recalled whose house had stood where, then sat for a long time by the spot where his family had lived, crying beside the smouldering timbers, small islands in the surrounding snow. There was no sense in staying in the ruined village any longer.

He picked up a frozen flatcake, bit off a piece and hobbled down the beaten path which led to the road. The first time he had left here, people had stood outside houses built in ascending tiers on the mountain slope, children on the flat roofs, all of them watching him, seeing him off to war.

Nobody would come looking for him now.

Nobody would even remember him. In any case, who would believe that anybody could have survived such a terrible scourging? Even the mountains and cliffs of Afghanistan cannot always withstand such onslaught, but shudder, crumble and fall from the bombs raining from the skies.

What chance for mere mortals? And who would think that the air strike would catch Sayeed Mohammed on the approach to the village, that the shockwave would hurl the youth some 20 metres into a deep snowdrift, missing the sharp rocks? The Kalashnikov and a full magazine were undamaged, Allah be praised.

But Sayeed did not dare shoot himself. He hoped for a miracle. He hoped to encounter some mujahedin, get to a village or, should the worst come to the worst, find some shuravi and attack them in order to avenge his family.

But where were they now, those Russians?

His feet would not obey him; Sayeed fell many times, crawled in the snow. He would freeze to death in the mountains and his clan would come to an end, unavenged. What a

stupid death. Why had he not fallen in the last battle, and gone straight to Paradise? Sayeed Mohammed is an upstanding Muslim, he obeys the Koran, he prays five times a day, he fights against the infidels, he knows that a mujahedin has nothing to fear, that the holy war, jihad, is a direct road to Paradise–that is what his older brother Ali had always said.

Ali had come back from Pakistan a completely different person. No longer an impoverished, cowering village lad in galoshes, but confident, wearing leather shoes with laces, in new clothes, with a submachine gun, a wad of afghanis and a string of lazuli worry-beads in his hands. Oh, those beads! It seemed as though the smoothly polished mineral absorbed all the blueness of the Afghan skies.

Clicking the beads, Ali spoke about Pakistan,

about the jihad, about Ahmad Shah Massoud, about the bloody regime in Kabul, about the hated shuravi who wanted to enslave Afghanistan.

In time, Ali headed a whole unit, he was respected and somewhat feared. He had made a lot of trouble for the Infidel before being killed, sent many Russian soldiers to their death. Ali died like a real hero, in battle. He had slipped away from the Russians, brought his squad out of encirclement and even managed to send the Russians a last greeting from Allah by cutting off a whole group and giving them one hell of a pounding. He would have killed them all if Russian reinforcements had not arrived.

Fog descended on the mountain pass, a blizzard began to blow. Snowflakes lay on Saeed’s ei8ht

THE YOUNG BRITISH SOLDIER

by Rudyard Kipling (1892) When the ’arf-made recruity goes out to the East ’E acts like a babe an’ ’e drinks like a beast, An’ ’e wonders because ’e is frequent deceased Ere ’e’s fit for to serve as a soldier.

Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,

Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,

Serve, serve, serve as a soldier, So-oldier of the Queen!

Now all you recruities what’s drafted to-day, You shut up your rag-box an’ ’ark to my lay, An’ I’ll sing you a soldier as far as I may: A soldier what’s fit for a soldier.

Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .

First mind you steer clear o’ the grog-sellers’ huts, For they sell you Fixed Bay’nets that rots out your guts– Ay, drink that ’ud eat the live steel from your butts– An’ it’s bad for the young British soldier.

Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .

When the cholera comes–as it will past a doubt– Keep out of the wet and don’t go on the shout, For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out, An’ it crumples the young British soldier.

Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .

But the worst o’ your foes is the sun over’ead: You must wear your ’elmet for all that is said: If ’e finds you uncovered ’e’ll knock you down dead, An’ you’ll die like a fool of a soldier.

Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .

Above, Russian women in Kabul train with guns.

Below, mujahedin fighters in Herat province

If you’re cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind, Don’t grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind; Be handy and civil, and then you will find That it’s beer for the young British soldier.

Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . .

Now, if you must marry, take care she is old– A troop-sergeant’s widow’s the nicest I’m told, For beauty won’t help if your rations is cold, Nor love ain’t enough for a soldier.

‘Nough, ‘nough, ‘nough for a soldier . . .

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thick dark brows and long eyelashes and on his first trace of a moustache. In an hour or so the snow would bury him and he would have no strength to withstand the cold. He would never get up again, he would freeze completely, fall asleep, stop thinking and hoping for rescue; he was already no longer remembering his family, his older brother.

No, Ali would always be beside him, he would wait for him, take him by the hand and lead him into Paradise. Sayeed had always followed his older brother.

Another sound joined the wailing of the snowstorm. Fear held him rigid more than the cold and snow. A helicopter! Had the Russians returned to finish off those who had remained alive after the bombing?

Could they possibly know that he was still alive? How? Why did the shuravi hate the Afghans so much? Why had they come to Afghanistan? Why had they been killing innocent Afghan people for so many years?

He would never surrender; he knew what the Russians did with prisoners.

A helicopter circled beside Sayeed, frighteningly close. He flung the blanket away, snapped off the safety catch. “There is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet!” Here it was, the heaven-sent trial, a chance to avenge his brother, his relatives, himself. The roar increased. It seemed that everything around him shook, like an earthquake. The chopper had clearly gone off course, got lost, and was searching and circling in the growing darkness. Obviously, it wanted to be saved too.

The chopper flew towards him, above him, to his right and to his left. If only it would come closer! Sayeed prayed that Allah should send the helicopter right at him–then he would not die alone, for nothing. He was ready for battle; he had a trusty friend–the Kalashnikov. He would avenge his brother. Sayeed laid a frozen finger, like a hook, around the trigger, raised himself a little and when something dark seemed to appear very close, and the dark blob started to crawl over him like a greedy monster and he could see the blur of the pilot’s face through the glass canopy, he shuddered, let the Kalashnikov release a string of bullets and cried: “Allah akhbar!”, rejoicing at his victory over the Russians in the moment before death ... ●

Two Steps from Heaven ©Mikhail Evstafiev, Soldier of Russia Publishing.

All Images 1982-88 courtesy of the Mikhail Evstafiev archive.

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If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath To shoot when you catch 'em–you'll swing, on my oath!– Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both, An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.

Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . .

When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck, Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck, Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck And march to your front like a soldier.

Front, front, front like a soldier . . .

When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch, Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch; She's human as you are–you treat her as sich, An' she'll fight for the young British soldier.

Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . .

When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine, The guns o' the enemy wheel into line, Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine, For noise never startles the soldier.

Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . .

If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white, Remember it's ruin to run from a fight: So take open order, lie down, and sit tight, And wait for supports like a soldier.

Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .

Above, soldiers of the élite Soviet103rd airborne division in the hills of Afghanistan. Below facing page, Soviet military convoy. Below, soldiers return to the USSR from Kabul airport

When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains, And the women come out to cut up what remains, Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.

Go, go, go like a soldier,

Go, go, go like a soldier,

Go, go, go like a soldier,

So-oldier of the Queen!

Quoted with the kind permission of A.P. Watt, literary agents for the Kipling Estate

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Diary

by Porter Gifford

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La Reconquista de Los Angeles

By Gilles Mingasson Los Angeles–originally El Pueblo de la Reina de Los Angeles–was always a Latino city. Its people, its street names and its history have long conveyed the influence of its early founders and contemporary immigrants. The 2000 U.S. census confirmed what everyone knew: the Anglo dominance of the city’s affairs will soon be coming to an end. As the new majority ethnic group, Latinos have swelled the ranks of the middle classes, establishing an economic, political and cultural presence. They are now poised to influence the future of one of the world’s most famous cities.

In spite of all the talk of "melting pots," Los Angeles is still very much a segregated city. Its people live in White, Black, Korean or Latino neighborhoods, the Latino neighborhoods themselves divided between Mexicans, Guatemalans, Salvadorians and others.

Legendary East Los Angeles, located just east of downtown across the Los Angeles River, is 98.7% Latino, mostly of Mexican origins, and is everything white Los Angeles is not: loud, unsterilized, alive. > p.30

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Two marriachis at the corner of Cesar Chavez and Chicago in Boyle Height, East Los Angles. Marriachis gather here every day in the afternoon and wait for work, usually the chance to play a song or two in one of the local restaurants for tips

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Local kids play basketball in a schoolyard in Boyle Height, East LA I ris Garcia, whose family immigrated from Guatemala, enjoys a moment of rest at her Quinceanera, the traditional 15th birthday for Latina girls marking the passage from teenager into womanhood

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On cue, one thousand couples kiss after a mass wedding ceremony sponsored by a local Hispanic radio station at Universal Studios in Hollywood

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The 2000

population census, released in

the majority ethnic group in

Los Angeles,

May 2001, surpassing

shows that for the first time

African Americans

and

Latinos

have become

Whites

– Within the United States, the number of Latinos has climbed by 57.9% in the last decade – 35 million strong, Latinos now count for more than 50% of all the minority groups combined in the US – In East Los Angeles, the population is 98.7 % Latino. In El Monte (Los Angeles County), 72.4%. In Santa Ana (Orange County, just east of LA), 76.1%, with 74% Spanish speaking – In Compton and Inglewood, historical African American neighbourhoods, Latinos are now in the majority – In Anaheim, the birthplace of Disneyland, a traditionally Republican, conservative bastion, the population, 10 years ago, was 57% White, 28% Latinos. Today, it is 51% Latinos and 24% Whites ei8ht

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Witnesses are questioned after a triple gang shooting in Boyle Height. Many store owners paint the Virgin Mary on their walls, believing even the “baddest� gang members will not dare spray it with graffiti A cheerleader at Roosevelt High School in East LA, where 98% of the students are Latino, works the crowd during a home football game Sunset over East LA

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It is also very American: at the Roosevelt High School, where nearly all the students are Hispanic, a formal marching band which looks like it just came out of Kansas performs at football games, and kids in Boyle Heights, an East LA neighbourhood rife with gangs, ride their skateboards after school in an abandoned lot dubbed the ghetto skate park. Others squeeze under a torn fence every evening to play basketball in a closed schoolyard. “This is how we came into this country, you know,” one of the players remarks.

This is a reminder that if Latinos in Los Angeles have embraced the American Way, they have not forgotten their roots and history. The Catholic Church retains a strong influence, while the most visible form of traditional culture are the mariachi, with their huge and worn-out double basses and tight costumes. They gather every day on the sidewalks of Cesar Chavez Avenue, named after the hero of the Mexican workers, hoping to play a tune or two in a local restaurant for a few dollars. They appear at Quinceaneras (the traditional 15th-birthday party, for girls only), Bodas (weddings) and Misas (midnight masses), carrying with them their instruments and the weight of the Latinos’ struggle. “Our music is sad because our life is hard,” says one mariacho from Oaxaca, Mexico. But there

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is a raw and simple beauty about these groups of large mustachioed men singing about lost love and the longing for a homeland. Their repertoire is the plight of the immigrant, and these musicians are in no danger of running out of songs.

The Los Angeles Latinos have seen their condition improved vastly in the last decade–a Latino was nearly elected mayor last year–yet they still patiently struggle to make a better life for the next generation, and for what was once theirs: the right to live a decent life in El Pueblo de la Reina de Los Angeles. A Reconquista of sorts ●

A lone worshipper prays before a service in one of the many storefront churches in Pico-Union, an immigrant neighbourhood southwest of downtown. Because of the work of the many Pentecostal missionaries in Central America, these storefront churches enjoy great popularity among recent immigrants, who prefer the informal and spiritual services on offer

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Haiti Story by Tim Pershing

It seemed so normal. New Year’s Eve, parties to go to, friends to have over for dinner.

But this was Jacmel, Haiti, on the last night of 1999 ...

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nation. The century-old ironwork ... and nothing there was ever normal, not in the poorest nation in the twisted in its moorings, masonry was Western Hemisphere. Still, with the giving up, floorboards creaked from rest of the globe on Y2k alert and terdry rot. The place had a smattering of rorists in the shadows maybe, for once mismatched furnishings left, and it in 200 years, Jacmel was normal. also had a refrigerator, but with elecJacmel, a Marquezian Brigadoon on tricity coming every other day it had a the south coast of Haiti, the launching hard time fighting the tropical heat. ground of Simone Bolivar's liberation army, is an “end of the world” place. You don't continue on from Jacmel, you only return.

Maybe that’s why so many from across the globe had returned here for New Year’s 2000: journalists, writers, political exiles, artists, musicians, lovers.

Maybe they came just in case it was the end of the world, so they would already be there.

If Haiti ever rises to normalcy—if its politics finds a non-totalitarian groove; businesses find longShipwrecks–Chantal Regnault term returns preferable to short-term thievery; and the working poor are to believe in Candles and kerosene lamps dotted a future—the first saplings will be the rooms, and living without electricseen here. Normal, for Jacmel, might ity might have been nostalgically be to just get back to a place where peaceful if the wealthy doctor next the basic struggle for improvement in door hadn’t had a diesel generator that life is possible; a place where, regardrumbled like a freight train through less of the vast gulf between rich and the amp-free nights. poor, regardless of the IMF and the Evening fell and we dressed, my inept central government, day-to-day wife Fran, three-year-old daughter life is not directed by the dark fear of Maya and I, for an ex-pat, bourgeois everything only getting worse. For evening. First we would visit town, years, that darkness had drained heart then return home for a small late meal and soul. But recently things had with a few friends. We had pushed the seemed to be turning around. And that tables together upstairs, gathered all night, for the first time in a decade, it functioning chairs, and had, if by canalmost felt like something was dlelight, a presentable dining room. growing.

Ms. Mona, our house manager, had The house overlooked the Iron prepared a traditional Haitian meal for Market, a teeming mass of low-end our dinner of griot, poisson creole, entrepreneurship, while 30 metres maize moulé, sauce pois, banan, cocoaway, on the high back veranda, there nut rice, merlitan and a fresh waterwas the quiet of a view overlooking cress saladé. Ms. Mona also managed the port and bay, with green mouna thriving used-clothing business out tains beyond. Both views, perhaps, of the ground-floor front room and had seen the passing of Bolivar’s libporch. Dozens of 100-kilo bales of eration army as it amassed here. The used clothes, bought by middlemen centuries-old town sprawled below, in bulk from the Goodwill and shipped encumbered by a few modern cinderwholesale across the globe, stood block additions and the occasional satstacked in the depot. Out front on the ellite dish. What had once been a not porch she sold the treasure of quite stately merchant’s home now American cast-offs: T-shirts from Pep clung to the hill, suffering from the Boys, Jordache jeans, last year’s J. same crumbling as the rest of the Crew pastel sundresses. Mona, after a 30

smashingly good week, was all smiles, and wished all a Happy New Year as she headed off for home.

The early gathering was at the villa of the Consul Honoraire of Denmark, whom we had always known as Jorgen Leth, a renowned Danish filmmaker. Ensconced in a magnificent modern remodel of an old three-storey coffee warehouse, replete with a 20-metre lap pool, the evening was one of tasteful wine and admiration for a new book about the Consul’s surprisingly authoritative and original collection of Haitian art.

Gatherings like this were happening shamelessly across the globe, and all over the Caribbean, that night. This was an evening of old friends, enjoying Haiti for what it could be.

What it could be, not what it was.

Fran and I had lived in that magnificent house, back in the middle of the embargo years. A place that would rent for thousands on any other Caribbean island was had for the price of the wages of the housekeeper and gardener. The pool was a cool and pale green pond, alive with tadpoles and water beetles. Jacmel had been at its worst then, with no tourism at all, and even the élite of Port-au-Prince rarely spending weekends there. Our local friends by tradition used to meet each afternoon for a drink at the Choubalout, a small bayside bar.

Before the coup, they met at 4:00 p.m., but by ’93 it had become an 11:00 a.m. roundup. Many of our friends were getting strikingly thin, and even the always jovial artist Jean-Jacques Pierre was cloaked in an impenetrable gloom. His paintings tended to be dangerously political, and his friends were worried for his safety.

But now it was time to head home and set up for dinner. J.P. Slavin was with us, an old friend met in Haiti in ’92. Patrick Bouchard, the scion of a local élite family; his new South African wife, Kate, and her mother; Chantal, a French photojournalist, Haiti resident and aficionado; and Jean-Jacques were due to join us. ei8ht

As we set up in the large upper room of the house music drifted in through 3-metre-high open arched doorways: traditional RaRa from the street and Haitian popular music from the Yakimo Club. We looked forward to a quiet evening of laughs and reminiscence.

The last time I’d seen Patrick and Kate was in October of ’94. The US Special Forces were landing at the grass airstrip that served as the Jacmel airport. The entire town of Jacmel turned out. Chinook helicopters appeared over the mountains, one with a jeep hanging below. The troops disembarked to the joyous cheers of the crowd. I got in close with the commanding officer, taking pictures, letting him know I knew the town.

Patrick, Kate and Jacques Pierre watched from nearby. I had been given the names, some I already knew, of the thugs and murderers the Americans needed to deal with, and as I spoke, I saw the look of relief come across their faces. They may have even smiled.

But Jacmel is always Jacmel, and Chantal always Chantal, so of course she arrived with 11 assorted friends and hangers-on and the sit-down dinner for nine became a buffet for 19.

The dancing and drinking began. It was almost normal. No, it was better than normal.

J.P. and I were out on the balcony when we noticed a series of fires being set around the Iron Market. Still in our cores attuned to the past, fire meant ill, and we slipped out onto the street, me with my camera in hand.

But we did not find burning tires, or any form of protest at all, just the men and women whose job it was to burn the refuse left after the last big market day, and the blazing bonfires burned nothing but the detritus of free-market exercise. We smiled at the joke of our own ignorance.

playing all kinds of stuff, including the Jupiter Symphony. Then hearing the countdown and at midnight seeing some impressive fireworks ... impressive for Haiti. Then Fran made it clear that she wanted to do the New Year’s Eve thing, so I headed over to the main square and was just blown away

By 11, Chantal et al had moved on to the big beachside celebration at the Yakimo, to dance ’til dawn. J.P., Fran and I, with Maya asleep in the back bedroom below, sat on the veranda, with glasses of fine Haitian rum Barboncourt in hand. From J. P.’s fond remembrance, we were “watching the New Year’s Eve celebrations in the town square from the rear terrace of the market house. The PA system was

by what we found. The celebrations included a midnight Mass and the square was filled with families in their best clothes, holding special white candles, singing. Despite the late hour, whole families were out, including the youngest. The positive energy level was only matched by the Champs-deMars on the eve of Aristide’s return.

Best of all, all the bourgies were at Yakimo and to my eye, I was the only

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blanc at the square service. I cried, it was so beautiful to see the magic of the Jacmellians, the ones who lived and worked and raised their families here.”

After J.P. left, Fran and I enjoyed ourselves, ending up on a squeaky metal cot that served as the upstairs couch.

The music and revelry drifted up from the distant

Country Wedding–Chantal Regnault Yakimo, and the light from its bonfire silhouetted the bayside palms. The town was out there, some people asleep in dirt-floored, one-room homes, others enjoying the bonfire on the beach, the music drifting free for all; dancing and clarin and a long night still ahead. And for a moment, in the first moments of that New Year, I saw how normal it could really be. ● 31

Travails in Malawi

In the beginning, there were five of us: two photographers, two cameramen and a sound engineer. We were going to explore Malawi, in central Africa, and my intention was to capture on film the elegance of the country.

We had originally planned to travel by bike, but on the first day we met Alex Makina, who owned a rusty Toyota pickup, model Stout. The fact that Alex had the same name as my camera seemed at the time to be some sort of sign, and on the second day we all set out on the road to the north in the back of the Stout.

But it soon became obvious that we weren’t going to be able to work together. The expectations each one of us had, and our ways of seeing Africa, were all too different.

As the journey went on tension between us increased.

Misunderstandings, mistakes and countless small frustrations 32

By Julien Oppenheim

built up until, having stopped for the night in a small village on the shore of a lake, I found myself in a state of panic, my mosquito net sticking to my face, convinced that I was about to be killed by one or all of my friends and my body left somewhere in Africa.

Early that morning, unable to sleep, I went for a walk to calm myself down. One of the villagers offered to escort me and as we walked together i blurted it all out, how I was scared that my friends had gone mad and I did not know what to do.

He didn’t say anything. he listened in silence and then he took me back to my camp, where I found that my fear and anger had evaporated.

In the end we all went our separate ways, and I succeeded in making a set of images which, for me, conjure up the unique character of the country and the charm of its people. ●

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Hat Makers – the last factory

A story from Guben, Germany, by Lorenz Kienzle

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he famous Guben hat industry started in 1822 when Carl Gottlieb Wilke created the world’s first waterproof woollen hat. Produced in his own backyard, Wilke’s invention, replacing headgear previously made out of rabbit fur, was an immediate success and by 1860 he was employing 100 workers; four years later he moved into a new factory that was to be enlarged continuously as his business expanded.

His success attracted other hat makers and by 1922 this small German town on the Polish border boasted 11 hat factories, supporting some 20,000 people and, at the end of the second decade of the 20th century, producing around 10 million hats per year.

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But the Third Reich changed all this. In wartime, the production of hats was not a priority as against military goods and clothing, and in any case most of Guben’s hat factories and supporting businesses were owned by Jewish families and had already been confiscated by the Nazis. After the war such factories as remained were combined under the Soviet occupation into five publicly owned concerns, employing around 1,200 people. Even so, Guben remained Germany’s biggest producer of hats; East German leader Erich Honecker reputedly always wore a hat made in Guben and in 1990 there were still 600 workers employed in its two remaining factories.

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After the reunification of Germany state-owned factories were given back into private ownership or closed down if they were economically not viable, the loss of the eastern market having hit East German industry hard. By 1991 one hat factory remained in Guben, with a staff of 70. The newly privatised factory struggled to make a profit: there were plans to move production from the cavernous old building, whose dimensions and capacity reflected a time when no properly dressed man would dream of going into the street without a hat, to a smaller, cost-efficient hall outside the city limits. But in 1999 these

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plans were shelved and by the end of the year production was wound up, and the 10 trained hat makers on staff laid off.

Wilke’s grand old factory is a hollow shell now, disused and empty but for a small hat museum in the basement, which is freezing cold in winter because there is no longer any heating in the building. Of the 10 hat makers, nine are still unemployed. It is unlikely that any of these highly skilled men will ever work in the hat industry again. —By James Loader

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LEAVINGWAR by Max Houghton Three journalists who brought the world unforgettable images and shattering stories from its most troubled places were prepared to watch no longer Seen by many as the height of the profession, the privilege of conflict reporting comes at a price; sometimes the highest price of all, life. None is more aware of this fact than those who have gone willingly to bear witness to the multiple genocides of the late 20th century. It is perhaps this intimate knowledge of war that renders such people among the most potent advocates for peace.

For award-winning photojournalist Corinne Dufka, whose 10 years with Reuters took her to the front line of 14 war zones, and Alex Renton, seasoned conflict reporter for the London Evening Standard, the inevitable self-monitoring of motives and moralities began to form a clear conclusion.

In April 1999 Dufka, winner of an IWMF Courage in Journalism award, made a brave decision. She began a year’s sabbatical from Reuters, where her work as chief photographer for East Africa won her a Pulitzer honourable mention, to work for U.S. aid organisation Human Rights Watch. Her first assignment for HRW was to interview survivors of the January rebel offensive in Sierra Leone. Utterly absorbed by her new role, she never left: CD: It hit me immediately how out of touch with people I’d become. You have to become hardened to survive. I hadn’t been getting the chance to speak with war victims– I was working to deadlines all the time. I was suddenly able to get to know them on a different level in Sierra Leone; I realised what I’d been missing. One of the most frustrating things about photojournalism was understanding the reasons behind the conflict, but having no time to talk to the major players. It was like reading the first chapter of the same book over and over again. ei8ht

Renton, too, has been adjusting to longer perspectives in a new role as Oxfam’s media and advocacy co-ordinator for East Asia. He quit his £70k a year job on the Standard in June 2001, where he was originally being primed to follow in the footsteps of the paper’s editor Max Hastings, himself a fêted war reporter.

AR: It’s a great privilege to be able to focus on big ideas. The downside is that the results are so far away. But I’m much more fulfilled and intellectually challenged now than I’ve ever been. I could be a butterfly before; checking in for the long haul is the biggest challenge I’ve faced in my career. It’s like learning a whole new language.

Another industry colleague, Alice Wynne Willson, known to many as the “face” of Network, the London-based photojournalism agency, has also made the leap from media to aid. She now heads media relations for Action Aid. Although she has never been out in the field herself nor ever wanted to, she’s been on the end of a phone advising many a snapper stuck in a siege situation. Inspired by working closely with photographers like Steve Hart and Roger Hutchings, Wynne Willson intends to continue to use the power of photography in forthcoming Action Aid campaigns.

AWW: It’s the story-telling side of photography that’s been a thread throughout my working life.

I’ve seen the fantastically positive effect it can have, nowhere more so than in the Positive Lives exhibition [the Network/Terrence Higgins Trust collaborative project which is touring in countries where the stigma of HIV/AIDS remains very real], where I saw what a force for change it can be.

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The progression from early days at Reportage with Colin Jacobson, through six happy years at Network where she became editorial director, to aid work has been a natural one for Wynne Willson; a process of learning where her many and varied skills could be best utilised. For both Dufka and Renton, however, their relentless exposure to war and its associated crimes taking an ever heavier spiritual toll, remember a precise moment when their respective decisions to leave the profession they each loved crystallised: CD: I had just left Kenya when I heard about the Nairobi bombing [the 1998 bombing of the U.S. embassy in which 260 people died]. I was kicking myself for missing the story that was my first priority. I realised later that I really had been more upset about missing the story than about what happened.

After 10 years in the business I had become emotionally numb; I was losing my sense of humanity and I was tired of it.

I was fiercely competitive—ask anyone! I lived and breathed photojournalism and my self-esteem depended upon it. I denied myself any family or social life. The longer you go on in photojournalism the more immortal you feel. I felt I was indestructible, even after I was wounded in Bosnia [Dufka was injured in a landmine explosion in 1993]. It was the only way I knew how to survive–by just cutting off.

Renton’s defining moment came not many months after his best-ever scoop for the Standard. “Our money is arming the children!” screamed the headline, alongside an image of a sad-eyed 13-year-old Sierra Leonian boy with a huge British gun cradled in his arms.

AR: This was the most useful and memorable story I found as a conflict reporter. It was a slow news day and I knew there had been a new arms deal between the British government and Sierra Leone that afternoon. I grabbed Adam Butler, the AP photographer—it was obviously going to be a picturelead story, and we found what we were looking for.

It made the front page. After the initial furore, questions were asked in the House, and the Foreign 44

Office made a few representations, but in the end, nothing happened.

A Sierra leonean boy clutches a British Made gun. photo: Adam Butler – AP. For more information on the agencies mentioned in this article see the following websites: www.actionaid.org www.hrw.org www.oxfam.org

Despite a recommendation in the British Press Awards foreign correspondent category later that year, Renton was disappointed that his story ultimately served only as a whipping stick with which the Tory opposition could beat the Labour administration. He carried on reporting up country in Sierra Leone, chasing the story and keeping an eye on the British involvement: AR: We were ambushed one day, spent 15 dicey minutes in a ditch near Lunsar. I wrote the story up as usual and forgot about it. But then two friends, hugely experienced war reporters Kurt Schork [Reuters] and Miguel Gil [AP], were attacked and killed in exactly the same spot. That was a turning point.

Despite their harrowing experiences–Dufka was herself kidnapped in Kinshasa, and has twice been sent to replace dead colleagues–both journalists remain passionate about a profession variously regarded as deeply courageous or grotesquely immoral, or often capable of possessing both qualiei8ht

ties simultaneously. It is real players like Dufka and Renton who are able to be the most honest about it.

AR: It’s one of the 20th century’s glamorous jobs; everyone wants to do it. It’s fun, it’s exciting. And inevitably, it’s tainted–even Hemingway admitted that. Look at the hard-living gonzo journalists in Vietnam. But the dedicated ones, the honest ones, are more tainted by their humdrum colleagues who make things up for the tabloids and in so doing discredit the entire profession, especially in the U.K. The accusation of “war tourist” is justified, but it’s what you do with it. You can be a private scumbag, but still do great things professionally.

CD: Yes, photojournalists are the latter-day cowboys.

That incredible sense of freedom and excitement; there’s nothing like it. But the job is a public service.

It’s embarrassing to try and fit into the public’s idea of what we should be like as human beings. I wish people would take more interest in the stories we’ve gone out there to get, rather than focussing on our personalities.

All three career changes have provided a chance to look at the bigger picture and to provide more tangible help to the people whose stories of suffering they have exposed.

AWW: After the crisis, the devastating earthquake, the floods or whatever, the story’s going to be off the news agenda. One of my main tasks here at Action Aid is to keep up the interest in the millions of people living in impossible conditions.

By default part of the Western intervention into other continents’ wars, Renton feels more comfortable intervening on behalf of Oxfam; he believes his new employers get better results.

AR: At the start of the war in Afghanistan, I was in Islamabad briefing 500 of the world’s most expensive journalists on the consequences of blocking aid. They were ripe for the humanitarian angle after weeks of reports on shiny military hardware. As a result, millions of people didn’t starve that winter.

Dufka is now based in Freetown, Sierra Leone, where ei8ht

she has been able to study the relationship between war and war crimes in depth for the first time, as she documents human-rights abuses for Human Rights Watch.

CD: Photography works on a guttural level; it acts as a wake-up call. I don’t suppose my pictures helped people directly but at least injustices and humanrights abuses were exposed to the world. The work I’m doing now also contributes to the body of knowledge that effects change and possibly has a more direct influence on public and foreign policy. I think both avenues make an invaluable contribution.

On a personal level, particularly for Dufka and Renton who are both in their forties now, they are able to experience the joys of family life. Dufka has a two-year-old daughter, Eloise, who lives with her in Freetown, and cites her as a primary reason for not returning to the front line.

CD: There’s no way I’ll go back now. I don’t even miss it—I’m surprised, but I don’t. But I’ll always have the utmost respect for the people who do, time and time again.

Renton has a three-year-old son by his partner, Ruth Burnett, and the family live together in Bangkok.

AR: I went out to Kosovo six weeks after Adam was born. I could see my family life disappearing, but that addiction to adrenalin is a very real thing. I have my son to thank for getting me out of the job, making me see sense. When you’re young, you do it for thrills, but when you’re old, you do it because there’s nothing else to do.

Renton and Dufka had the supreme good fortune to recognise the moment for change when it came, and the courage to act upon it. It is uplifting that two of the industry’s finest exponents are testament to the fact that a useful and fulfilling life can exist, both personally and professionally, after years of conflict reporting. At least for the lucky ones. ●

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panos pictures T: 020 7234 0010 F: 020 7357 0094 E: pics@panos.co.uk W: www.panos.co.uk

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Photo: Kashmir by Gary Knight

VII is owned by a small group of the world’s leading photojournalists, standing independent of consolidations, mergers and acquisitions of photo agencies. It was created to be a conduit between photographers and publishers. And much more.

VII’s purpose is to defend the rights of each of its award-winning photographers, to support special projects, and to reach out to a wider audience. An extensive archive and breaking stories are immediately accessible on the website (www.viiphoto.com), such as Evidence against Milosovic, AIDS in Asia, Indian-occupied Kashmir and the IsraeliPalestinian conflict. A number of books are planned, including one on the War on Terrorism. This agency gives its photographers the freedom to keep a sharp focus on what is meaningful to them–documenting history.

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www.lesatelierslumiere.org

has become one of the most widely read French magazines on the web. It is wellknown by professional photographers, agencies, redactors, journalists and students as a leading source for information on documentary photography and photojournalism.

Members can register to receive a monthly newsletter in French and English. Les Ateliers Lumiere is supported by Jipé Labo (www. jipelabo.fr - Paris).

The first annual LAL photographer of the year for 2002 is Joachim Lagefoged (see back cover).

Russia and CIS, - provide practical help to photographers who live or work in Russia through presenting more flexible exhibition space and discussing relevant issues. see also: KAVKAZ: An Exhibition 20 Feb.-20 Aug. 2002 Photographs from Chechnya 1868–2002 An exhibition currently displayed in Amsterdam’s Dutch Resistance Museum shows pictures of war-torn Chechnya, human-rights violations and devastated Grozny alongside images of the lost Chechnya, the beautiful and human face of an inaccessible land in an attempt to reach beyond the urgency of war reportage.

Verzetsmuseum–Plantage Kerklaan 61, 1018, CX, Amsterdam. Tel: +31(0)20-620 2535 Participating photographer details and further information can be found at: www.photographer.ru/afisha/2002/2/20/557

The Eye of the Low Countries (www.eyeloveit.com) is a site dedicated to the recent work of photojournalists and press photographers from the Netherlands and Belgium. Most of them are freelancers; some of them work for newspapers, magazines or have agencies. A few just started in this peculiar profession; others are veterans. All the photographs displayed have been chosen by the photographers themselves and many of them are shown here for the first time. www.Photographer.Ru is an independent internet resource on Russian photography published in Russian and English. Founded in January, 1999 the online portal is updated daily.We aim to ...

- help establish a virtual infrastructure and mutual information field for photography professionals and amateurs throughout

www.Red-Top.com is a place for top-class photographers to show their work. It is not an agency. It represents no-one. Here is a place where artists can tell their stories as they wish them to be told without the imposition of editorial or commercial agendas.

reportage.org

www.Reportage.org is a website dedicated to publishing innovative international photojournalism and presenting challenging articles on the use and abuse of photography in today’s media. This site continues the approach of the former print

edition of Reportage magazine which received critical acclaim between 1993 and 2000. The internet version of Reportage displays some of the best features from past magazines and at the same time shows new work. We pay special attention to the photography of newer or relatively unknown photographers, providing them with a showcase for their photojournalism which is sadly absent in contemporary magazines.

www.ReVue.com is an online photography magazine created in 1996 by 10 French photographers with various backgrounds: journalism, publishing and advertising. The magazine is mainly concerned with documentary subjects, with an emphasis on people and places. There are several sections devoted to images such as the theme of the month, portfolios, stories and exhibition notices. ReVue also invites photographers and gives them a “carte blanche” to present a portfolio of their choice. In addition ReVue creates and hosts websites for photographers as well as book publishers (currently only in French but soon to be offered in English also).

Editorial Photographer: www.editorialphoto.com EPUK: freelanceandeditorialor 8 anisations www. epuk. org Freelens France: www.freelens.france.free.fr Freelens Germany: www.freelens.com lookingforward Vol.1 No.2 (Sept’2002)—Protest and Democracy, plus free multimedia CD– Blast America Vol.1 No.3 (Dec’ 2002)—Announcing the creation of the foto8 grants for photojournalism

photo 8 raphercollectives BlowUp is a group of young Belgian photographers. BlowUp is a place for reflection on the identity and the idea of the documentary photographer in a society full of images. In their individual and collective practices, the members of BlowUp employ photography as a free and subjective form of expression responding to a diversity of realities. Contact: Vincent Delbrouck, URL: www.blowup-photos.org Iris Photo Collective is an group of American photographers. As artists of colour, Iris have created a new context in order to document ei8ht

and explore the relationship of people of colour to the world. Free from the over-riding influence of the dominant culture, we examine this relationship in our own voices whilst preserving the integrity and principles of photojournalism. Contact: Carl Juste, URL: www.irisphotocollective.com L'Oeil Public is a French collective of 11 photographers. Members are often published in the French and International press and have been exhibited at several photographic festivals such as Visa pour l'Image, as well as recognised in the World Press Photo Contest,

the Fuji Prize and the Foundation of France.

Contact: Andréane Fulconis, email: oeilpublic@oeilpublic.net Tangophoto is an Independent European Photographers’ group. Far from the news caravan, all members have decided to focus their cameras on the life around us instead of serving the daily media headline . For now three offices are available : Paris (France), Bern (Switzerland) and Buenos Aires (Argentina). Contact: Olivier Thébaud, URL: www.tangophoto.ch 47

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Photograph by Joachim Ladefoged LesAteliersLumiere.org photographer of the year 2001