Being a cynic summa cum laude, mostly by virtue of a life in journalism, I unexpectedly experienced a “road to Damascus” moment last week while skipping through the TV news channels.
It was during the coverage of Al Jazeera journalist Shireen Abu Akleh’s funeral in Jerusalem last Friday, who two days earlier was shot dead (allegedly, but surely) by Israeli forces while covering Israeli army raids in Jenin in the occupied West Bank.
Military shooting journalists is bad form in the extreme, but nothing new and it will happen again.
What finally got to me though, was the stupidity of the Israeli police who baton-charged and mishandled mourners at the Jerusalem funeral service.
Yes, of course they would have used the event as a propaganda opportunity by chanting slogans and waving flags, but surely the Israelis should have been smarter about it.
The consequences of their disrespectful actions in front of a world audience was a perfect example of how not to make friends and influence people.
I have always admired the Israelis for their grit and no-nonsense attitude against incredible odds and cleverly crafted propaganda and terrorism campaigns, but I must confess witnessing those scenes of Akleh’s killing and her coffin almost crashing to the ground during the funeral fracas, instantly fuelled my anger.
And then it hit me – the power of those behind the cameras, whose images can instantaneously cause such radical sympathy or mindset shifts. The old adage of a picture is worth a thousand words never rang truer than on Friday.
But the nature of their job is that as “backroom” boys and girls they never get the recognition they deserve.
We know the names of the frontline journalists reporting from the war zones in their helmets and bulletproof vests (it does add an extra visual element of danger to the story, doesn’t it?), but nobody ever knows the names of the cameramen (and there are surprisingly many women among them) and photographers who have their eyes forever fixed to the viewfinders to bring us the visuals.
They are far more vulnerable.
It is their images, more so than words, that influence and prompt change – however subliminal it may be.
They are a special breed – and crazy. They have to be to do what they do, but it ends badly for many of them if they don’t escape the addiction in time.
The book, Bang-Bang Club, tells it like it is – the story of a maverick group of four South African conflict photographers Kevin Carter, Greg Marinovich, Ken Oosterbroek and João Silva active within the townships of South Africa between 1990 and 1994 during the transition from apartheid and democracy.
Carter famously won a Pulitzer Prize in 1994 for his iconic heart-wrenching photograph of the little Sudanese girl who collapsed from hunger with a vulture waiting in the background.
Three months later he committed suicide at the age of 33, many suggesting because of guilt because he didn’t do anything to help the girl, but probably rather a culmination of the many atrocities he witnessed and photographed that destroyed his soul.
And who better to give one a first-hand account of the reality of their work than Ballito resident and former BBC war zone cameraman and survivor, Glen Middleton.
A session over a few frosties with him – if he’s willing – would be incredibly enlightening.
The bottom line is, the image makers who help change world perspectives on crucial matters deserve much more credit.
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