The eternal ethical quandary
Photographers who have gloriously captured the reality of human existence have been called the"vultures" on the scene.
The camera shows the truth, but is it the whole truth, wonders ANUBHA BHONSLE.
I suppose there is no weapon which so slyly and surely attacks men as a camera does. It works every time: tired troops straighten up and march stiffly, shoulders straighten up and steps quicken; bored students studying a tough lesson on a hot afternoon give out a smile and sparkle; the police inspector looks fierce and attentive; and doctors in the worst of circumstances pull down their white coats and get to the job at hand more earnestly. Some nod, some salute, all acknowledge it.
The camera manages to crack the real men and women and a thinly veiled actor comes out each time. Cameramen and women will tell you of innumerable instances of how sacks of wheat will pass with rhythm and speed, of how a politician will deliver his speech with that extra punch and how a sportsman will stretch that extra bit for the camera. Of course, when the button goes off, they will all go back to a more sensible, bearable, normal pace, but for those few minutes of tape, boxes will pile up, hands and feet will move in extra cohesion.
The impact of the camera is by no means limited. Doors open, doors shut, mobs heighten, mobs run. The picture makes no differentiation. It treats all kinds of work and all kinds of men similarly. Just like a cheering crowd, very often a mob’s weak spot is also the camera. People cheer the crackling of flames, the burning of cars and a multitude gathers in seconds. Mob justice, for the camera, is not uncommon. The power of the people quickly degenerates into the power of the mob, especially if a crowd is magnified in close-up to look larger than it is on our television screens; the seductive TV spotlight has beguiled many to doing things they would never otherwise do.
With this large, widespread, impact is there a defence for the camera to stop rolling, for the shutter to be brought down? Should the cameraman, who rolled the molestation in action in Guwahati, have paused to think? After all, there is enough in the video to suggest that the mob was parading their prey in front of the camera and forcing her to show her face, evidently to subject her to some form of ritual humiliation. Paradoxically, however, it’s the camera’s images that have allowed the police to identify the perpetrators of this horrific crime.
Raghu Rai, who spoke to CNN-IBN earlier this week, reiterated that a cameraman’s job was to shoot, get the image on tape or film and with that get the evidence. There are others who believe that even in the worst of circumstances a journalist never ceases to be a human being or, as importantly, a law-abiding citizen. But what should journalists do when confronted with horror, mob, violence, or tragedy?
In March 1993, while on a trip to Sudan, Kevin Carter, an award-winning South African photo-journalist was preparing to photograph a starving toddler trying to reach a feeding centre. A vulture landed behind the girl. To get the two in focus, Carter approached the scene very slowly so as not to scare the vulture away and took a photo from approximately 10 metres. He took a few more photos before chasing the bird away.
Prize winner
Sold to New York Times, the photograph first appeared on March 26, 1993. Hundreds of people contacted the newspaper to ask the fate of the girl. The paper reported that it was unknown whether she had managed to reach the feeding center. In 1994, the photograph won the Pulitzer Prize for Feature Photography. Carter was bombarded with questions about why he did not help the girl, and only used her to take a photograph. The St. Petersburg Times in Florida said this of Carter: “The man adjusting his lens to take just the right frame of her suffering, might just as well be a predator, another vulture on the scene.”
It is a disturbing feeling to know that the photographer behind the camera might be the only person there to help this child (which he did not for safety reasons; journalists are advised not to touch famine victims because they might have transmittable diseases.)
Cameramen believe there are shades of grey to every indelible image. A camera can sometimes alter the course of action and sometime be just one among the many onlookers, a fly on the wall with its own set of eyes. Ajmal Jami, a cameraman with decades of experience and a former colleague, spoke to me about the experiences of sometimes shooting organically, the notion of rolling he says is almost a sub-conscious one, “What is clear though is that a camera’s physical presence sometimes does change the complexion of a movement or a protest. A placid act, where participants are doing nothing but swatting flies can develop a character and energy it never had. At the same time a high-intensity protest, where men or women are indulging in unlawful activities, could simply clear up after the presence of the camera on the scene”.
Jami covered the anti-Mandal agitation and remembers his camera panning to a young boy who got shot in his upper arm. In a matter of seconds, police constables came and picked the victim by his legs and broken arms. His body curved into a D and continued to shed copious amounts of blood. Jami perhaps could have helped, but continued to roll; minutes later the boy died. Jami’s image had captured the police at perhaps its brutal best. Many years later, the image was to be used at police training institutes on how not to behave with protestors who were shot and injured.
Cameras in violent situations have always had to make split-second decisions that may dictate whether a photographer or a cameraman emerges with an evocative image or with a bandaged head and a missing memory card. Photographer Arko Datta is credited with one of the most defining images of the Gujarat riots. The photograph was taken on February 28, 2002, in Ahmedabad, as communal riots were spreading. The man in the picture, Qutubuddin Ansari, became the face of the riots. Then a 29-year-old tailor, Ansari was looking out from the first floor of a building as an angry mob approached. The ground floor of the house was already ablaze. The red spots of blood on his shirt a grim reminder of the violent mobs that were on a rampage in Gujarat at the time. The picture, splashed across newspapers and television channels, became so popular that Ansari soon lost the luxury of anonymity. The photograph has haunted him since. People taunted him for begging to be spared and for crying in public. He struggled to find a job because employers wanted to stay clear of all trouble. Datta, was later quoted as saying he was sorry for the troubles Ansari faced, but that he was only doing his job.
Medium of truth
Ever since its invention, the camera has been seen as a medium of truth and accuracy. Photographs have been used to identify victims; used by police and prosecutors to solve crimes; and, used by newspaper and magazine editors to simply document events. A picture, a moving shot, captures frames of social reality that will be seen by millions. The camera doesn’t lie, but as many situations have taught us, a single camera capturing a segment of an encounter from a single perspective may not tell the whole story. On closer look and after crucial investigation, the truth though will appear: a mob will be a mob, a soldier will be a soldier. A camera isn’t the panacea for everything. It can at best be a mirror. A picture or a visual may not always give us the complete truth, perhaps something close to it. But even if photography doesn't give us the complete truth, it can make it hard for us to deny reality.
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