Why I will never be a photojournalist

Saturday, Annie, Manu, Jolene, Jenna, Hannah, and I went to the World Press Photo 2010 exhibit. I’m pretty sure the 2011 exhibit is floating somewhere around the U.S. right now but Bolivia just received the 2010 exhibit. It’s a cool compilation of the best photojournalism of the 2010 events. Since photojournalism is the other main thing that grasps my attention and interest as much as medicine, I was very excited. I think I may have even ended up as a photojournalist if it wasn’t for my inability to take photos in the face of tragedy and suffering. The photos at the exhibit featured the Pakistani floods, the Haiti earthquake, the wars in Mexico and DRC, as well as the torture of women in Afghanistan. The images were informative, powerful, and heart breaking. The most intense was of a male Haitian nurse literally flinging a dead body onto a pile of other rotting bodies. The photos are important because even if we can’t do anything about it, it doesn’t mean we have to be oblivious to the horrific things that happen in the world. Just by acknowledging that they exist, it puts my life into a different perspective.

I see a lot of similar images of poverty in Bolivia. I would love to take a photo of the 18 year old mother who looks 15 years older than her age, of the cholitas and their goods in a multitude of colors that attempt to obscure the poverty, and the 16 year old girl with the smoothest skin and the darkest eyes who walks on the side of the road alone, with cut up wrists. I want others to see it as I see it and if not do anything about it, to at least be cognizant of the fact that these people exist somewhere, leading the same 24 hour days as us, with the same emotions. But something inside me won’t let me dare take out my camera – it’s not that I don’t want to stand out (as if I don’t stand out already) but more of how the camera will change my relationship to these people and these places. I change my place as a silent observer to an active intruder on their lives, and with a camera I run the risk of objectifying them.

I am not saying that photojournalism objectifies its subjects or that it shouldn’t exist. On the contrary, I admire the people who can do it as a profession and I wish I could do the same. For a while I thought I would grow out of it, that maybe on this trip I would feel more comfortable taking pictures but today, standing alone in El Alto waiting for a micro to go back home, I saw two Aymara women in their colorful skirts and shawls and braided hair selling oranges on the side of the street. It captures one of the main points in Bolivia and its large gap between the rich and the poor. Most poor Aymara women do just that – they are sellers of fruit, candy, food, spices, and even napkins on the ground of the street. I wanted to take a photo to show everyone else what I see everyday, but instead I just stared and stared, imprinting the image in my mind for later recall.

I always come back from trips with the worst pictures because my pictures are of landscape and empty streets while my stories are of the people and their daily lives. A great photojournalist creates a complete idea through photo and words. I will never be that photojournalist.