Views expressed in opinion columns are the author’s own.
In times with little political or moral censorship of photojournalism, we are frequently provided with distressing images of the dead, wounded or horror-stricken. In 2001, in the aftermath of 9/11, we saw the questionable publication of the photograph “Falling Man” by Richard Drew. In 2004, startling images of the tortured men of Abu Ghraib prison were leaked and published in various news outlets. In 2015, there was the little body of Aylun Kurdi washed on the shores of Turkey and photographed for the world to observe.
Certainly, there have been many more instances of published photographs, and video recordings, that have lured us with their disturbing yet necessary candidness. They have silently, and even unintentionally, induced a response from their viewers. This candidness, while useless in any propaganda efforts, has aided a greater and more lasting effort of revealing what had been the hidden pages of life. But the intention behind these photos remains uncertain. Is the purpose to exploit these conditions for higher viewership, or simply to document the inevitable and crushing course of life? Must there be a righteous intent behind the publication of these photos, and must that intent include a call for action?
A history of photo censorship, particularly during times of war, has hinted to the power photographs harbor. Good photographs elicit questions, skepticism and even opposition in place of blind and unchallenged support. But with the new freedom and immediacy of photojournalism during the Vietnam War, there began an exploiting pursuit to capture the most disturbing scenes of war. Where at one time photojournalism was practiced with the purpose of documenting suffering, it has since made an “icon” of that very sentiment.
The unanticipated effect: an abundance of violent images, which placed an immense burden on photojournalists to capture even greater instances of violence. Photojournalists had to “keep fresh [its] ability to shock” by amplifying the level of violence depicted in their photographs, which consequently created an emotional inflation among their audience.
Since then, photos that have captured scenes of suffering and death — both in war and in civilian settings — have unintentionally normalized what must never cease to horrify us. In other cases, such photos have created an overflow of emotion in viewers, which disrupts their ability to respond appropriately. Let us consider, for instance, the recent strikes in Syria. Recent American-led attacks against military outposts were largely coordinated as a response to the most recent chemical attacks in Syria. Photographs and videos of children and adults writhing in pain and gasping for breath instilled a renewed desire for intervention. After viewing the photographs of this incident, which were “far more graphic than those the public had seen,” President Trump was easily convinced by his staff to order military strikes against Syria, The New York Times reported. And thus, when America intervened, it was partially for emotional reasons, not logical ones. If America is to intervene in Syria, it must be because of the cumulative offenses carried out against the Syrian people rather than a single instance that temporarily troubled the conscience of those in power and finally convinced them to act.
First, though, we must ask if photographers have the right to photograph individuals in distress. Certainly, the question seems futile, as there remains a steady stream of such photos. But in some ways, it demonstrates a common intrusion of the more privileged class into struggling communities. It disrupts the privacy of their suffering. For instance, as an intern for the U.N., I was tasked with taking photos of beneficiaries at various distribution sites. Many backed away at the sight of my camera and were rightfully disturbed to be photographed at such a moment. Yet without these photos, there would be little visible proof of the U.N.’s work to display to donors. Alarmingly, such photos of the disadvantaged are used to advertise the U.N.’s public image and exaggerated significance in such communities. When individuals in need of immediate assistance are instead greeted with the intrusive lens of a camera, are we not mocking their humanity and dismissing their need for privacy?
There is an element of danger involved in documenting individuals and communities in distress, due to the responses the process may elicit. Still, we argue in favor of such photos because we insist on their power to bring about change. But at times, we also exaggerate their influence. In her book On Photography, Susan Sontag argues that photographs taken of war are powerless in altering popular attitudes if skepticism or disapproval is absent from the audience processing these images. Without the prior support of a disapproving audience, photographs capturing the ugliness and horror of war demonstrate meager power in altering public perception.
And thus, the questions posed here remain largely unanswered. Is it right to lift the lens of one’s camera toward those standing in the deepest abyss of their pain for the dry purpose of documentation? Does our intent to raise awareness justify our intrusion on the lives of the people whose stories we seek to document? To each circumstance, there is a complicated answer, and we may never understand the harm or the good such photographs bring about. But we must always remain sensitive to the privacy of suffering individuals, and we must never settle into a place of certainty when taking such photos.
Aiyah Sibay is a senior English major. She can be reached at AK_Sibay@hotmail.com.
