Photography of the mind

Especially now that my long time dream of getting a "real" (i.e. digital SLR) camera has been fulfilled, I have been thinking a lot about photography ... and, more to the point, of all the images I wish I could have captured in Morocco.

As it was, we figured our visit was going to be making enough people nervous without adding cameras to the mix, which meant that in the end I brought nothing but a discreet pocket camera along that I hardly felt comfortable pulling out on more than a couple of discreet occasions.

Don't get me wrong, as a first time visitor to the beautiful country of Morocco, I was impressed--by the warmth and hospitality of her people; by the efficiency and comfort of the trains; by the organised chaos, surprising smells and bright colours of the markets; by the tantalising flavours of the tagines and mint teas. I would go back in a heartbeat.

But we weren't there to experience Morocco's beauty and wonder. We were there to give witness to the struggles, pains and hardships--the successes and small triumphs-- of the non-Moroccans living there. And as I think back now, I realise that--camera or no camera--I was taking pictures the entire time, aka the photography of the mind.

Morocco is not a country with huge numbers of migrants or refugees, and I am somewhat ashamed to admit that we went "foreigner hunting". At one point, the local office rep took us--in a discreet car, but nonetheless with obvious diplomatic license plates--to some of the poorest sectors of town.

It was here that some of my strongest images remain etched in my mind. With cars being nearly as common as a UFO in some of the poorest neighborhoods, we drove down what we later discovered to be a one way street. On one side was wasteland, on the other, a hillside covered in buildings thousands of people call home: no electricity, no running water. Together with the poorest of Moroccans, it was here that we saw migrants.

Put bluntly, I have seen far worse in terms of visible poverty. What shocked me--and what composes the photograph burned into my mind--is what we saw in that street. Wires, plastic bags, shoes ... trash, everywhere. Dozens of children doing what kids do best: playing makeshift games of soccer with balls made of taped up plastic bags, blocking off the road with small boulders for barricades that were moved as we made our way through.

And fire.

Children as young as four years old and dressed in nothing but grimy t-shirts, setting fire to anything and everything they could find along the roadside as if it were as natural as playing trucks.

It was surreal.

And as cold stares (was it contempt that we saw?) followed us as we turned for home, the fear that we three white westerners in a diplomatic car could very easily be surrounded and robbed of every penny we (didn't) have, was suddenly very real.

If there were but one more "mind image" to share, it would be of the refugees themselves.

Like many other organisations, many of the UN Refuge Agencie's assistance activities work on the basis of "vulnerability", meaning that efforts are made to try to give first priority to those who are in the most precarious of situations. This is frustrating when you consider that in all reality, the vast majority of refugees are in extremely difficult situations, and that the criteria used for determining "vulnerability" cannot be made public (you'd be amazed how many divorces suddenly take place as priority is given to single mothers; how many children have suddenly lost their parents when priority is given to unaccompanied minors, etc.).

And so it is, that I was left with two more memories frozen in time; the first, of an older (65?), and very distinguished gentleman from the DRC asking ever so poignantly:

"...Since when has begging, since when has prostitution come to be considered legitimate livelihood activities? These are not 'career options'; one who is not vulnerable would not do such things. It has come to this: we are all vulnerable here."

And the second, of a worn and weary women who looks far older than her 45 years, looking me straight on and saying:

"I have lost everything. My husband, my children, all my family were killed. I am so old that the men won't even buy my body when I try to sell myself for a meal. My skin, my lips are cracking from malnourishment. Yet they say I am not vulnerable. Maybe as I lay on my deathbed, then they will say that I am. But by then it will be too late. Then I shall not even care."

It's then that I think, who needs a camera after all?


** Photo caption: Chart used to teach illiterate citizens about the political parties in preparation for voting in the elections. Rabat, Morocco.