The Dilemma of the Photo of the Day

During our visit to the Loma Roja displaced community last week, we were sitting in the front room of a home waiting for our host to arrive and begin the tour. From around the corner peeked a little girl, no older than three. She and I made eye contact and I smiled and waved. She seemed encouraged, so I tapped my knee as an invitation to come closer. We held our eye contact as she slowly crossed the room to stand by my side, and when I placed my outstretched palm on my knee, she put her little hand in mine. For about ten minutes, I patted her hand and asked her whispered questions – “What’s your name?” “How are you today?” – but she just calmly gazed up at me. Traci whispered, “She’s probably never seen blue eyes before.”

Those of you who have read far back into my archives will remember that during my first week here I promised to post a “Photo of the Day” in order to share my experiences in Colombia with the folks at home. You’ll also notice that this hasn’t happened.

This moment in Loma Roja was precious for me, intimate and unexpected. After such a moment of connection, of simple joy with a small child, how could I once again distance myself behind the camera? How could I choose to take photos when I could be smiling at a little girl, or asking questions of her mother, or feeling the hot sun on my back?

I’ve been thinking a lot about photography and the power the camera wields in these already tricky situations. In the past ten days, I’ve visited four communities of displaced Colombians, and I’ve seen beautiful people and heartbreaking situations that I would love to share and remember.

When we visit these communities, we’re asking folks to welcome us into their homes and to offer their stories so we can better understand the reality of displacement in Colombia and so we can stand in solidarity with their struggle for land and justice. But it’s more complicated than that.

Visits from North Americans in the past have sometimes resulted in empty promises of money and resources. Also, I can only imagine how weird it is to have unknown folks come into your community and start snapping photos. As a North American, I recognize the power and privilege that my camera represents, how it can build walls and separate us from a moment of genuine human connection. Because of this, I’ve become more and more uncomfortable with uninvited photography in the displaced communities. These walks through neighborhoods are not zoo visits. These lives are not ours to capture, to say, “Look at the poor people in Colombia.”

For me, the community visits have become precious, as I have seen tears stemming from the pain of recalling horrific stories and I have witnessed the pride the comes from these tails of survival. I’ve also laughed and learned, like last week when my hosts, Jaime and Soledad, pointed out every fruit tree and local plant, enjoying my reaction: “Oh, papaya! Yuca! Mandarino! Límon!”

You’ll notice that I still do take photos when I’m out and about in Colombia, and I’ll probably be posting more images of displaced folks and their surroundings here and on Flickr. But lately, my photography has become only one small part of my visits, and it occurs within the context of relationships and respect, after we have established a connection. My priority must be to be in the moment, to share the human experience however briefly, rather than thinking always of the future and the perfect photo.

That said, here a picture of my friend Selys and her loro. She and I sat on the porch of her house for about half an hour as the group waited for a taxi. She drew a picture for me in my notebook and I took her photo. We considered it an artistic exchange.