At the end of May, just weeks ahead of south Sudan’s declaration of independence, the northern Sudanese military made a strategic move to grab the disputed territory of Abyei. I ran ragged trying to cover the extent of human flight from the area. When I look at it retrospectively, I feel so devastated. I was partially shielded by this box I put in front me. On occasions, some of which are captured by these pictures, I was torn to my core. I need to sit down and articulate the human devastation that the offensive caused. The writing is essential but I hope, in the mean time, that the pictures will express the feeling. I’m sorry that this is coming so late.
Just before dawn, I awoke inside my tent to the voice of a BBC broadcaster crackling through a shortwave radio. The initial phrases of her report were lost in my half conscious state. “Those killed were Tim Hetherington, whose recent documentary film about Afghanistan was nominated for an Academy Award and Chris Hondros, an award winning photojournalist,” she announced. Her words seared through my exhausted mind. I scrambled from my tent, wearing only my underwear, and charged toward the guard who held the radio on his lap. He was alarmed by my urgency. While I was sure I’d heard her correctly, I held out hope that I’d misunderstood some critical part of the statement.
By the time I reached the guard, the reporter had moved on to address other developments of the day. I stood in the middle of the county commissioners compound, nearly nude, in a state of shock and frustration. In such a remote area, I had no way of verifying what I thought I heard. No television, internet or phone network exists in this remote part of southern Sudan. At that twilight hour, blurry-eyed southern Sudanese stared at me as they washed their faces and brushed their teeth with the stocks of plants. I scratched my head and looked foolishly around for anything that might provide additional information.
With a knot in my stomach, I collapsed my tent and packed my things. I got into the truck and headed to Mariel Lou, a sandspeck village in Tonj North county. I had planned to meet a fellow photographer, Cedric Gerbehaye, who is also working to document the situation in southern Sudan. When I reached the compound where he’d been staying, I learned that he’d moved into remote field areas and would not return for several days. I left a note, explaining what I thought I’d heard on the radio. “I’m fairly certain that I heard a radio report this morning stating that Chris Hondros and Tim Hetherington had been killed. I hope I’m wrong. It’s a terrible loss if so,” the note read.
I was not until that evening, when I raised my fiancée on a satellite phone, that my hopes of misunderstanding the report were put to rest. Tim and Chris and been killed during heavy fighting in the Libyan city of Misrata. “It’s all over the internet,” she said. In pitch darkness, hundreds of miles from anywhere, I stood in disheartened shock.
I never had the good fortune to meet either of these men. I’d always hoped that our paths would cross at a party in Brooklyn or out in some conflicted part of the world. I’d found tremendous inspiration in their respective bodies of work. In fact, Chris’s 2003 photograph of a Liberian rebel leaping though the air after firing an RPG on a bridge in Monrovia was one of the images that inspired me to work as a photojournalist. Tim’s work in Liberia, Afghanistan and elsewhere haunted and inspired me deeply. I remember studying his book on Liberia, Long Story Bit by Bit, at a friend’s apartment in Red Hook last summer, thinking about how high the photographic bar really is and how much devotion is required to aptly tell these stories.
In recent months, I watched and rewatched Tim giving an interview on morning television to a group of rather obnoxious anchors. In the face of their brashness, Tim was so composed, poised and articulate. He explained his intentions when making Restrepo and outlined his view of the experiences of the American soldiers with whom he worked. He was so handsome, confident and modest. As an admitted groupie, I sometimes scoured his photos of Facebook, admiring the caring and intimate relationships he’d cultivated with the soldiers featured in Restrepo. In one particular album, he stood arm in arm with them at some highbrow reception celebrating the launch of the film. The tattooed soldiers looked out of place among the New York art crowd. They donned crooked hats, baggy tee shirts and diamond stud earrings. The handsome and sophisticated Hetherington embraced them and seemed to ease the collision of these two separate worlds.
Tim and Chris’s tragic and untimely deaths gave me great pause. As a photojournalist in a conflicted region, I associate with so many people who travel regularly to the world’s most dangerous areas. It becomes, in a sense, routine. People are constantly coming from, or heading to, Afghanistan, Libya, Iraq, Somalia, Congo. In this line of work, we accept risk and to a certain degree, become desensitized to danger. Everything becomes a highly specific assessment of risk. Gelkayo is ok. Mogadishu is not. Basra is a doable, Ramadi not so much. We plan trips to war torn areas with remarkable casualness. We book assignments and social engagements for the weeks after we return from deadly regions, fully anticipating our safe departure.
As I stood on the banks of the river, I thought about their homes in New York and how they must be filled with so many things that they planned to undertake upon return from Libya. I thought of their email inboxes, filled with messages that detail plans and projects that they will never get to finish. I thought about them lacing up their boots on Wednesday, having no idea that they were in their final hours. I thought of all their loved ones at home who all believed that they would see and touch and spend time with them again. I thought about their friends and colleagues, all of whom must be reeling. I image the photo community in New York, London, and Paris at a standstill, gasping for its collective breath.
I thought of the legacy they leave behind. The extraordinary documents of human drama, of struggle and war and emotion. I thought of all the places they’d seen, all the people they met during the extraordinary lives they had created. I wondered what else they might have accomplished had they lived through that day in Misrata.
When I was in college, I read a book about an eccentric humanitarian aid worker named Fred Cuny. Cuny traveled to the world’s most conflicted countries, shaking hands and trying to assist beleaguered populations. Upon departing for his final trip to Chechnya, before which he had a premonition of his own death, he left a note for his son. It read, “Don’t cry for me. I’ve lived a life that few men have. Don’t cry for me. Don’t cry for me. Don’t’ cry for me.” Cuny was killed some weeks later.
I must think of the loss of Tim and Chris in Fred Cuny’s terms. They devoted their lives to documenting the plight and suffering of others. The risked everything in order to bring to light stories and images that might have otherwise gone unnoticed. They made the ultimate sacrifice so that others might know the story of oppressed people caught in the throes of violent revolution. They lived the way so few men do. Their memory will live in the exceptional work they created and the change and awareness they helped to foster.
When I ended the call that confirmed the news of their deaths, I was speechless for many hours. My friend and translator, Monywiir, a humble and intelligent young Dinka man, urged me to focus on my work and not allow the news to distract from my immediate pursuits. Having grown up in southern Sudan’s civil war, he is no stranger to death. I decided to accept his advice.
In the evening hours, I commenced a short portrait series of cattle raiders on the banks of a river over which a war is being fought between two pastoral tribes. The following morning, clashes would erupt between the groups leaving at least three people dead and scores more wounded. The photos are shot in the signature style of Jehad Nga, a friend and inspiring photographer who himself was abducted and badly abused by Libyan authorities at the outset of this war that has shaken so many lives.
They are my humble tribute to Chris, Tim and all the brave photographers and journalists who continue to risk their lives so that others might see. They are owed a remarkable debt of gratitude from us all.
As we navigate the battered road between Bukavu and Baraka, I finally realize why Joseph Kony has been so difficult to find. Dense jungle all but swallows the one tarmac road in this deeply conflicted area of eastern DR Congo. A blanket of deep green foliage cloaks the area’s impressive mountain range, which extends to the western horizon. During the six-hour drive between Bukavu and Baraka, I notice an absence of police, soldiers or other visible signs of central authority. Upon first glance, it would appear that this vast region is largely ungoverned.
Wary Pakistani peacekeepers patrol the road with heavy guns. With their long Islamic beards and close-cropped hair, they could not look farther from home. As we overtake their convoy, I wonder why Pakistan, a country with it’s own vicious war, has deployed able-bodied soldiers to this largely forgotten battleground. They seem removed from the environment here, clearly serving a tour rather than engaging in a broader mission. We stark awkwardly at one another as our vehicle speeds past.
I notice an interesting difference between Sudanese and Congolese as our truck speeds through small population centers. In southern Sudan, most people on the roadside glare directly into the eyes of people passing in cars. Here, I notice few people looking at our faces but instead attempting to read the writing printing on the doors of this NGO vehicle. It sounds like a minor issue, but I suspect it speaks to a vast gap in literacy rates between southern Sudan and eastern DR Congo. I believe that if more southern Sudanese could read, fewer would stare so ominously at passersby.
It was not until today that it occurred to that southern Sudan’s nearly 90 percent illiteracy rate might contribute to some of the intense staring for which they are so well known. Many there are incapable of reading writing on teeshirts, trucks and other things that might distract them from staring directly into another person’s eyes.
Perhaps it’s a coincidence, but I think there might be something to it.
Generally speaking, eastern DR Congo feels significantly more developed than southern Sudan. People appear relatively well fed, the road, while in decay, is largely covered in tarmac. Towns between Bukavu and Baraka seem quite vibrant and well stocked with modern goods.
It’s strange to travel to such conflicted and troubled places that still seem like a step up.
Seven days of polling in south Sudan’s referendum come to a close. The results seem to be overwhelmingly in favor of southern secession. We made it through with no major incidents. Congratulations southern Sudan, you seem to be a rock star at exceeding expectations.
A slow but steady day here in the capital. Lines and still long but things are moving smoothly.
This vote is going to take ages!
Thousands of southerners turned out across Juba this morning to begin voting in a long awaited independence referendum. I am, to some degree, a bit surprised by how calm things have been in recent days. In the months leading up to the vote, pro-separation activists were tremendously active in the capital. I expected the streets to be packed up independence supporters in the days before the referendum. Oddly, this was not the case.
Voting got underway this morning with few reports of disorder or irregularity. The registration issues that plagued last April’s parliamentary, presidential and gubernatorial elections seem to have been adequately addressed.
I am dismayed a recent reports of clashes in Abyei, Unity State and Jonglei. I hope that spoiler groups can be convinced of the importance of a peaceful vote.
I am quite exhausted, having been up early and gone to bed late for many recent nights. There is excitement in the air, however, and that is giving me strength.
Here are some snaps from the last 24 hours in Juba. 
Check out a new feature that I did with Maggie Fick for Al Jazeera. This multimedia piece explores social, cultural and political issues on the border between north and south Sudan.
View it here on Al Jazeera’s website
Be sure to check out the photo gallery, too, by clicking on the “In Pictures” photo to the right of the text column.
Despite significant delays, voter registration finally kicked off today throughout the south.
Thousands of southerners braved searing heat and lines in order to register themselves for January’s referendum.
These are remarkably determined people.
Here are some photos from the first day of voter registration in the north-south border area of Melut.
(some images subject to additional copyright)
Check out a new photo essay I just completed for Foreign Policy Magazine that illustrates the challenges of transforming southern Sudanese security forces.
Great captions by Maggie Fick.