Despite my complaints, the overpacked SUV pulls out of Juba at dusk. We’re headed approximately 100 miles north to Bor, the capitol town of Jongeli state. The issue of night driving is, perhaps, the one element of the trip that draws overwhelming condemnation from my colleagues and friends. The fact that I’m traveling overland, during election season, in one car, with no security, with an non-SPLM political candidate, through southern Sudan’s most violent and underdeveloped state all seemed reluctantly acceptable variables. “You’d be fucking nuts to do it at night, though” a seasoned friend told me the week before. I battle hard but in the end, I am left with little choice. I collect my bags, say a prayer, and become the seventh passenger in this sagging campaign wagon.
On the road, Mary points out the usual spots for ambushes. “They usually hide under these bridges,” she says as we pass one particular spot. “But during elections season, the number of ambushes has gone down.” Her remarks bring me little comfort. As night falls my eyes remain glued to the road ahead. As my companions nod off, I remain poised in my seat, ready to make a run for it at any minute. I clutch a satellite phone in one hand and a camera bag in another. After some time, I realize that I’ve gripped the bag so tightly that impressions remain on my palm.
The driver seems keen on I’m Your Lady, by Celine Dion. The track blares repeatedly as cool evening air rushes through the open windows. Despite the warnings against night driving, the breeze, solitude and familiar tunes give me a modest sense of comfort.
Four hours into the drive, we’re stopped at poorly lit roadblock. Ahead of us, the flashing hazard lights of a truck illuminate an approaching solider. A tattered tank-top dangles from his bony shoulders. He hoists his AK-47 rifle over the back of his neck and I notice a 9mm handgun tucked casually into his front waistband. If it were not for his olive green trousers, I’d assume he were a bandit. He leers into my side of the vehicle and begins to converse with the driver. A few pleasantries and acknowledgment of mutual friends grants us quick, unpaid passage. I’m relieved.
The dark road ahead is congested with cattle. In Jonglei, and several other southern states, cattle form the currency of many tribes. The possession of cattle determines social status, marital standing and the collective wealth of a tribe. For this reason, cattle are an integral part of conflict dynamics in Jonglei state. Wars between tribes are often prompted by the theft of cattle. The raids, known as cattle “rustling,” are often accompanied by extreme violence. In 2010 alone, more than 20,000 people have been displaced in Jonglei due to cattle related fighting.
I can, to a quite amazing degree, dream up worst case scenarios. I imagine being caught up in the cattle wars, being mistaken for being a spy and arrested, lost in the hostile deserts, caught in the crossfire of politics in this embattled country. I think about bribing soldiers with a bottle of whiskey and imagine the deterioration as they polishing it off while I’m still in custody. I ponder the possibility of being caught up in things that are, in fact, much different than they appear. It is this mentality that keeps my impulses at bay and makes me wonder if I’m different than my contemporaries.
In the fall of 2008, I was fortunate to meet and befriend Peter van Agtmael, a world-renowned war photographer. I met Pete in northern Uganda, a former war zone that, by the time we arrived, was quite and relatively stable. During our time together in Uganda, he showed me photos for an upcoming book, 2nd Tour Hope I Don’t Die, which was released in fall 2009. The book showcases two years of coverage from Iraq and Afghanistan during which he embedded with US soldiers. It is tour de force of violence, angst, danger, confusion and disillusionment.
Although Pete and I have discussed his experiences at length, I still wonder if he shares some of my imaginative angst about danger. He seems to run headlong into situations of extreme risk. He explains that these wars are monumental experiences for those of our generation and that his seemingly innate fascination with war drives him into positions of great peril. While I share his sentiments, I somehow feel that I have a higher, more selfish threshold of self-preservation.
I consider this as I prepare to embark on a trip to Jonglei, southern Sudan’s most violent and underdeveloped state. In 2009, an estimated 2,500 people were killed here, most of whom died in Jonglei. The fighting, while erratic, continues in 2010. It is largely related to cattle, the currency of pastoralist tribes in the region. Cattle raiding is common among and between tribes and is often accompanied by extreme violence. The killing is unapologetic and targets men, women and children. The raids become circular, with revenge attacks ensuing months after initial bouts.
I am traveling to Jonglei with Mary Boyoi, a 28-year-old musician-turned-politician. While much of her music is political, this is her first foray into Sudanese party politics. She hails from the Murle tribe, a minority group from Jonglei state known for it’s aggressive possession and theft of cattle and, at times, people. She’s running for a parliamentary seat in upcoming April elections on behalf of the South Sudan Democratic Forum, a party outside of the ruling Sudan People’s Liberation Movement. I’ve decided to join her for a week of campaigning in Jonglei.
My mind has been racing about the trip since I agreed to join her. I’ve consulted with people widely about the potential risks. I’ve done all I can to prepare myself, both mentally and logistically. From a generous friend, I borrowed a satellite phone. I’ve got food, snake bite kits, water purification tablets and escape money. I’ve run down the list of possible scenarios; arrest, harassment, ambushes, car trouble, communal violence and many, many more. I have, however, come up with a rationalization that will allow me to board the car in a few hours time.
I wonder, at times, if I’m alone in my concerns. I watch the journalists and photographers in Helmand, Anbar and elsewhere and wonder how they feel about being there. Do they worry? People talk of adrenaline junkies as though you’ll know one when you meet one. In my experiences in Gaza, Somalia and Sudan, I’ve yet to encounter someone who fits the bill.
In southern Sudan, I experience a tremendous amount of variation in a given day. I might witness something extremely disturbing one minute and something very uplifting the next. The contrasts are exceedingly stark; exhausting and invigorating all at once.
Today, I photographed police and prisoners in the morning and school kids in the afternoon. The condition of the prisoners was extremely disturbing and, if I have to be honest, taking the photo below was a serious ethical challenge. I felt that the prisoner had no agency, no choice in the process. He allowed the photo because, well, if he’d protested, I assume my officer hosts would have let him have it. The southern Sudanese police forces are not known for their compassion.
The kids are always an overwhelming wave of energy. They charge the camera, fighting for room in the frame. The weak ones are quickly knocked aside by stronger, more aggressive kids. The latter often insist on making a series of unattractive faces into the camera. I find myself reaching into crowds of kids and pulling the more reserved ones forward. The girl pictured below had been knocked to the ground by a group of boys as she waited patiently for me to take her picture.
I have a theory that the reason why images of kids and the elderly are so prevalent is that those groups bookend the mistrust divide. The kids are too young to be skeptical of foreigners with cameras. They are overwhelmed by your strange appearance and sophisticated equipment. The elderly have frequently resigned the suspicious outlook of their younger years. These groups are open to photographers and because of that, they become frequent subjects.
In my experience, males between the ages of 16 and 45 are the most difficult to photograph. They are in the throes of mistrust and, in places like Sudan, the stressful role of being providers. Many men see few benefits of having their photo taken. They are hard and disinterested. They are under great stress and often believe that the photo you take of them will yield riches for you and nothing for them. Photographing men in that age range requires far more time and relationship development.
I also believe that the masculine role is threatened by photography. Many men are deeply concerned with the appearance of strength and nobility. Without trust, they sometimes fear that the wrong photograph might depict them as weaker or more awkward than they are comfortable with. The photographer has the power to define them with his photos and that is not easy for some men to accept. Without trust, the photographer is left with men trying to look like statues, much like the shot of officers below.
