The clearest expression of man’s inhumanity towards fellow humans can be seen in the horrific pictures of emaciated bodies of refugees forced to occupy human wasteland of destitution.  It is also manifested in the pictures of the disfigured bodies of war casualties.  Such pictures come also from victims of torture who often add tales of unimaginable brutality in the hands of their prison keepers or some secret police to accompany their pictures.  Newspapers, magazines, and television screens make such pictures available for our everyday viewing.  These gory scenes have become so commonplace that we have come to expect them instead of being shocked by them.

That there is some humanity left in the human race is also illustrated by the admirable response the public shows to such despicable scenes in the form of assistance for the victims.  Hence we can be glad that there still is generosity and human compassion.  Shrewd fund-raisers make use of such human misery to make jobs for themselves.  Writers and photographers become famous and win prizes.  Charity becomes business that relies on human suffering as its vital resource for existence.

Due to our preoccupation with the two ends of human nature, the inhuman brute and the compassionate donor, we loose site of one essential part of humanity.  We often victimize the victim further even as we try to help.  The victim becomes object of our generosity instead of a human being with dignity.  The donor is elevated to sainthood even as the victim is hopelessly fixed in destitution and stored away in our memory not to be heard of or from again.  The writer, the photographer and the fund-raiser became heroes who saved the victim while in fact they only saved themselves from professional mediocrity.  No one knows what really happens to the person in that awful picture or the miserable character of that horrendous story.  Our heroes rush to the next hot spot in search of another picture, another story, and another topic, for yet another chance of a heroic visibility even as the first victim lies there dying.  With the victim out of site and out of mind, the generous public follows the busy hero until it too becomes victim, a syndrome known as donor apathy or compassion fatigue.

I too was caught up in this race to be a hero.  I worked with the Oromo Relief Association (ORA) to support Oromo Refugees scattered through the Horn of Africa.  I wanted to raise funds and send them to ORA.  I envied those who had one of those pictures that would help you raise millions without effort.  I wanted those stories that bring tears to your eyes and compel you to reach for that checkbook.  I knew they were there, but the right people never visited those camps.  Though my friends and I worked very hard for the most deserving group of refugees, we did not have much to show for our efforts.  We needed images that sell.  So it was with great anticipation and excitement that I embarked on my journey when my opportunity came to visit the refugee camps in the Sudan.

Yabus refugee camp was located in a remote region of the Sudan, south of Kumruk and bordering southwest Ethiopia.  There was no sign of international relief agencies.  It must have been too remote for the international media too.  One hundred percent of the assistance came through the Oromo Relief Association.  All the relief workers were also Oromo.  For a person who is familiar with the highlands of Oromia where most of the refugees came from it was an inhospitably hot low land of bur and thistles and not much else.  There was only one large tent on the whole camp.  The relief officials had designed the camp as a small village of little huts.  Refugee families occupied each hut and were put in charge of its care.  The huts were built a few feet apart to give the residents some measure of privacy.  All able bodied persons helped build new huts so that new arrivals could move into their own huts.

One large building with mud plastered wall served as a clinic manned by a dresser (himself a refugee with medical training back home).  Another building with large rectangular internal space served as a school.  On the outer edge of the camp was a small hut that housed the grinding mill.  Refugee families brought their rations of donated grains like corn and sorghum and carried the flours back.

The large tent at the center served as distribution center.  Food rations, cloths, sandals and farm implements were distributed from there.  It also served as a community center.  People came over to sit around and pass time talking.  Coffee is served to camp officials in this tent in the mornings.  Camp officials also slept in this tent.  During the day food is served to camp officials and other workers who were helping with building of new huts for new arrivals.  In the evenings the tent was full of people.  They told stories, played games and sang songs to lighten their burden.  It was here that I spotted Gurmu.

The next day I pulled Gurmu away from his work and began to interview him.  He was not an ideal candidate for the kind of picture I wanted.  His personal stories gave me a good insight into the refugee making machinery in Ethiopia. I learned more about him and his wishes more from watching him than from listening to him.  He worked and lived on two different farmsteads.  He successfully farmed in an upland area and in a low land area.  He maintained a home on each farm.  He also had a wife on each farm.  It was when he was on his upland farm that he learned that government agents were coming for him that night.  He was accused of transporting a wounded Oromo Liberation Front fighter to safety on his mule.  He and his mule were both to be captured and punished.  He took one of his wives and the mule and escaped before they got him.  He wants to go back for the rest of his family and would do that as soon as his wife, who fled with him, gets well.  At this time I learned that his wife lay in bed seriously ill in their hut.  I asked if I could go visit her.  He hesitated a bit and consented out of respect for me.

I had not visited any of the huts up to this time.  This was to be my chance for a perfect picture.  May be, I could get a story from her too.  I went with excitement.  He went in ahead of me.  The conical roof of the hut came over the round wall to about four feet above ground.  He was not a small man.  He bent down low and walked in to almost the center of the hut before he was able to stand erect.  He invited me in.  The lady was on her side on a wooden bed with some grass matting.  I tried to talk to her.  Though she was awake she seemed too weak to talk.  I told her who I was and that I wanted to take her picture.  I told Gurmu to sit her up for me so I could get a good picture.  He started prepping her up for a picture.  He got wet cloth and wiped her face.  He tried to comb her hair making her very uncomfortable.  It was then that I started to question my role.

His initial hesitation to let me visit his wife in the hut was because he did not feel that they were presentable.  They were used to providing acceptable accommodations for a guest. They were used providing their guests a decent place to sit in a decent house, decent food and drink along with relaxed conversation.  Now there is none of that.  Though I might have been sympathetic, it was a painful reminder of what they had lost.   They were fully aware that you had your picture taken fully groomed and in your best cloths.  They are human beings first and destitute refugees next.  I had no business further degrading them by exposing them to such humiliation.  They could have told me to get the hell out of their place.  Instead they chose to show me respect, thereby maintaining the last bit of their humanity.  The least I could do was to respect them as much.  I told Gurmu that I did not have enough lighting to take the picture.  Understandably, he was not upset.  I wished the patient well and Gurmu walked me back to the big tent.

That was the end of my hunt for a good picture.  But what about other photographers.  Do they face the same dilemma? Do they get a written permission from the subject?  Do thy somehow try to compensate their subjects in proportion to the income they draw from the pictures?  After all, they copyright the pictures they take.  But copyright is a property right.  Is property right worth more than human rights? How heroic is the action of our heroes? Would these subjects consent to having their pictures taken if they had a choice?  What’s more important, their dignity or the monies raised on their behalf?  My views have been changed since the trip.  I am angrier that there still are conditions that force human beings into such indignity.  I am more compassionate for the victims.  I am less impressed with the fund raising tools that exploit the victims.  Finally, I am glad I am not a photojournalist.

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