The Photographer

Mostly this is the result of reading DMZ and drinking an obscene amount of caffeine at the same time. It's part of a larger universe that I have bouncing around my head, which is why it has the weird tag at the bottom. It's a bit rough, but I think that it isn't that bad of a story.





The darkness of the room was the only comfort that he could count on every night. Not that it really bothered him; the darkness was preferable to the alternative, no matter how lonely it was. Compared to the day, it was almost quiet, with only a distant food riot providing any sound. Also, his bed was still in the corner, with all of his blankets on it, so there was no going around the neighborhood that night looking for his possessions. Of course, all of the comfort in the world wouldn't have gotten his mind off of what happened during the day.

He quickly flipped through the pictures that were taken that day, horrified at what he was looking at. One of them showed a church, black smoke billowing out of it as a crowd of people rushed out, forming a ring around the burning symbol of their faith. Another showed a soldier, his head jerking back, as his helmet is ripped off by the force of a bullet impacting it. If these were someone else’s photographs, the photographer would have been awed by the deceivingly calm nature of these photographs, with no blood or sound to tarnish the haunting beauty of these pictures. He knew that the pictures were anything but tranquil, that they showed a war, not as soldiers or as journalists saw them, but as a civilian caught in the crossfire saw them. It was a wonder that he had survived the day, with food riots, gang warfare, and the insurgency engulfing every block of the city. The only thing that had protected him was a jacket with the word “PRESS” spray painted on it, and a small packet of ID cards that showed his status as a photojournalist.

He looked at his jacket with disdain, debating what should be done with it. While the jacket had saved his life on numerous occasions, it also prevented him from interfering with the subjects he was photographing. He could do nothing to harm the murderers, or help the starving and wounded, unless he wanted to forsake what little protection the press offered him. He knew that even though he was a civilian, the only reason that no one shot him was because of the jacket informing them that he was one of the only journalists in the entire city, and thus he was the only person who could release their side of the war to the world at large. The second he starts helping one side, the impromptu truce could be shattered, leaving him as a target, as no one faction wants to see the sole source of information being biased to another faction. Also, his press license would be voided if he attempted to help any of the factions, which would revoke the protection of both militaries fighting in the city.

Also, helping out either side defeated the purpose of his stay in the city. He originally came there to photograph what was really happening on the ground level, not to try and influence the battle. If he helped out civilians, his credibility could be destroyed, because he would no longer be an unbiased reporter. Even if his credibility survived, the message of his work could be lost in the wave of controversy that would have surrounded him. People are easily distracted, often losing sight of the message of a work if there is any hint of bias in it.

How can he stay unbiased, when the world is going to hell all around him? The snapshot of the soldier did not show the whole story. It didn’t show how he lay dazed on the floor, babbling about what he was going to do when he went home. There was no hint of the fear that gripped the rest of his squad, as they jumped behind cover, bullets whizzing by overhead, trying to figure out how to save the soldier before he died of shock without putting themselves in harms way. How is it possible to stay unbiased in a situation like that?

Situations like that weren’t rare either. They didn’t just happen on a weekly, or even daily, but hourly. Moments like that were so common, that if he didn’t document them, they would fade into the background, becoming a part of normal life. In fact, he hid behind the camera, not registering the world until he looked at the pictures, at which point his feeling came in a rush, almost as if they were on a timer.

Before he could think about the war any further, his phone rang. Answering it, he got a tip for where there was going to be a major offensive to drive the insurgents out of the block, with no interference from the other military for the first time in years. He grabbed his camera, and looked at his badges and jacket, debating whether to grab them and rush out, or to just leave them so he could help the people suffering. Time slowed to a crawl, as the question of what to do bounced around in his mind like a super ball in a cage. There was no right answer; no matter what he did there would always be someone who said he did the wrong thing. In the end, he grabbed what he would need for the night, and rushed out the door.