Practical advice for photographers covering the Russian invasion of Ukraine to stay safe and healthy while doing war photography.
“I’d seen so many in Ukraine, in Kyiv without helmet and vest,” Fadek tells PetaPixel. “I saw journalists running around [without personal protective equipment, or PPE] in Irpin, which is a suburb of Kyiv, and Babyn (Babi) Yar, a former holocaust site that was attacked in the initial days of the war.
A member of the VU’ Agency since 2021, Guillaume Herbaut has been observing history and current events with a keen eye for over thirty years. Ranging from photojournalism to visual art, his work brings a breath of fresh air to documentary photography. Bli
The Musée de l’Armée offers a first glimpse into its photographic archives in an exhibition that traces the representation of war and the evolution of images of combat from 1849 to the present. This essential event shares some important lessons.
“I believe I’m now the longest-running Iraq/Afghanistan NYT-rotation photographer,” Christoph Bangert wrote in his journal on June 24th, 2013, on a plane to Istanbul. “Everybody else stopped covering wars or…
French war photographer Adrien Vautier spent over a month documenting the war unfolding in Ukraine.
One of the photojournalists working out of wartorn country was 51-year-old American journalist Brent Renaud. On the 13th of March, Renaud was killed in Irpin, a suburb north-west of Kyiv and one of the main battlefronts in the battle for Kyiv. Thanks to his and other journalists’ work, Irpin made headlines with images of civilians fleeing across the city’s main bridge.
Destruction, brutality, and terrible loss in Bucha, Kharkiv, Irpin, and elsewhere.
The invasion of Ukraine has been described as the first social-media war, and a key aspect of President Volodymyr Zelensky’s leadership has been his ability to rally his country, and much of the world, via Facebook, Telegram, TikTok, and Twitter. At the same time, war photographers in Bucha, Irpin, and beyond are working—in the tradition of Mathew Brady at Antietam or Robert Capa on Omaha Beach—to capture the grisly realities of what Vladimir Putin insists that his people call a “special military operation.”
Some images will always have the power to make us confront horror.
This image of a man with both eyes open is one of the most compelling and disquieting photos to come out of Bucha. It’s an intimate and puzzling image of death, and I’ve never seen anything like it. What did this man see at the moment of his death? Whatever it was, his resolve remained.
When war feels close to home, images function differently.
Even the most horrifying war photographs may leave you with the odd sense of being an unwanted tourist. It is a dreadful tourism, at a terrible cost, but almost as soon as the eye notices the carnage and destruction, it starts registering small and perhaps irrelevant details. The dirt is a darker red, the trees a deeper shade of green, the architecture and dress are different, as are the street signs, the pavement and the cars.
Simon Townsley reveals the stories behind some of his most impactful photographs from the conflict
I was part of a team of photographers and writers covering the first weeks of the conflict, following Russia’s invasion on February 24. None of us had any real idea how the situation would evolve or what to expect. We still don’t know what lies ahead.
Russian attacks have terrorized the civilian population in the Ukrainian city.
I visited Kharkiv less than a month before Russian missiles started striking it. Most of the people I met there—and all of the men whom I met there—told me that they, and the city, were ready for war. They thought they knew what war was. A Russian-orchestrated attempt to take over the city had failed in 2014, but, just to the east of Kharkiv, an occupation regime was established, and a shooting war went on for eight years. A giant blue-and-yellow tent in Freedom Square, with a banner that said “Everything for victory,” stood as a stubborn reminder that the war wasn’t over. Then Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine began. Within a few weeks, Kharkiv was unrecognizable.
Lindsey Hilsum, a correspondent for Britain’s Channel 4 News, is one of the most experienced conflict reporters covering the Ukraine war. But she never heads out without an electronic tracking device that allows editors to monitor her every move. She i
LINDSEY HILSUM, A CORRESPONDENT for Britain’s Channel 4 News, is one of the most experienced conflict reporters covering the Ukraine war. But she never heads out without an electronic tracking device that allows editors to monitor her every move. She is in constant and nearly instantaneous contact with her desk, and works closely with a security team with resources both inside and outside Ukraine. WhatsApp and Signal groups connect her to colleagues in the field—and provide a level of real-time battlefield information that, a decade ago, would have been available only to a top general.
The French American photographer, known for his documentation of the human condition for the past 40 years, shares his experience alongside Ukrainian refugees, from the day he left his home in Paris, and returned.
Lyseiko said that Levin took his personal car and went to photograph hostilities on March 13. He left his car near the village of Huta Mezhyhirska and went to the village of Moshchun. A text message was sent from his phone at 11:23 a.m., and after that he was not heard from again. Later, it was reported that hostilities started within the area where Levin was planning to work. It is presumed that he could have been wounded or taken prisoner by Russian troops.
While the stories of what photojournalist Catherine Leroy accomplished in her years photographing the Vietnam War are legendary in certain circles, a new biography for young adults aims to bring Leroy's story to a new generation.
For Maxim Dondyuk, the story was always personal, but never more than over the past few weeks
n the seconds before impact, mortars whistle as they fall, making a loud and almost plaintive sound Maxim Dondyuk will never forget. He will not forget the sting of their shrapnel, which felt like a hot knife in his arm, or the sight of the women and children he photographed during the shelling near Kyiv on March 6. He hopes the people who see his photos will not be able to forget them either. “I don’t stay here and do this because I am a masochist,” Dondyuk, who is Ukrainian, says by phone from the center of Kyiv. “I do it because sometimes a photo can change people, change societies.” With luck, he says, it might help stop a war.