As Dexter Filkins suggests in the introduction to his book Photographers on War, the war was the first and last of its kind. Michael Kamber is one of the witnesses of this conflict and its endless acts of cruelty. “When you’re in a situation where ten car bombs explode on a daily basis for eight years straight, after a while it becomes no longer just another attack,” says Kamber. “It’s a challenge to keep documenting these daily tragedies, especially when the fighting is long-range, and at best we can capture only the consequences.”
Dreams and Dread in Afghanistan
How does one photograph a story that has not yet occurred? How does one evoke a sense of what might happen, or of what could? This was the challenge for …
How does one photograph a story that has not yet occurred? How does one evoke a sense of what might happen, or of what could? This was the challenge for the Afghan-Swiss photographer Zalmaï: to capture the sense of foreboding that, as Dexter Filkins writes in this week’s issue, permeates Afghanistan as American troops prepare to withdraw
I pulled on my running shoes and stepped into the sweltering streets. It was a Thursday in July 2003, twilight, and well over 100 degrees. I was feeling a little reckless. If this ended badly, the only thing anyone would remember was how stupid I was.
We had set up the New York Times office on Abu Nawas Street. We lived and worked there: an Ottoman-style house with a gated yard and a veranda on the second floor that looked out on a boulevard that tracked the eastern bank of the Tigris River. In those first days, we didn’t fortify the place; no razor wire or blast walls, no watchtowers or machine guns mounted on the roof. Cars motored past our front yard on their way to the Jumhuriya Bridge a couple of miles up the road.
Check it out here.