mzungu!

Ugandan mystics

2009-10-06T21:56:00.003-04:00

When I was in Uganda, I went with a reporter to cover the 'Uganda Convention for Community Development,' a religious sect based in Kampala and often charged with witchcraft. I wrote about it earlier on my blog, but also developed my photos into an audio slideshow... Your comments most welcome!

back to the roots

2009-08-06T09:47:00.002-04:00

Even for wanderlust souls like mine, there's nothing like going home.

Home to America.
Home to New York.
Home to Rabbit College Road.

I think it's about roots, about history seeped with memories. I can have the craziest experiences abroad, chasing rhinos through the bush or photographing Congolese refugees in a narrow city alleyway, but in my 'village,' I've walked through this field a thousand times and watched that tree flower and bloom season after season. My family has tilled this rich but rocky brown earth and I have eaten its bounty.

Now instead of news about child sacrifice and sodomy charges, the headlines scream "Gladioli are back in Berlin" and "Petersburgh to get new ambulance" (front page, no joke).

It's good to be home.

Off the beaten trail: North to Karamoja

2009-07-31T02:08:00.014-04:00

Before I left for Karamoja, my friends and editors had dire warnings for me: “Be careful, it’s a war zone up there.” “They don’t wear clothes in Karamoja, you know. Are you ready?” “You’re going to Karamoja by yourself? Don’t you know how long that trip is?”

And so it was with much curiosity that I left the busy streets of Kampala on a 5am bus and set my face towards an area that was once forbidden to American citizens.

As we went further north, the food options at bus stops dwindled considerably. The chapattis disappeared, then the bananas left, followed by the gonja and maize. After Soroti, only long tubes of cassava remained, and vendors were replaced with people crowding around the bus windows begging for food or money and crying out for empty water bottles.

As the food options diminished, the landscape also changed dramatically, becoming flat and dry. Young boys walked with herds of cows on their way to protected kraals for the night. We were somewhere between Soroti and Moroto on a deserted stretch of road when the bus slowed down and stopped. The engine had overheated and everyone got off to wait for a replacement bus.

Now, I have studied what a semi-arid desert is. I have seen it on television and read about it in books. But I have never sat and waited in the short grasses, felt the ants crawl down my pants, gotten the dust in my eyes, or answered nature’s call in a semi-arid desert.

"Beauty Queen" reads the bus bumper as men crawl underneath to fix the engine.

After an hour and a half, a replacement bus can roaring down the road in a cloud of dust and exhaust fumes to rescue us and take us to Kotido.

I arrived in Kotido in the late evening and the next morning we took a private car north to Kaabong town, then on to Lokwakoromai, a small Ik village. The Ik, also called the Teuso, live in small villages nestled in the mountains, their huts surrounded by a tall stick fence that is entered by one small opening. We went inside and saw short round huts to store food, women cooking on small fires, and young kids playing quietly. Everyone was extraordinarily friendly and curious about their visitors with cameras and notebooks.

When I took a picture of Komol Tubo, a woman grinding tobacco, and showed her the photo on my digital camera, her face broke into a wide grin and others gathered around, asking me to take their photos as well.

The next day in Kaabong town as I waited for a meeting to begin, I saw a small group of Karamojan in bright costumes dance down the street and proceed to the secondary school. All the sub-counties in Kaabong were gathering for a music, dance, and drama festival. Each sub-county had a representative group, most clad in colourful plaid skirts, beads bouncing on their waists and necks, whistles to direct the dance, and quick smiles.

This Karamoja “war zone” was not between raiders and soldiers but between dance troupes and drama performances. They slung beads over their shoulders instead of guns, and pounded the ground with gravity-defying jumps instead of marching steps. Their bullets were smiles and their arrows were dramatic songs as they competed in culture. The insecurity warnings I heard in Kampala felt light years away.

Back in Kotido, which now felt like a big town, I went with some friends to “sliding rock,” a giant rock slab that slanted sharply down into a pool of green-brown water. A deep but narrow path led straight down the rock, as smooth as glass after thousands of little and big bottoms slid down in glee. My friends and I put a cloth underneath us and sped down the hill, stopping just before the water as we laughed in delight. I have been sliding in snow many times, but sliding down this smooth rock was surprisingly fast and fun.

As the sun set over the low hills in the distance, two young boys climbed the rock, took off their shirts, and used them like a surfboard to cruise down the smooth rock slide. These guys kept their balance as they sped all the way to the bottom as I stared in amazement.

Instead of the insecurity, danger, and threats I expected in Karamoja, I found people working passionately for peace, people with quick laughs, beautiful clothes and beads, and people with a playful spirit despite the existing difficulties.

Beading for beauty

2009-07-30T02:52:00.005-04:00

Whistles blow, feet stomp, and an old woman jumps high into the air as a group of Karamoja people gather for a traditional dance in northeastern Uganda. Central to the atmosphere of the energetic circle are colorful beads gracing every waist, forehead, arm, and neck. In Karamoja, beads are beauty. Beads are tradition. And for Safia Nakwang, beads are livelihood.

Nakwang runs a beading shop in Kotido, where she has lived for more than 15 years after moving from Kaabong. She cannot remember when she first started beading, but says she learned it growing up. “It’s my life,” she says. “I just know it. It is a traditional thing. All young warriors how to make beads.” Villagers buy plain beads from her, but town people who don’t know how to sew the beads buy her finished products.

Nakwang’s daughter, Arupei Hindy, is eight years old and walks to her mother’s bead shop after school to make a few items. She started making the beads about a year ago and already knows many designs. Although she doesn’t get paid for her work, her beads that are sold help provide books and food for her and her siblings. “This is what they eat,” Nakwang says metaphorically.

The small shop is full of colourful necklaces, waistbands, earrings, headpieces, tablemats, and other items all carefully made from small seed beads imported from Kenya or Mbale and often sold by Somalis. When business is busy, Nakwang can hire up to 20 people, but when it is slow, she can only afford three to five beaders. Nakwang’s profit follows the seasons and provides for her, her seven children, and eight children from her deceased co-wife. “When hunger is there, nobody buys,” she says. And this year, there is hunger.

To design the beads, Nakwang says she looks for colours that match and patterns that prove popular. “It’s about just being creative. If I put this and that, it will be good,” she says as she points to a bag full of beads. If people buy a particular pattern, she makes more of it.

Some belts feature the colours of Uganda, with vibrant black, yellow and red stripes. Other belts have the black, red and green of Kenya or the red, white and black of Egypt. One large belt even features green, yellow and black with “Jamaika” spelled out in large letters.

Different tribes and clans have their own particular methods of making the bead products. The Dodoth sew the beads onto materials like plastic from jerry cans or Blue Band tubs. The Jie tend to make designs in loose strands. Some tribes form triangle patterns, while others prefer stripes.

Most people in Karamoja wear beads—at least small waist strands—every day. “Even on newborn babies they put some lines,” says Nakwang. “They cannot carry a child without the beads.” When girls are 14 or 15, she says they start wearing beads to attract men so that “the man with cows will come and carry her.”

For special occasions like weddings and dances, individuals wear a full set of beads, which includes earrings, a double necklace and a single small necklace, a head piece, a wide belt, single waist strands in solid colours, arm bands above the elbow, and leg bands on the ankle or calf.

Making the items can be quite time-consuming. Nakwang says a wide waist belt can take up to four whole days, with an entire day spent pricking the plastic bits that separate bead sections. “This work is difficult,” she says. “If you’re in a group, the work is easier. But when you’re alone, it’s tiresome.”

But the long hours pay off when dancers don the beads and display their skills. These beautiful beads capture the essence of a vibrant and proud tradition.

Let the poet come out! - The Lantern Meet of Poets

2009-07-16T05:00:00.007-04:00

On a sleepy Sunday afternoon, 30 young people pull their chairs in a large circle at the National Theatre. One man leans forward in his chair and reads a poem called “The Greatest Love Story.” People watch him quietly and listen raptly to a story about a man who tried to love a beautiful woman but wasn’t satisfied.

Mouths drop open in shock as he reads the last line: “He concluded he preferred someone similar to him. / He preferred his own sex.”

This is a meeting of the Lantern Meet of Poets, and the author of this poem, Esther Semakula, says she wrote the poem to play with people’s expectations. “I’m a person who loves to dwell on controversial things,” she says. “Poetry is an expression of people’s thoughts and feelings.”

The Lantern Meet of Poets began meeting in April 2007 with four poets who were passionate about raising the level of writing in Uganda and restoring the value of writers. Now their membership numbers over 60 young poets from different walks of life, and more keep coming every meet.

For the bimonthly meetings, poets bring original poems either based on a theme like identity, love, poverty, or war; or based on a specific structure like sonnets, metaphorical poems, or a specific rhyming scheme. The poems are mixed up and passed out to readers anonymously. A reader recites the poem while the others listen carefully, they critique it with detailed comments, then the moderator asks the poet to come out, and he or she makes final comments on the piece.

“There’s a tendency to be soft on yourself,” says member Gome Emmanuel. “Critique helps you to grow as a writer.” Gome started coming to the meets two years ago and is now a core member. “My poetry has grown,” he says. “I’ve learned to challenge myself. It’s like a crucible—forcing you to get the best out of yourself.”

Peter Kagayi joined the group six months ago and also says his poetry has changed by “leaps and bounds” since then. Before, the only audience for his writing was his family. He had no other avenue. But now he realizes how much he loves poetry. “I understand poetry. It was a hidden talent,” he says. “From that day I’ve never missed a single meet.”

But it’s not just the poetry that changes. Members say writing and reading poetry together also affects their personal beliefs. “When we come and talk about it, my mind is affected and I change the way I think,” says Kagayi. “There’s this general aura of acceptance.” Semakula adds that the meeting on Sunday opened her eyes to different perspectives on the topic sex and sexuality. “It is sex, but we all perceive it in so many different ways,” she explains.

When members bring up harsh critiques, they are able to separate the content of the poem and its stylistic attributes. “I think I like it,” says one member. “It makes all the senses come alive.” Another adds, “The author is writing from very powerful Greek illusions that give it that epic, ancient feel.” Some talk about the structure of the poem while others consider how the audience will react to the work.

The Lantern Meet of Poets occasionally takes its work beyond the Sunday circle of chairs. They are compiling an anthology of their best poems that they hope to publish within a year at a major publishing house. They hope to reach out to schools with poetry workshops and public readings. They also hold free recitals for the public at the National Theatre.

The recitals highlight the best work of these young poets, and show us all that, as Gome says, “Poetry is the thing of the future.”

Land eviction

2009-07-13T09:47:00.003-04:00

This is Atono Lovince. Her husband died in 2003, leaving her with six children. She lives in a Kampala suburb and had a small store to sell small fruits, vegetables, airtime, biscuits, etc. The problem is, a developer claims that he owns the right to the land she rents. They gave her about $35 to move, but that's not enough, so she stayed. Last night a group of armed men came at midnight. They broke into her store, beat up her children, stole all the goods, broke down the walls, and told her she has to get out now.

"Pray for me because now I have nothing," she said.

They say you can't understand someone's situation until you've walked in their shoes. But what if they don't have shoes?

Dancing away the pain: refugees sing their stories

2009-07-08T07:30:00.000-04:00

In the midst of heart-breaking stories and difficult journeys, music, dance and drama often bubble to the surface in Kyaka II refugee camp. A woman walking down a red dirt road bursts into song in the morning mist. A young woman pounding papyrus keeps the beat with a simple melody. And a group of Congolese men and women gather under a simple shelter to sing and dance their experiences.

This is the Amakemi group, which means “rise up” in Swahili. As a crowd of elderly, young girls, men and women of all ages gather under the shade of trees to listen, the 10 members of the group sing “we are refugees, we have problems. In Africa, people are suffering.”

Charlotte Burungi, the leader of the group, lifts her hands in the air as they continue the song to the beat of a single drum: “We are asking all people to pray so war and torturing is stopped and refugees can return to their motherland.”

Burungi, mother of four children at age 26, fled Congo six years ago after rebels came to her village, burned houses, and slaughtered her neighbors. She began singing when she was six years old, and sang in a church choir in Congo. Although her entire life has been uprooted, she holds onto song and dance.

“When I’m singing, I’m happy,” she says with a slight smile. “But sometimes I’m sad because it reminds us of what’s still happening in Congo.”

The Amakemi group, founded two years ago, composes their own music and centers the lyrics around love. Because war is caused by lack of love, they say, they use their songs to ask people to love each other. If you love, Amakemi sings, you can’t steal, you can’t kill, and you will always have friends. They sing about change, asking their rapt listeners to leave their old violent ways and forget revenge.

This is not the only music and dance group in the camp. Travel along the bumpy red dirt roads, through many green gardens, and past mud huts with plastic and grass roofs, and the Buliti Drama Group comes into sight.

Three young men vigorously beat drums in the centre of a circle of colourfully-clothed women. The women dance around the circle with banana leaves strapped to their waists, stamping their feet, singing with strong voices, and calling out “ai-i-i-i-i-i-!” Babies strapped to some of their backs bounce along with the dance, young children run in and out of the circle as they also play with sticks and tire rims, and men fall in and out of the circle.

Like the Amakemi group, these Congolese are singing about their troubles in Congo, but how happy they are to be in the refugee camp now. They feel peaceful and happy in the camp and are grateful to be there.

The leader is Love, a 42-year-old woman who explains that the group sings and dances together every week for over an hour. Most of them have been in Kyaka for four or five years, and they are not yet ready to return to Congo because the land is still unsettled. They feel good and happy when they sing and dance, she says. It gives them a space to express their joint experiences as refugees. They don’t listen to other kinds of music, because this traditional music is an integral part of their identity. It is a place to show their gratitude, express their emotions, and share their experiences.

So as babies bounce to their mothers’ dances in Buliti Drama Group, and as young and old gather together under the trees to listen to Amakemi, the music and dance in Kyaka refugee camp—a place for the homeless and rejected—rings out loud and clear.

Milégé Afro Jazz Band: Proud to sound Ugandan

2009-07-08T02:38:00.000-04:00

Seven young new faces graced the stage at the Bayimba Festival this year under the banner of Milégé Afro Jazz Band. With an energy that pulled the crowd to its feet, the band filled the air with African pulses, jazz chords, and a fusion of Ugandan sounds.

This is what they call “Afro-traditional music with a bias to jazz,” says manager and guitarist Manana Birabi Francis. “It has the basics of jazz music, but you feel the influence of our Africanness, our African cultural sounds.”

The band’s name “Milégé” comes from an ankle rattle from the Luo people. The band centers their sound on this bell-like and airy sound from the north, but adds in jazz elements and other Ugandan sounds.

Humble beginnings
Milégé is a new group still planning the path before them. It all started when Francis caught a “crazy obsession with guitar,” he explains. After performing with only basic chords in a festival, he says, “I got this interest in music, and I started playing every day of my life, up until now.” Friends gave him tips, he watched shows, joined a church band, and practiced obsessively. Little lessons every day culminated to substantial growth each year, and he began playing in various bands.

But the life of a musician is not an easy one, and he found a cold shoulder from professional groups. He spoke with three other friends who had similar experiences, and they decided to form their own ensemble. Together as partners, they found the freedom to play whatever music they like and make their own rules.

“I’ve found a home in the band,” says Francis. “It’s not just a band. It’s family. It’s not just playing music or making money. We believe in cultivating good relationships amongst each other as a band.”

The four partners spent two months talking through the details and laying the groundwork for Milégé Afro Jazz Band. Although the original vision was for an all-girls band, Francis found that women instrumentalists were not easy to find. The four formed a structure that allowed for new members to join and work their way into the band based on their level of commitment and dedication. They talked through the importance of maintaining family relationships and allowing absences due to family functions. They discussed how to minimize discrimination so that everyone has an equal chance.

They all agreed that they wanted Milégé to be one band and one brand. Instead of being centered around a vocalist and pulling in instrumentalists from other bands, guitarist Elaine Alowo Obbo explains that they “came up with a structure to build a brand and a product, to grow as a family.” They are more than individual musicians who happen to play on the same stage; they are a partnership, a band as a single entity.

At the same time, they make sure that members can pursue their own professions in order to support themselves outside of the band. “We have to hold on to our professions so we can determine what kind of music to play,” Elaine says. They did not want the pressure of the market to mold them into a particular genre.

Instead of being a weakness, the band’s side jobs have become a strength. Elaine, a lawyer for Shonubi Musoki & Co., develops the band’s contracts. Dinah Oundo, studying commerce and ACCA, organizes the band’s finance and accounts. Assimwe Paul, studying fine art, develops the band’s media and brand management. Their individual talents work together as a single unit.

The sound
Milégé Afro Jazz Band is after a new, creative sound. They compose their own pieces, slowly working through new combinations—jazz piano solo first, perhaps some vocal improvisation, Muganda drumming next, or maybe a bass solo before that—blending together each member’s unique contributions. Elaine says it’s like baking a cookie. “Everyone has this cookie that they can make,” she says. “And they all have these special ingredients that they bring. Everybody just puts your special ingredient in the pot.” The resulting pieces are infused with jazz, African rhythms, Ugandan languages, and an improvisational feel.

Their musical influences range from Geoffrey Oryeem to Hugh Maseka, Jonathan Butler, Soul Beat, and Erik Clapton. Above all, they want to create a change and show people the pride and beauty of Ugandan sounds.

“We want to create a change,” says Elaine. “For Ugandans to sing and be proud to sound Ugandan. Why aren’t we proud to sell that sound to the world? We need to do that.”

Herman Ssewanyana, the founder of African fusion band Percussion Discussion, says there are challenges for new bands to “do more for the world to understand,” but he says that Ugandans should get to hear jazz and listen to original music. “I support Milégé, and I’d like them to go far,” he says.

Milégé Afro Jazz Band may be just getting their feet wet in the East African musical community, but if the Bayimba Festival is any indicator, they are one band that will rock the music scene and push creative Ugandan fusion music to new heights.

Four wheels, no gas, and ruts galore

2009-07-06T05:05:00.001-04:00

Every day I take at least four matatus—15-passenger vans/taxis that often squeeze in 20 people on the bench seat—from home in Kanyanya to work in Namuwongo. It’s about an 80 minute commute in the morning, and up to 100 minute commute on the way home, depending on the traffic jams. So in that time, there’s a lot that can happen. Like…

--I was riding home one night when we hit a rut or something and ka-THUNK! it sounds like the floor dropped out of the matatu. The conductor was concerned, and you know when he’s concerned, that’s trouble. We limped back to the road under a warning—mpola, mpola (slowly, slowly). I thought surely we would stop for a fix-it job, but we continued on the main road with the floor rattling like hell underneath. I laughed with the others as we all rolled our eyes.

--One afternoon I was in a taxi with some friends. We were going along fine when the driver pulled over and stopped. No one was getting out, but the conductor pulled half a water bottle out of a little hole in the floor, walked back and stuck it in the gas task, then opened the back of the taxi and brought out a yellow jerry can of gas. He poured the gas through the water bottle funnel, put it all back, and off we went again.

--Late one evening I was riding a boda boda (motorcycle taxi which I ride frequently), going up a hill, when we started slowing down and finally came to a stop. It was dark and on a quiet stretch of road, and I didn’t know what was going on. The driver unscrewed the gas tank and peeped in. He jiggled the bike some and tried to start it up again. No luck. Then he asked me to get off. He laid the bike on its side and jostled it around, trying to get the last drips of gas. After righting it, we both got on, it started flawlessly, and we were off again. Perfect.

The commute is quite exhausting, but I do see a lot of LIFE happen as we go by. I can’t read because the roads are too bumpy, so I look out the window at little kids brushing their teeth, men selling chapatti at little tables by the road, and women sweeping the dust out of their yards.

Tales from a refugee camp

2009-07-06T04:44:00.002-04:00

Last week I traveled to a refugee camp in western Uganda with a reporter. We were there to document "MakaPads," a project of refugees that makes sanitary pads from all-natural materials for women in the camps. I took over 700 photos in two days, and was overwhelmed with stories from people we met. These are not easy, light stories either.

Ibrahim is from Congo. He fled from the war after his father, mother, and whole family was killed. He’s been in the camp for five years now, and has no plans to return home since Congo is still conflict-ridden. He’s trained as a carpenter, but there’s no market for expensive furniture in a refugee camp, and no jobs outside. He used to dig a garden to keep his wife and child fed, but the school fees he’d like to complete his secondary education are just not attainable. Now he’s working at MakaPads, but that doesn’t pay particularly well.

Then there’s the family of Rwandan refugees who were just leaving the camp to be repatriated in Rwanda. They were going through medical checks and loading their few possessions into a huge UNHCR truck. The prime minister recently gave an ultimatum for all Rwandan refugees to return to their homeland by July 31. Last chance, people. But they’ve been here since the genocide in 1994 and have built up their lives on the fertile soil of Western Uganda. Fifteen years away from your land in such a small country as Rwanda, who knows if you’ll be able to reclaim the land you had before? And last time you were there, your tribe was hacking to death thousands of people with pangas (machetes)… Now the victims are in power, seeking justice, maybe revenge, and will be your neighbors.

And there’s Love, an older Congolese refugee who’s the leader of a music and dance troupe. She composed the songs they danced for us last week, singing about the horrors of Congo and how grateful they are to be in this peaceful land where they can settle and dig.

I’ve heard stories like these before, but the thing is, I’ve never shaken their hands or danced and laughed with them. I’ve never looked the 20,000 refugees in this one camp in the eye and asked if they have a family here. Or, had. And I’ve never walked the red dirt roads of a refugee camp, breathed in the dust, and seen the mud and wood houses. I’ve never eaten their food and pooped in their latrines.

It’s strange to be in the midst of the camp, hearing all these stories, with my snazzy camera, little notebook and pen that jots down names and observations, and my tidy attire. Because at the end of the day, I can drive away and return to the land of freedom, of choice. I go back to a hotel with electricity and choice of clothes for tomorrow. Then at the end of this month, I'm going to fly away to a land that is an utmost dream for so many here, and I can struggle with a decision to go for a PhD or get a job writing about music in the city of my choosing.

I think freedom is really about choice. I’m grateful for this freedom. I truly am. I’m not going to ditch my degree and go live in Kyaka refugee camp in order to identify with these people. No. But I am going to use my skills and freedoms for others, to help others. I don’t know how, but I’m going to start by taking good pictures that tell the stories well, and writing interesting stories that convey the dignity of the people.

[Pictures coming once I sort them all out!]

Sculptural Expressions on HIV/AIDS

2009-07-02T10:53:00.003-04:00

Dr. Lilian Nabulime has been creating art every since she was a young girl, studying sculpture, drawing and painting from primary school all the way to a PhD at the University of Newcastle in the UK. Her exhibition Sculptural Expressions: Women and HIV/AIDS is on display at the Makerere Fine Arts Gallery from May 19 until July 31. I interviewed her about the driving force behind her artwork and what alights her passions.

What inspires your art?
It is the interest. I love sculpture. I love modeling. I love using my hands, to touch, to feel. I think I enjoy coming up with new ideas, transforming them. I really like that. I enjoy doing things. Even when there are challenges, then that helps me find out ways to overcome them.

What drives your theme for this exhibit?
I think at one time I was going through an experience. I was sad. When I went to Newcastle University, the first thing I said was, ‘let me read about men and HIV/AIDS.’ And when I read about men and HIV/AIDS, I realized I had been affected. My husband had been diagnosed with HIV/AIDS in 1998, and then it was tough caring for him. He was in denial. It was tough. And then I remember seeking help and I wasn’t getting the right help. I realized it was our own problem, me and him. No one would come out and help us...

So I thought let me do my research on women and HIV/AIDS and infections, to develop sculpture that could warm women on HIV/AIDS infections and encourage them to talk to avoid becoming victims. Or even if they are not infected, at least to warn their children. There is need for mothers to know how to bring up this subject to their children. It’s not easy to talk about such issues with children. So I thought it would be good to develop sculptures that would encourage women to talk.

What challenges do you face as an artist in Uganda?
This is the first time I’m exposing my work. When I was developing my research, because it was people living with HIV/AIDS and the vulnerable and poor people, they were very receptive. But the ones who are educated, I think they feel shy. They are not very receptive like the other group of people. Either they are shy or they just don’t feel like talking. Most of my subjects are very direct, regarding infection. And as a taboo, people don’t find it very comfortable to talk, to discuss. But at the same time the work is interesting, so by the time you’re drawn into it, you enjoy the work, and afterwards you realize you’re on subjects which are not easy to talk about.

What’s the future of HIV/AIDS in Uganda?
I think you keep on wondering why these infections are going on, are increasing. For me, it is having direct messages and being open and frank. Why don’t you come with the direct messages which show the reality of HIV/AIDS? So that people are threatened and reminded that this is a killer disease. People need strong messages which hit them right up and they see this is a destructive disease.

What life lessons have you learned as an artist?
Through art you can express your feelings, and through art you can touch other people’s lives. People don’t necessarily have to be educated. Once the work object is there and if it is attractive, it draws in people and they start asking questions. As they are asking, the information is being passed on and they are also giving you ideas. So it is not a one-way track.

You are able to learn about other people’s lives and experiences. And for me, I was able to learn about lives and experiences of vulnerable people, and especially those who have been infected and affected by HIV/AIDS. Through my art I was able to draw feelings and experiences of these people’s experiences, and that also made my work become stronger.

Even when I was in the UK, much as I had the influence of Western artists, but inside me, still I knew I was doing the work for the African. I was carrying my cultural knowledge and beliefs within the work I was doing. So much as I was getting those ideas, I still had to add on my African cultures because I knew the work was for Africans.

What’s in your future?
I still have an obligation. Because when I was doing that research, I realized the women were poor. Without fighting poverty, HIV cannot end. If women are poor, they will still be exposed to the vulnerable factors…

All I know is I have to give something to the women I did research with. Because they talk about their children--they worry too much about their children, their school fees. So honestly, I feel that it’s not right if I’m selling and I don’t remember their problems. And at the same time they also made contributions to my research. So I can give back when I sell some of my work.

[I'm having trouble uploading photos, but there are some of Dr. Nabulime in the slideshow to the left.]

Jjaja Ndawula sect

2009-06-17T02:52:00.008-04:00

The Uganda Convention for Community Development may seem like another nongovernmental organization at first glance. They have a school for the community, women who sew uniforms for the children, a community bank, a hospital, training sessions to learn math and science, and a large security business.

But ask a few questions and a deeper spiritual force rises to the surface. These are the followers of Jjaja Ndawula, a spirit who has shown its followers a new way: a path of miraculous healing, religious rituals, and intellectual empowerment.

“Most people come when they’re sick, then they’re mad,” says follower Roushitrah Matovu. “When you pray, he heals our sickness… The messenger of God may come in different forms. For us we combine and say they are all spirits. We understand what’s good.”

Below are pictures of the community base in Kampala where there are small shrines, training centers, and housing. There are also pictures from “Maureen City,” a compound a bumpy half hour’s drive out of the city, where followers of the sect gather every Monday evening for an all-night ceremony at the large central shrine.

[Note: This story is a work in progress and will be published in the Monitor when completed. I’m working with another journalist who is doing most of the story, while I do the photos. Please click here to be directed to the Picasa site for photo captions.]

media, representation, and bazungu

2009-06-16T08:48:00.003-04:00

My last blog entry was actually written for a column in the Daily Monitor. It was published on their Web site and got a few interesting comments. This one from "Nyanzi" is my favorite:

"A mzungu taking pictures in Africa means that he or she is going to report negatives,lies about Africa.That has been the order of the the day ever since.No wonder people do not want that no more.
With your experience, do we have any thing good in Africa?.
-Do Africans laugh?
-Do Africans have names?
-Do Africans reason?
Africa deserves a better represantation."

This comment expresses a prevailing attitude that I've heard a number of times. The media that is given to Western [read mzungu] audiences often portrays the starving, nameless African child or the widow dying of AIDS or the mobs of angry black men killing each other with machetes.

This is precisely one of the reasons I'm studying journalism. Journalists are mediators, as an elderly man told me yesterday, and I want to illustrate a different side of Africa. When I'm here, I know there is poverty and corruption and all that, but I don't see it in the people around me. I see smiles. I hear joking. I meet passionate people who are striving to report the truth and work for peace.

Yes, Africans laugh. A lot.
Yes, Africans have names. Awesome ones.
Yes, Africans reason. Reason with intellect and passion.

And yes, Africa deserves better representation.

Ugandan Martyrs' Day

2009-06-04T07:43:00.002-04:00

Prelude: Thousands of Ugandans gathered in Namugongo, Kampala yesterday in commemoration of Martyrs' Day, a public holiday that remembers the death of 26 Christians killed in 1886. Pilgrims from across the country and surrounding nations convened for Catholic and Protestant services, many of them walking from faraway towns in solidarity with the sufferings the martyrs endured. The services featured choirs, dancing, prayers, serving Holy Communion and a speech by President Museveni.
----------------------
The Daily Monitor team arrived in Namugongo in the morning, ready to face the crowds. As a photographer for the paper, my task was to capture the festival of senses that lay outside the security gates of the official services.

Looking around me, this first seemed like a daunting request. The roads were packed with pilgrims on their way to the shrine and it was difficult to walk through the crowds. I spotted a man making rolexes (fried egg rolled in a chapatti), which seemed to be a good place to start. Once I made my way over to him, I held up my camera and started to take photos.

But the man and his friend started waving their hands and complaining about the camera. Who was this mzungu?, this white person, they wondered, and where will she take our faces? I was surprised at their reaction, but explained that I’m a journalist. Yes, I’m a mzungu. And yes, I work for the Daily Monitor. They suddenly relaxed and smiled, telling that me I could take any pictures I wanted. Another vendor nearby overheard our conversation and asked me to take photos there too.

I do not know what negative experiences people have had with mzungus taking pictures, but I quickly learned that clipping a big red sign that read “PRESS” to the front of my bag made people relax and welcome my camera aimed at them.

The variety of food vendors and hawkers was truly amazing. There were people selling Martyrs’ Day calendars, crosses, DVDs, books, clothes, fabric, toy bikes, paintings, chapattis, fried white ants, pineapples, mangos, bananas, piles of sugar cane, pork, ice cream, watches, bags and so much more. It was as if the streets of Namugongo turned into a giant market, a carnival of delights.

In the midst of the chaos, I saw a small crowd gathered around a man who, I was told, was performing miracles. He had a stick on fire that he stuck down his pants, put in his mouth and touched with his bare hands. Miracles! He also performed a trick on an envelope and paper with much drama and waving, proving to the growing crowd that he had special powers. A man selling photographs, who introduced himself as John, thanked me the mzungu for being there and wanted me to stay. “When the people see you,” he said, “they are like, ‘eh! Wow!’ So stay around because we are making money.”

Indeed, everywhere I went the crowd seemed to grow bigger. I stepped inside a tent where there was music and soon there were many more people inside. I stopped at a cell phone tent to take pictures of a woman dancing, and when I looked behind me there was a circle of young people watching us. As a mzungu, it is impossible to disappear in a crowd. You always feel like people are watching you, because they are.

Over the buzz of the crowd I picked out a familiar melody that reminded me of the US. It came from an ice cream bicycle, and I could sing along: “Santa Claus is coming to town.” In the middle of the Martyrs’ Day crowd, in the middle of Kampala, in the middle of Africa, these Christmas medleys seemed both out of place and strangely familiar and comfortable. I stopped, raised my camera, and clicked the shutter.

Story in the Indiana Daily Student
Daily Monitor coverage
Daily Monitor

The King and I

2009-06-02T10:24:00.003-04:00

Today I met the king of Busoga, one of the kingdoms in Uganda. At least, he claimed to be the king. Sadat Nkuutu is only 13 years old and still speaks with a high voice. I asked him why he wants to be king.

"Why do I want to be a king?" he asked, surprised. "Because I am a king."

How do you know you are a king?

"Kings have to be born with two umbilical cords and the millet seeds."

Millet seeds?, I asked, getting back "duh" stares. Apparently kings are born with millet seeds in both hands. The father of the "king" was also there and even produced two dried-out umbilical cords. Proof!

But there is opposition to the king in Busoga, with others also claiming royalty. "I don't know what will be done," Nkuutu said. "Justice will be done."

Today I also photographed the Minister for Relief Disaster Preparedness and Refugees, and met the ambassadors of Egypt, Sudan, Algeria and Burundi. Tomorrow is a huge public holiday -- Martyrs Day. More to come!

mzungu-land

2009-05-31T10:10:00.002-04:00

I was walking home the other day, up a hill in the suburbs of Kampala, when some kids spotted me. They started chanting together, "mzungu, mzungu, mzungu!" [white person]

Me: "Siri mzungu. Mzungu ali wa?" [I'm not a mzungu. Where is the mzungu?]
Kids: "Mzungu?" ... confused looks.
Me: "Siri mzungu. Nze Anna." [I'm not a mzungu. I'm Anna.]
Kids, chanting again: "Anna, bye-i, bye-i Anna!"

I walked on with a smile. These kids are cute, but imagine this kind of conversation (mzungu!) happening countless times every day, almost everywhere I walk. The anonyminity that one might expect in cities has evaporated into cries of mzungu!

But my Luganda language skills are coming back and it's fun to surprise people with the little that I know. These kinds of random conversation, while sometimes frustrating, make every day an adventure. I never know what's around the corner (literally -- could be cows in the road or burning tires or a roadside markets).

I begin work at the Daily Monitor newspaper tomorrow morning and am really excited. More to come!

shifting gears

2009-05-22T10:46:00.001-04:00

You may notice some changes to this blog. Instead of starting an entirely new site, I’m switching gears on this one as I head to Uganda for an internship at the Daily Monitor newspaper. I plan to update this blog with stories I write for the paper as well as with experiences of daily life.

I lived in Uganda in 2006, so I’m excited to return, see my dear friends again, and see how Kampala has changed in my absence. More coming…

Snapshot of Little 5 crazies

2009-04-27T16:20:00.008-04:00

This past weekend I shot DJ and rapper Fatman Scoop at Jake's Nightclub in downtown Bloomington. Shot in the photographic sense of the word, of course, for the Indiana Daily Student. It was the end of Little 500 week, when the campus is basically wasted the entire week in the name of a bicycle race.

When I first biked over at 11:30 p.m., it was far too early and the place could have been a graveyard. I biked home, worked on a paper for an hour, and when I biked back the mood was picking up a bit.

I walked around outside, shooting the lines at Kilroy's Sports Bar that wrapped around the corner and disappeared down the alley. I shot the line of students at the ATM across the street. I shot the police cars outside the bar, and a policeman helping some girl whose foot was bleeding.

"Are you a photographer?" a girl asked as she stumbled into me. "Who are you shooting for? I'm a journalism major, ahahaha." I gave her a look that said, "I don't want to talk with you," and she teetered away. I turned to shoot a street vendor selling hot dogs.

I went back to Jake's in hopes that Fatman would be doing his thing so I could shoot him and go home. The first thing he said to announce his presence was, "This looks like a motherfuckin high school party. None of you fuckers are dancing. And turn the damn light off - no one wants to see me." Oh shat, I do! Have a little love for photographers.

Then the music kicked up a notch, I gave thanks to the Lord Almighty for my earplugs, and Fatman was rapping, "Put your hands in the air, motherfuckers. Put your hands in the air, motherfuckers." The place throbbed with the beat, with undergrads grinding into each other, with beer spilling onto my sandals. I put my eye to the box of my viewfinder and tried to coax my camera into focusing despite the flashing lights and jostles. I shot what I needed, then headed back into the warm night to take a shower and go to bed like the old grad student that I am.

People thought I was crazy to sign up for this event. "How'd you get into that gig?," a friend asked. I wonder the same myself. I think it's the same reason I'm addicted to traveling and put myself in all kinds of new and awkward situations. It's about the experience. It's about the awkwardess and seeing, feeling and breathing someone else's world. Call me crazy, but I love this stuff. I thrive on awkwardness. I laugh when I'm uncomfortable. And I put my motherlovin hands in the air.

meanwhile...

2009-03-29T22:17:00.002-04:00

This blog has lain dormant for over a month, an unfortunate demise due to living a full grad school life. Here's some of what I've been up to...

A video on Hungarian Dance that I shot and edited
An article on an ethnomusicology professor for the Indiana Daily Student
Some photography for IDS (my photo)
An article on honors for local Bloomington women
A short article on Earth Hour

And the return of Xiaoshi Wei and the Jagermeisters!

"Elenore" (The Turtles)

"Toxic / Womanizer" (the one & only B.S.)

"Don't You Want Me" (The Human League)

"How Bizarre" (OMC)
(coming soon)

on museums that live & breathe (or used to)

2009-02-20T09:56:00.003-05:00

(I wrote this piece--a "museum feature"--for a journalism class, but in an effort to write for more than my professor and a grade, I thought it could also make good blog material. You have the right to be offended at this article. Your comments most welcome.)

----

One summer during college I lived in a tiny village on a small river in Papua New Guinea, just north of Australia. There was no running water or electricity, but there was a lot of life. Games and music, food and laughter abounded. I learned about the “garamut,” a huge wooden slit-log drum that sent its resounding beats over the river’s surface to far-off huts, sending messages through specific rhythms.

That experience was about four years ago, so I was excited when I learned that Indiana University’s art museum has a South Pacific gallery. I went eagerly, anticipating that the art would evoke memories long buried.

I was not disappointed. As soon as I walked in the exhibit (and after the guard scolded me for having a backpack and writing with a pen), my eyes spotted a huge garamut. “Papua New Guinea, Murik peoples,” its placard read. “Slit gong. Wood, traces of pigment.” I could imagine its huge low sound carry over the waters. But here in the museum, it was silent and looked sad, its wood cracked and voice gagged.

That instrument used to be alive, but now it is an object of curiosity for the majority of visitors.

Feigning ignorance, I asked the gallery guard if he knew anything about it. “It sounds good,” he said. How does he know that? “I caught a few people playing.” Caught them and scolded them. This is an object of curiosity, remember? It’s a museum piece, not an instrument to send messages.

As I continued on through the gallery, my feelings of discontinuity increased. Those pieces were made by villagers for daily use—for games and music, food and even sacred rituals. And there in the museum they were caged behind glass walls with no indication of how they lived and breathed in their original contexts. When you change the context, the meaning and value of a piece shifts radically. The articles become authoritative and stuck in time, as if those earrings were “the” jewelry in the Solomon Islands in the 19th century.

I came across a “figure for a sacred flute” from Papua New Guinea. When I was in the village, flutes were sacred instruments, only played by men, and usually taken out at night in the cover of darkness. Played in pairs of five or six, they had an ethereal sound that my western-trained musical ears never completely understood. They were mysterious and sacred. And there in the museum, bright lights exposed the mystery and cast away the sacredness. “Figure for a sacred flute,” visitors read as they pass by.

I also passed by, my heart getting heavier, and found a placard that read, “Alamblak people, Kariwari River.” Alamblak! Those are my friends! I still remember the Alamblak-language greetings. I lived on the Kariwari River. The “war and hunting spirit figure” looked familiar with its smooth carving and pointed features. A friend had given me a similar object when I left the village. There, those objects are actually used. And here in Indiana, they are behind glass.

I left the gallery with mixed emotions. I am glad that visitors can be exposed to other cultures and their objects. Yet when those pieces are behind glass panels with no contextual information to inform the visitor, they become “artifacts” and “objects” instead of necessary tools. They become secular and exposed instead of sacred and hidden. They become silenced instead of booming over the waters.

If you go to this exhibit, please learn about the culture at least a little first. Please take your time and imagine those artifacts in their place of origin. Close your eyes and listen for the garamut’s low beats pulsing across the river, sending messages that the “waitskins,” the anthropologists, were on their way to collect artifacts for the world to see.

On lingo gibberish and plain English

2009-01-28T17:52:00.000-05:00

Every discipline has its own lingo, its own private language. There is ethnomusicologish, folklorese, birdlish (just ask my sister), Christianese, and so on. It takes a certain insider’s knowledge to follow the conversation and contribute to it. I can talk about emic and etic, transcription of pentatonic scales, and the differences between “the public,” “a public” and “publics,” but not communicate anything at all to my sister. She, in the meantime, can talk about twitching her nemesis the BUOR and talk on while I'm completely lost. Likewise, Christians have their own catch phrases like being “sanctified by the blood of Christ” and “listening to the spirit to discern answers to prayer.” These lingos are gibberish to someone unfamiliar with the discipline or the faith.

In-grown lingos are not a bad thing. In fact, they are quite necessary and come in great use when, say, ethnomusicologists are talking to each at a conference or in class, or when birders meet together for a 24-hour birding survey. There’s a certain comradeship that comes in speaking a lingo learned through the hard work of reading disciplinary histories and theories and spending time with the people you enjoy being with.

However. There is also a danger involved in the insular nature of these lingos. The lingo can be a crutch for a concept that isn’t actually understood. When the time comes to talk to an Outsider about your passions, you’re left with unintelligible phrases and theories that you can’t distill into plain English.

Say I’m doing a research project and want to ask a question that will address a complex theory. Do I understand ethnomusicologish well enough to ask it in plain English? The danger of lingos is that they can leave us (ok, at least this happens to me) stammering for another way to explain complex esoteric issues we don’t actually understand in the first place.

Then try explaining it to someone who’s just learning English. I was constantly confronted with this in Vietnam. If I used those big words that sound so impressive, all I’d get back would be stares and more questions. How do you explain something like “atonement”? I found that I didn’t actually understand it myself. Ouch.

If we don’t truly understand the language, it’s pretty easy to fake it within the in-group. When I talked with people in Vietnamese, I found I could keep a conversation up pretty well by just repeating the last few words of what someone told me.
Friend: “The market is just up the road to the right, after the light.”
To myself: “I didn’t understand a word of that.”
Out loud: “Oh ok, after the light.”
And, done.

But the trouble came when I was asked to explain something in my own words. In Vietnam, this came with questions.
Friend: “Do you know what’s to the right?”
To myself: “Uh-oh, that sounds like a question that needs a response.”
Out loud: “No, but I’d like to know where the market is.”
And then a look of confusion.
To myself: “Oh crap, wrong answer.”
Out loud: “I mean, yes, I know, thanks for your help.”

I’m drawn to journalism (and fieldwork) because it challenges me to write (and, therefore, to think) in plain English. It forces me to write articles and reviews in ways that avoids the in-grown language of my disciplines. To do that, I cannot pretend like I understand. I actually have to get inside the theories well enough to explain them simply.

I could go off on a rant on the writing style of academics who don’t seem to know the difference between their lingo and "plain English," but I’m afraid I sometimes do the same myself. Like this blog post, which upon re-reading seems a bit academic itself. Did you, my dear reader, even make it this far?

2008 in Review: A Year in Pictures

2009-01-10T16:46:00.000-05:00

2008 was quite the year, full of new experiences, travel, challenges, goofy fun, and big transitions. I started it living in Hanoi and ended in Bloomington, but there was a whole lot of living in between. Enjoy this selection of pictures!

JANUARY

Working on a photography exhibition at Action for the City, the creative urban living organization I worked for in Hanoi.

After my knee finally healed, I couldn’t be happier to be back on my bike, even in crazy Hanoi traffic.

FEBRUARY

Tết is the biggest holiday of the year and is like three American holidays put together. Here’s my wonderful host family (minus Em Thuy, who is driving me on a motorbike) on our way to an extended family gathering.

Tết is all about getting together with friends and family and, therefore, eating a lot. My good friend Cường invited me to his countryside home.

MARCH

Taking lessons on the Vietnamese flute was challenging but really fun, especially when I got to play along with other superb musicians.

Naps after lunch are a wonderful, wonderful Vietnamese tradition. Here are my MCC (Mennonite Central Committee) mat buddies!

APRIL

My mom and dad came to Viet Nam for a visit and braved the traffic on bikes! We visited the Ho Chi Minh mausoleum, where his (real) body is on display.
Hanoi International Church had a women’s retreat in a beautiful town outside of Ha Noi. It was so good to play flute.

MAY

Laos was an amazing, beautiful country that I highly recommend for anyone traveling to SE Asia. Thank you MCC for sending us on a retreat there!
23rd birthday party with many dear friends at my host family’s home.

JUNE

The beauty of Sa Pa, in northern Viet Nam, rendered me speechless. I traveled there for a few days with some dear friends.
My lovely host sisters at an aquarium in Nha Trang.

JULY

Back on Lake Winnipesaukee, New Hampshire, where everything you need to know about life can be learned on a sailboat.
Friends old and new in Liverpool.

AUGUST

The Batcheller cousins with grandparents. Long Island, New York.
The Bloomington, IN move-in squad. Ready for grad school!

SEPTEMBER

The first-year MA and PhD students in the Department of Folklore and Ethnomusicology. The School of Journalism is much bigger, and it’s fun being a part of both groups.
Kneeling together in prayer at Bethel AME Church, where I’ve been going to services.

OCTOBER

There’s a group that contradances every Wednesday night. “Swing your partner, allemande your neighbor, and do-si-do!"
The band Funkadesi performed at Bloomington’s Lotus World Music Festival. I helped work backstage.

NOVEMBER

I did a photojournalism project with a woman who teaches old-time square and line dancing in public schools in Indianapolis.
A fun reunion with Wheaton HNGR housemates in Portland, Orgeon for Thanksgiving.

DECEMBER

This Christmas was quite different from my last one in Hanoi! Here, making gingerbread cookies with my niece Lily.
The whole family together for Christmas!

ethno what?

2008-12-07T09:44:00.000-05:00

When meeting new people, I often have a conversation something like this:

NP: Oh, you're a grad student! What are you studying?
AB: I'm doing a dual master's in journalism and ethnomusicology [always "journalism" first so people get through that before being tripped up].
NP: Ethno... what?
AB: Ethno.music.ology. It's like a combination of music and anthropology.
NP: Right, anthropolani.
AB: Um, like the study of music in culture.
NP: Oh, ok. And journalism. Well that's an... interesting... combination. What do you plan to do with that?
AB: Well [see previous blog post], I'll find out in three years...

It's a peculiar feeling to devote myself to a discipline (or idea) that most people have never heard of before. They can't say, "Right on, ethnomusicology. My great aunt Bertha was a ethnomusicologist. One day she..."

It's even more disconcerting when that discipline doesn't even know what to call itself. I just read an article titled, "Ethnomusicology, Alterity, and Disciplinary Identity; or, 'Do We Still Need an Ethno-?' 'Do We Still Need an -ology?'" Scholars say maybe we're actually all musicologists. Or maybe we truly belong in anthropology. Or maybe just "music scholars." I wrote in the margins, "And we take ourselves way too seriously." Some of this writing is so convoluted it's like reading words through the church potluck fruit Jell-O. If I ever wrote like that for a newspaper article, I think I'd be fired.

So who are we, anyway, these so-called (ethno)(music)(ologists)? Let me take a stab:

We study how music is used in cultures.
We do a lot of research--usually first-hand, primary information gathering--in places that we find interesting (sometimes a foreign country, sometimes home communities).
We are not necessarily musicians. We can spew out a great deal of theory on musical practices, but don't ask us to actually perform them. That said, many do learn new instruments and styles in the process.
An example: if you say you like folk music, an ethnomusicologists might ask, "Who (what?) are (is?) the 'folk'? What prompted the emergence of this music? Who practices it and why? What impact does folk music have on the way people think about politics or religion?" The questions could go on and on.

And about me, specifically?

I'm interested in two major areas: medical ethnomusicology (health and healing with music, especially in the HIV/AIDS crises) and applied ethnomusicology (working outside academia and using my knowledge and skills to help people, otherwise known as advocacy).
I want to research in, I think, Uganda (where I lived in 2006).
The journalism angle gives me practical skills in addition to the more theoretical and prepares me to, say, write for an arts column or create documentaries on musical practices.

So next time you meet someone who says they're an ethnomusicologist, you can say, "Right on. That's cool. So what's your research in?"

window reflections

2008-11-29T22:39:00.000-05:00

I was driving up to Hood River in Oregon last week with some dear ol' Wheaton housemates, past gorgeous mountains and rushing rivers. I began looking out the window silently and was transported to another time and another place. It was a land of memories, a place of unanswered questions, where I wander, lost in a forest of uncertain decisions. Looking out windows tends to take me to this place. I'm sure I'm not the only one.

But then the car stopped at a glorious overlook and when I climbed out, the wind blew straight into me, as if singing--Anna, you are HERE, here in Oregon, in this beautiful creation, here at this time with your lovely companions, and it is beautiful and it is good.

I was snapped back to the moment, back to Oregon, and it was beautiful and it was good. It was good to be me, be there, at that moment.

Our next stop was at a winery. We took small sips of 14 different wines, all unique in their flavors, smells, and even colors. It was a spiritual experience, in a way. Each day brings its own flavors--here a sweet cherry, there a smokey oak. They mix together and present the palette with a rich aroma and full flavor. I sip and try to taste each ingredient, each moment of this crazy life. Sometimes life gets confusing and the flavors of the wine are too strong and bitter. Yet I bring the glass to my lips and drink.

My companions seemed to be living full lives, enjoying the richness each day brings. I began thinking about how future-focused I am, constantly planning the Next Step and asking other people what their plans are. This is how I grew up--just ask my dad. And people ask me all the time what my plans are after this grad school deal. But truth is, I don't know. I give a different answer to each person, hoping that I'll verbally stumble onto something that sounds perfect and then have a definite goal to work towards. But hell, I simply don't know where I'll be three years from now, and I'm not sure I want to know. I'm enjoying school, here and now, and that's sufficient. Maybe I don't need answers about the future. This is what I'm doing now and, well, that's that.

"Be patient towards all that is unsolved. Try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms, not seek the answers that cannot be given because you would not be able to live with them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then, gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer." (Rilke)

"to remove a wrinkle or not" (or, "ethics of light and photoshop")

2008-10-15T18:04:00.001-04:00

Here are two examples of photography ethical dilemmas which border the ridiculous and the hilarious (brought up in my photojournalism class):

The first: You'd think people would be upset for magazine covers being over-manipulated. But here Fox is infuriated with Newsweek not touching up its cover of Sarah Palin:

The second: Photographer Jill Greenburg gets grilled for unprofessional behavior at a photoshoot with John McCain for The Atlantic, where she manipulated lighting to cast McCain with horror movie shadows. Again, Fox reports:

Sorry to overuse Fox... I'm not such a fan of their reporting, but find the ethical issues wrapped up in these interviews fascinating.