The Bang-Bang Club

by Greg Marinovich

  In New York, four years later, Nancy Lee, then The New York Times picture editor, bought me lunch and told me about how the vulture picture came to be published in the Times.

  ‘It all started when we were trying to illustrate a story out of the Sudan and it was really hard. Very few people got in. Nancy Buirski called around. She called you and you said Kevin had pictures.’

  That phone call from The New York Times’s foreign picture editor Nancy Buirski had come late at night, waking me with its insistent ringing. There are few things I hate more than those late-night calls - people seem to ignore time differences, and I am partial to my sleep. Nancy Buirski wanted to know if, by any chance, I had recent pictures from Sudan. They were doing a story and needed to illustrate it. Their Nairobi correspondent had been in Juba when a food aid barge had arrived after 59 days of arduous and dangerous travel up the Nile. (It was the same barge Kevin had flown in to photograph, before he and Joao had both finally flown in to Ayod for those few, fateful hours.)

  I told her that I had never been there, but that a friend of mine had returned from Sudan just a few days earlier with a great picture: an image of a vulture stalking a starving child who had collapsed in the sand. Was that the kind of thing they were interested in? From what had been a long-shot phone call, suddenly Nancy got excited. I gave her Kevin’s phone number. I had a strange feeling, a kind of jealousy, an envy, about introducing that picture to people. I, like many others, knew that it was going to be a massive picture and had been telling Kevin that, encouraging him to make the most of it, but when Nancy Buirski called me, I had a moment when I thought about not telling her of it. It was silly, and just a fleeting thought, maybe because he had shot it with a lens borrowed from me, maybe because I liked being the only South African Pulitzer-winner. In reality, I did not hesitate in telling her about Kevin’s vulture picture, but the selfishness of that short-lived, regretful thought has stayed with me, bothering me.

  When that picture and a selection of others were finally transmitted to the Times, Nancy Buirski was waiting at the machine for it to roll off. Nancy Lee says she cannot forget the moment when she first saw the vulture picture - the Times, at that time, still had the old-style wire machine which would suddenly spit out prints, one at a time. Once she saw the picture, she instructed Buirski to make sure that Kevin not sell it to anyone else before they had published it.

  Nancy Lee recalls that after the picture ran, people started calling. There was a lot of interest in what had happened to the girl. So she called Kevin and asked him. He said she had continued on to the feeding station. ‘Did you help her?’ ‘No, she got up and walked to the feeding centre, we were very close, within sight of it.’ ‘So you didn’t do anything, you didn’t help her?’ ‘No, but I know she made it, I saw her.’

  The Times then ran an Editors’ Note saying that the girl had made it to the feeding station. But Nancy Lee was still unsatisfied, ‘I remember Nancy Buirski and I both felt uncomfortable. If he was that close to the feeding station and the child was on the ground, then, having taken the picture - which was, I think, important to do - why had he not gone there and got help? What do you do in cases like this? What is the obligation of any news professional in the face of tragedy in front of them? I don’t know; I have a humanistic feeling about it and a journalistic feeling about it. If something terrible is about to happen and you can stop it, if you can do something to help once you’ve done your job, why wouldn’t you? It bothered me, as a person. He could have done it, it would have cost him nothing. She would have weighed something like ten pounds. He could have picked her up and carried her there, could have gone there and got someone to come back and help her, whatever.

  ‘I don’t like to judge people, I was not there, I do not know what the situation was, I don’t know. But I would have helped the girl, me, as a person.’

  Copyright 1993 The New York Times Company

  The New York Times

  March 30, 1993, Tuesday, Late Edition - Final

  SECTION: Section A; Page 2; Column 6; Metropolitan Desk

  Editors’ Note

  A picture last Friday with an article about the Sudan showed a little Sudanese girl who had collapsed from hunger on the trail to a feeding center in Ayod. A vulture lurked behind her.

  Many readers have asked about the fate of the girl. The photographer reports that she recovered enough to resume her trek after the vulture was chased away. It is not known whether she reached the center.

  11

  ‘IT IS GOOD THAT ONE OF YOU DIES’

  We are telling you that people are being destroyed;

  We are from the South, where guns cry.

  Songs from the Struggle

  9 January 1994

  I spent the second half of 1993 in Bosnia, chasing pictures in mountain valleys and deserted villages. In September I decided to take a short break and flew to New York City to try to secure an assignment for the upcoming South African elections. My first choice was Time Magazine - the Rolls-Royce of news magazines as far as photographers are concerned. But the picture editor in charge of international coverage, Robert Stevens, said it was too early to make a decision. In any case, they had Peter Magubane and Louise Gubb, both respected South African photographers, and their top war-photographer, Jim Nachtwey, was also coming in to cover the election for the magazine. Disappointed, my next stop was Newsweek Magazine. The then photo director, Jimmy Colton, agreed to a contract for the election period - guaranteeing at least six days work a month; though in reality this would work out to be every other day and more in the frantic buildup. It was a good gig - there were going to be a lot of photographers out there and to have secured something was important. I went back to Bosnia, doing work mostly for Newsweek, Time and the AP until the end of the year.

  In January of 1994, I spent a few weeks in Somalia for the AP covering the withdrawal of US forces. From Mogadishu’s Sahafi Hotel, I spoke to Robert from Time again. This time, he asked me if I would work for them during the elections in South Africa. I was exasperated and told him I would love to but that I had already committed to Newsweek, and it would be unprofessional to switch now.

  I knew I was making the wrong choice. The reason for my unease about working with Newsweek as opposed to Time was one of corporate culture. I felt unsure that Newsweek were the right people to back me up in what was a potentially dangerous story: in Bosnia, I had done work on guarantee for Newsweek, covering the Muslim-Croat conflict, a nasty war where a drive along a valley road saw you cross front-lines several times, and came to experience the difference between Newsweek’s attitude as opposed to that of their great rival, Time. I had asked if I could hire a ‘hard car’-a bullet-proofed vehicle that would dramatically increase my safety, and give me an advantage in getting pictures. Newsweek’s answer was no; they suggested I get a ride with someone who had a hard car. This meant asking Nachtwey, the Time photographer, if I could ride with him. Given our friendship, it was unlikely he would refuse, but it also meant that whatever advantage Time had had from spending over $1,000 a day on a hard car might accrue to me - the competition. When Time assigns photographers to a war zone, they make sure that there is as little extra pressure put on them as possible. They spend money to get the best pictures and safeguard their photographers, even if they are just freelancers. An assignment is an agreement to temporarily employ you on a fixed day-rate, pay all your expenses and accept responsibility for you in case something happens. Newsweek’s method was to give freelance photographers a guarantee that would cover expenses, day-rates and car-hire. The guarantee system could put a few dollars more in your pocket if you stayed in cheap hotels and skimped on expenses. It was quite different to being on assignment.

  The system of guarantees had evolved as a hands-off way of getting photographs. The company is allegedly less liable if someone gets hurt or killed while on guarantee than if that person is on assignment. Photographer-lore has it that Newsweek had instituted the system after photographers w
orking for them had been expensively hurt or killed.

  I was still in Somalia when I learned that Abdul Shariff, a South African photographer, had been shot dead in a township while stringing for the AP. I did not know Abdul well, but he was a likeable guy with a very good eye. Abdul’s death happened on a sortie into Kathlehong with ANC leaders, a trip which none of the journalists had foreseen as dangerous.

  The election dates, 27 and 28 April 1994, had finally been set the year previously, following nationwide outrage, and the threat of civil war, after the assassination of the popular Communist Party and ANC armed-wing leader, Chris Hani, by a right-wing white fanatic on 10 April 1993. It was a classic confrontation of good and evil, whichever side you were on. At that time, it had seemed as if everyone was holding their breath waiting for the country to explode, but the ANC and Communist Party leadership called on their supporters to exercise restraint. The police acted swiftly on information supplied by one of Hani’s white neighbours, and the Polish-born assassin and his accomplices, including a leader in the far-right Conservative Party, were arrested. This was followed by the announcement of the election date, and the expected explosion failed to materialize. But the announcement of a date raised the stakes for those who did not want fully-democratic, non-racial elections. Political violence increased steadily over the next 12 months as the elections approached.

  The continuing violence had disrupted communities so seriously that senior ANC leaders were planning to go to Kathlehong, one of the trouble-spots, in a show of support for the residents, most of whom were ANC supporters. The politicians were fearful that the township war would prevent campaigning and, more worryingly, voting in the upcoming April elections. Political violence was escalating as parties which were willing to take part in the election stepped up their campaigns. On the other hand, Inkatha and various right-wing groups - both inside and outside of the parliamentary system - which were all refusing to participate, busied themselves with training and organizing hit squads to disrupt the election. These groups had pinned their hopes on widespread disruption, bordering on civil war, forcing the transitional government - made up of the ANC, the ruling white National Party and centrist parliamentary parties - to accede to their demands of a more federal constitution and white homelands. But there was also the added complication that some ANC self-defence units were out of control - terrorizing their own communities and fighting turf-wars with other comrades. Some of the units had been infiltrated by police operatives, who used their cover to sow further confusion. The ANC leadership wanted to be seen to be dealing with the problem. They had ensured that every media organization knew about their visit to the heart of one of the dead zones in the townships. They expected the visit to be good public relations.

  So, on 9 January 1994, dozens of journalists were waiting outside Shell House, the ANC headquarters in downtown Johannesburg, preparing to join the caravan of cars heading out to Kathlehong. AP reporter Tom Cohen had agreed to meet Abdul at the ANC building. Abdul, of Indian Moslem descent, was a lithe, dark man with a black beard. He had moved up from KwaZulu-Natal to work in Johannesburg and had recently started stringing for the AP. He was extremely serious about what he did; as Tom put it, ‘He was not one of these jerks that just went plodding in there, taking pictures. He was sensitive and very much aware of the implications of things.’

  ‘Did you bring the vests?’ was the first thing Abdul had said by way of a greeting. Tom was amazed that Abdul thought they would need bullet-proof vests for what would surely be a simple enough assignment. ‘No, I don’t think we’ll need vests. But they’re at the office, we can go and get them - we have time.’ Abdul demurred, ‘Never mind, it will be fine. We probably don’t need them.’ A little joking started among the group of journalists that were around them. ‘This will probably be the day one of us gets it,’ cracked one of them. Tom joked that he would probably have to write Abdul’s obituary. Abdul laughed uncomfortably.

  Joao, Kevin and Gary Bernard (now a staff photographer at The Star) were already in the township. They were with David Brauchli, an American photographer with the AP who had based himself in Johannesburg months ahead of the election. He was a bang-bang kind of photographer and naturally became friendly with the boys. He had quickly realized that Joao was the best local photographer available and persuaded the AP to offer Joao a good contract and the possibility of covering foreign wars. The offer was irresistible and Joao left The Star in mid-January. Ken was still at The Star, but he was also planning to leave the newspaper after the election, though not many people knew. He wanted to move beyond the restraints of working for a daily and longed for the freedom of spending weeks on a single shoot. Kevin’s self-esteem was high on the praise that followed publication of the vulture picture and he had grown confident that he could make it as a freelancer. And so, he’d left the Mail to string for Reuters.

  Tom and Abdul followed ANC leaders Cyril Ramaphosa and Joe Slovo to Kathlehong, where they were expected to do a standard brief walkabout and then deliver speeches at the local stadium. Instead the politicians parked on an uneven dirt clearing that served as a soccer-field and immediately set off down the middle of the road towards the hostel.

  The journalists, caught unawares, had to hurry to catch up, jumping to avoid the muddy puddles left by overnight rain. As they neared the Inkatha stronghold, shooting broke out. ANC bodyguards closed to form a shield around their charges and hurried them away from the danger zone. ANC self-defence unit members emerged from the front-line houses and returned fire towards the dormitory complex. Tom took cover with the others in the last of the vandalized houses that faced the hostel. For several minutes, there was just the rattle and crack of automatic gunfire as comrades would race up to the edge of cover and blindly spray bullets in the direction of their Inkatha foes.

  Abdul decided to cross a clearing between the front-line houses. He was half-way across when he was hit in the chest by a bullet and fell. Young township residents broke cover to carry him away, in great pain, but still alive. The battle continued with ANC militants passing battered Kalashnikovs between them. They fired from the hip, the bullets going in all directions. Tom was completely unaware of what had happened to Abdul and was concentrating on moving safely away from the battle.

  Joao, Kevin, Gary and Brauchli had earlier that day heard of a shooting incident in neighbouring Thokoza and had driven off to see if anything further was happening there. Nobody had envisaged trouble starting at the ANC walkabout, given the massive police presence. The cruise was fruitless as all was by then quiet in Thokoza, and so they decided to join the ANC delegation. As they neared the soccer-field in Kathlehong, they saw Reuters photographer Juda Ngwenya race past with his car full of comrades, some of whom were hanging dangerously out of the windows, waving traffic out of the speeding car’s path. They were curious, but assumed that Juda was taking a wounded combatant to the nearby Natalspruit Hospital. Their relaxed mood evaporated; something was going down, but since they did not know what, they decided not to follow Juda. In the residential area near the hostel, comrades were milling about and journalists were standing around looking shocked and frightened. Some of the journalists were interviewing one of the politicians. Joao shot a few pictures and asked a cameramen what had happened. He said a photographer had been shot - it was the little Indian guy, but he didn’t know his name.

  With a jolt, Joao realized that it could have been Abdul whom Juda had been taking to the hospital and they quickly headed there. At the casualty room, several people were being treated, but Abdul was not among them. Joao asked a nurse if she had seen a wounded journalist being brought in. She stared at him and then said, ‘He was dead on arrival. Could you please identify the body?’

  Joao and the other photographers followed the nurse through casualty to the rear, where she opened a door that led into a tiny room. It was a laundry closet, the shelves lined with linen and hardly big enough for the metal gurney to fit in it. Soiled laundry was piled up on either s
ide of the stretcher and bright sunlight streamed in from a small high window at the far end of the narrow room. On the gurney, a green sheet covered a human form, its head nearest Joao. The nurse pulled the sheet aside. It was Abdul. It seemed as if he was asleep, but then the nurse pulled the sheet further down to reveal a hole in the centre of his naked chest. It went through Joao’s mind that the wound looked remarkably neat, that it seemed to have done so little damage. Without a thought or a moment’s contemplation, Joao lifted a camera and shot a frame. The nurse was angry, astonished, and tried to stop him. Joao exploded: ‘If I can take a picture of all the fucking dead people in this country, then I can take one of my friend.’ He turned and stalked out, and only later when he processed the film did he discover that he had shot the picture without setting exposure and the neg. was completely underexposed. Secretly relieved, he threw the roll into the dustbin.

  By that time Tom had also heard the news that an Indian photographer had been shot and taken to hospital. He tried to tell himself that it was not necessarily Abdul, but he rushed to the hospital to check. Tom arrived at casualty as the photographers were coming out. Brauchli said, ‘Abdul’s fucking dead; he’s fucking dead.’ ‘What?’ was all that Tom could muster. He thought that perhaps they had not seen the body and there was some mistake, so he insisted on going in to look for himself.