It's What I Do: A Photographer's Life of Love and War

by Addario, Lynsey

  I was confused, appalled, and angry until I suddenly had a moment of clarity: If the Israeli soldiers were doing this to me, a New York Times journalist accredited by the Israeli government itself, who had called the press officer in advance to graciously ask to be manually searched, how on earth did they treat a poor, Palestinian pregnant woman? Or a nonpregnant Palestinian woman? Or a Palestinian man? The thought terrified me.

  I left Erez and filed a formal complaint to the International Press Center in Jerusalem and the Israeli government through the Times bureau in Jerusalem. More than a month after we filed the initial complaint, the Israeli Ministry of Defense issued a statement regarding the events at Erez, and in an unprecedented step for the ministry, they issued a public apology for my treatment.

  Just as in Somalia, when I had felt my baby moving inside me as I witnessed the suffering of other infants, I could suddenly understand, in a new, profound, and enraging way, how most people in the world lived. I had been seeing that reality for years. But somehow, I had to admit, my pregnancy and the vulnerabilities of motherhood had offered me yet another window on humanity, yet another channel of understanding.

  CHAPTER 14

  Lukas

  Lukas Simon de Bendern was born perfectly healthy on December 28, 2011, at St. Mary’s Hospital in London after eleven-plus hours of miserable labor. Paul had gotten a new job in London, and we had moved only three weeks before.

  My first few weeks as a mother were a blur of sleeping and nursing and trying to reconcile my present life with the one that seemed to have existed in such a distant past. For three months, for the first time in memory, I didn’t pack a single suitcase, didn’t buy a plane ticket or look on Expedia, didn’t stress about hotels or assignments or breaking news or who was killing whom or who was dying from an outbreak of measles or cholera in what remote corner of the planet. My days were simple and repetitive: I slept until I was woken up by Lukas’s cries, nursed, made coffee, watched bad TV, and nursed again. I watched more made-for-TV movies during the last month of my pregnancy and while nursing than I had during my entire life prior. Every activity was punctuated by a diaper change and my gnawing fear that I would somehow break my new baby with my inexperienced touch. Before I gave birth, I knew nothing about infants. I had no idea what they needed, how to know when they were sick, how to dress them, how to duck their fragile skulls into an over-the-head onesie, and what to put on them in London’s cold, damp winter air.

  The daily rituals around which the lives of most of the women on the planet revolved had become my own. And I embraced them, because all of a sudden the notion of routine didn’t seem unfulfilling. I had this baby whom Paul and I had created, and we felt a joy and a love that far exceeded anything we had ever known. For hours we sat on the couch and stared at Lukas, incredulous that he was born of nothing other than sperm and egg. We felt as if we were the first two people on the planet to have conceived. How could the most basic thing be so rewarding? Suddenly I understood why all the Afghan women over the years had looked at me with sadness when I admitted to not having children. And I knew, deep down, that I must cherish my initial months as a mother, because it would be one of the rare occasions I could allow myself to indulge in nothing other than loving and caring for Lukas, this tiny, helpless person we had made.

  Lukas Simon de Bendern, December 28, 2011.

  The euphoria of creation in the early months of motherhood came to a shocking halt one night in early February of 2012. I was in the coziness of my family cocoon, feeding Lukas at 4 a.m., when I heard my New York cell ringing from my purse in the living room downstairs. Only credit card companies and emergency calls rang me on my roaming cell in the middle of the night, and I asked Paul to bring me the phone. There were dozens of missed calls and familiar subject lines on my BlackBerry e-mails:

  I’m so sorry.

  Sad news.

  Anthony Shadid, my longtime friend, had died in Syria of an asthma attack earlier that day. Tyler, who had been working with him, had shepherded his body across the border to Turkey, where Anthony’s wife, Nada, and two-year-old son, Malik, waited to collect him. It was less than a year after we had all narrowly escaped death in Libya. I felt angry. What was he doing in Syria so soon after what had transpired in Libya? I knew that, had I not gotten pregnant, I, too, would probably have been there. But it was easier to wish a conventional life on Anthony than it was at that moment to accept his resolution to cover Syria—at all costs. His death put a mirror to the pain I caused others with my decisions. And how could he have died of an asthma attack, of all things, in the middle of a battle zone? Who wrote these miserable cards of fate? They were all questions I would never have the answers to—except one. I knew why he was back covering the Arab Spring. I knew why he returned to cover conflict, just as I knew why I would one day return to cover conflict. As with all of us, it was in his soul, and very little could have kept him away.

  My heart ached for his family, and yet I, too, could not give up the work I held so close to me. Three months after I gave birth, I started traveling again. I took my first assignment for the Times Magazine in Alabama, photographing mothers addicted to methamphetamine. Being away from Lukas was worse than any heartbreak, any distance from a lover—anything I had ever known. I cried all the way to the airport, throughout the journey, and right up until the morning I loaded the memory cards into my Nikons, placed my lenses in their pouches, strung them around my waist, and set off for the rugged barn in rural Alabama to visit Timmy Kimbrough and his three children. With my first few frames, I lost myself in my work.

  I didn’t think it would ever get easier to leave Lukas and Paul. I struggled, like so many professional men and women, to find that perfect, impossible balance between my personal life and my career. Inevitably one suffered at the expense of the other, and when I returned from an assignment, I was confronted with the price of my absence: Lukas running into our nanny’s arms rather than my own, or calling out “Da Da” when I called on Skype from a random hotel room in India or Uganda. In the first year after giving birth, I shot assignments from Mississippi to Mauritania, from Zimbabwe to Sierra Leone to India. I cushioned each assignment with quality time with Lukas, going to play group and music class, straddling two worlds that couldn’t be farther apart. I convinced myself I would stay on the margins of war and tailor my work to my new life as a mother. When the violence in Gaza broke out in November 2012, I felt the familiar urgency in the pit of my stomach telling me that I needed to be there to document the civilian deaths. But I was in London. I went to the gym and looked around, positive that I was the only person in Notting Hill wishing she was in Gaza rather than in Café 202, sipping a latte with a coiffed poodle perched on her lap.

  While I was happier and more complete with my new family than I had ever been before, I was still restless to get back out in the field and cover the stories I felt strongly about. But unlike early in my career, when I felt I needed to be in the midst of every top news story in order to prove myself as a photojournalist, I eventually started feeling comfortable saying no to breaking-news stories: I was more selective about assignments after the birth of my son, and I weighed the importance of every story with every day that would keep me away from my family. I met deadlines and editors’ needs while weaving in time for Lukas between assignments; the balance was possible because I worked with trusted editors who were supportive of my new role as mother, and because I had a partner, Paul, who was a hands-on father and a champion of my work.

  The risks I took now had higher stakes. Every night when I put Lukas to sleep, I thought about whether I would be there to watch him grow from this perfect soul, a beautiful infant, to a toddler, to a boy, to a teen, and into a man. I struggled with the question of why I put us, and my extended family, into that equation of uncertainty, but I hoped Lukas would understand my commitment to journalism one day, as his father intrinsically understood. Before I gave birth to Lukas, I hadn’t truly understood that painful, c
onsuming, I-will-do-anything-to-save-this-human-being kind of love. I had lived my life in defiance of fear, but now that I had this tiny being to care for, I thought about mortality differently: I worried constantly that something might happen to him, something I had never felt for myself. When I thought about his future, I hoped he would lead a life as full of opportunity and happiness and experiences as mine had been. My dreams for my child were the same ones that I knew compelled so many women around the world to fight for their families against the most unimaginable odds. My experience as a parent has taught me a new understanding of the subjects I photograph.

  As a war correspondent and a mother, I’ve learned to live in two different realities. It’s not always easy to make the transition from a beautiful London park filled with children to a war zone, but it’s my choice. I choose to live in peace and witness war—to experience the worst in people but to remember the beauty.

  AFTERWORD

  Return to Iraq

  By late 2012 the war in Syria raged. For journalists it was at least as dangerous as Libya had been in 2011. If newspapers sent in correspondents at all, they went in with the help and logistical support of a particular rebel commander and stayed for only a short time. I wanted to cover the war’s civilian toll—far from the front line—and offered myself up to the New York Times to visit the camps for displaced civilians. I traveled to Lebanon, Jordan, and Turkey, and as I crossed the border from Turkey into war-ravaged Syria, I thought about Lukas and wondered if my love for him might overwhelm my ability to go to countries where my fate was so uncertain.

  With a colleague, a security guard, a driver, and a fixer, I drove through the bucolic villages of northern Aleppo that lined the border between Syria and Turkey, my cameras tucked away in a bag at my feet, my hair neatly hidden under a head scarf. I watched the countryside whip past my window as we traversed small pockets of peace that existed precariously in a country torn apart by death: a few farmers toiling in the fields, young men lining up for haircuts at the barbershop. We drove to the rebel-controlled village of Tilalyan, where we were greeted by members of the town council, happy to see foreign journalists there to document their plight. I photographed boys who spent their days trying to secure flour for the bakery, teachers at a makeshift school who taught amid the air strikes. We visited a local clinic, swarming with Syrians who had been wounded in battle, others merely suffering everyday ailments that suddenly became impossible to treat as doctors disappeared or migrated to battlefronts to treat the gravely wounded. It was a story that had been routine in the past but took on a whole new meaning for me as a mother. With every scene I wondered how Lukas would fare in the same situation; I wondered how it would feel to be like these mothers, who suddenly couldn’t guarantee security or access to daily meals for their children.

  Eventually the story of Syrian refugees took me back to northern Iraq, to Erbil, where I had spent my first night in the country a decade earlier to cover the war between the United States and Iraq. Instead of driving across the jagged, snowcapped mountains between Iran and Iraq, I flew into a glassy, modern airport in Erbil and presented my passport at immigration to a pretty young Iraqi Kurdish woman with long, wavy hair and nails painted red.

  “Have you ever been here before?” she asked, looking through a passport that was a stamped testament to so many memories in so many countries.

  “Yes,” I responded, smiling. “But a lot has changed. I was here ten years ago—in 2003.”

  “Welcome,” she said. “You have a two-week visa.” Iraqi Kurdistan was one of the few places in the Middle East that welcomed Americans.

  I exited the airport to a familiar burst of dry, convectionlike, one-hundred-plus-degree heat and looked around for Tim, the correspondent I would be working with for the Times. He was there, wearing a Yankees baseball cap, and behind him stood Waleed, the driver with whom I had endured the kidnapping in Fallujah in 2004. He looked older, his gray hair and mustache now dyed black but faded into a black-red henna tint, his large frame still tall but slightly gaunt. He threw his arms around me and laughed a big laugh.

  “Habibti!” (My dear!) “So happy to see you again.”

  I squeezed Waleed tightly, grateful to see a familiar face and a friend after many years. I wondered about the toll Iraq’s sectarian violence had taken on him and his family. How many friends and family members had he lost? Over the ever-present kebab, Waleed ran down the list of fellow Times employees from 2003 and 2004 and rattled off where they were now: Basim, Canada; Zaineb, Canada; Ali, Michigan; Jaff, New York. The ongoing war had disassembled Iraqi society, scattering lives and friends across the Atlantic, across continents.

  As we raced toward the Syrian border, my mind slipped back to 2003, to who I was then: a young woman who wanted nothing more than to travel the world and to document the stories of people and their hardships. I was insatiable in my quest to document the truth with my photographs and threw myself into the midst of any situation without regard for the consequences, believing that if my intentions were pure and I focused on my work, I would be OK. Though I still work with the same dedication, I have grown more cautious with every brush with death, with every friend lost. Somewhere along the way my mortality began to matter.

  • • •

  AT THE SAHELA BORDER crossing, six hours northwest of Erbil, four thousand Syrian Kurds snaked around the desert valleys along a dirt road connecting the two countries. I ran up a gravelly hill, oblivious to the Mine Action Group marker denoting an area once ridden with land mines, in search of a clearer view of the border crossing. I put my camera to my eye and through my long lens watched the colorful shuffle of thousands of refugees from a distance.

  The biblical scene took my breath away. It was a different war, another war, and another population displaced by fear and death. The Iraqi Kurds were no longer fleeing by the thousands from Saddam but welcoming Syrians fleeing their own civil war. I photographed families escaping with whatever belongings they could carry on their backs, the elderly hobbling along the uneven road, glistening with sweat, as young mothers and fathers carried their children in their arms. I wondered what it would be like to have to flee with Lukas. I ran down from my perch on the hill and walked into the road, wading amid the refugees as they neared the first checkpoint manned by Iraqi Kurds. I photographed wide as they approached, their shoulders sometimes brushing mine, and every few minutes I lowered my camera from my eye and offered a big “Salaam!” to the endless stream of refugees.

  Many smiled back, calling me by my title: “Sahafiya.” Journalist. It is who I am. It’s what I do.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  For almost two decades, I have weaved in and out of lives across continents, and the material in this book would not have been possible without the help of so many. From my parents, whose impassioned encouragement to follow my heart and dreams sent me out into the world, to the editors, photographers, and journalists who have taken me under their wings along the way, I am forever grateful to all of you. A countless number of men, women, and children around the world have so bravely opened their most intimate moments to me and my camera: I can only hope that your generosity, resilience, and candor will help provide fortitude and inspiration to others the way they have to me.

  I could never acknowledge the names of everyone, but here are a few:

  Bebeto Matthews, for teaching me how to read light, the art of patience, the poetry of photography. Joan Rosen, for seeing my determination that day at the Associated Press in New York. And Reggie Lewis, for waking me up every morning in New York City in the wee hours with an assignment in the 1990s. An additional thank-you to Barbara Woike, Aaron Jackson, Cecilia Bohan, Beth Flynn, Jessie DeWitt, Jim Estrin, Patrick Witty, and Paul Moakley.

  The New York Times is one of the greatest journalistic institutions in the world; it puts out some of the best reporting and photography of the highest standards, and I have been honored to enjoy a professional home at the paper as a freelance photograph
er over the past thirteen years. Bill Keller: You had the courage to call my parents three times to tell them you weren’t sure I would make it out alive, and now, as a mother, I can’t fathom how tough those calls were to make. I was able to cover the stories I believed needed to be covered in war zones only because of your steadfast commitment to those on assignment for you—whether staff or freelance. I thank assistant managing editor for photography Michele McNally for being a passionate and dedicated photo editor and surrogate mother when I am in the field—you never tire of fighting for those difficult images that are tough to look at and even tougher to find their way into print. David Furst: I will forever appreciate your enthusiasm and commitment to good photography and ensuring that it gets onto the pages of the paper.

  David McCraw, William Schmidt, Bill Keller, Susan Chira, Michele McNally, C. J. Chivers, David Furst, and others who worked relentlessly to get me, Tyler Hicks, Anthony Shadid, and Stephen Farrell released in Libya: I will never know how to express my gratitude.

  Kathy Ryan, for believing in my eye, and for ushering me into the world of magazine photography and feature stories. Year after year, you encourage me to be a better photographer, to think outside the box, to conceptualize stories in different ways. You are a dear friend and a brilliant, visionary editor.

  Kira Pollack, Mary Ann Golon, Jamie Wellford, Alice Gabriner: I treasure our friendships and professional relationships. I have been so fortunate to work with each of you since the beginning of my career, to publish important stories together, to build enduring friendships, and to share in so much laughter.

  To the team at National Geographic, who offer me the opportunity to work with one of the greatest photographic magazines in the world and who continue to push me to tell long-form stories with photographs: Sarah Leen, Ken Geiger, Elizabeth Krist, and Kurt Mulcher, and to David Griffin, who first brought me into the magazine. A special thank-you to those at the National Geographic Society, who include me in such prestigious company for lectures and exhibitions: Andrew Pudvah, Katherine Potter Thompson, Bob Attardi, Kathryn Keene, Jen Berman, and Melissa Courier.