Ramadan sunrise to sundown

This is my first ramadan. Last week I shot a small feature on one of Abu Dhabi’s neighborhoods, Khalidiya. I wondered its streets from sunrise to and well pass sundown for a few days observing its tempo and character. Unlike with the previous feature from Al Ain, here the city truly quieted down during the day, with everyone who can afford it, sleeping well into the day, hiding from the heat and hungry hours. So the images from the middle of the day capture the friendly laborers, stiff shop keepers, and overheated commuters. Only the early morning and late evening reveled life beyond commerce and mere existence. Then I met a jolly early-morning lady basking in the sunlight while, through the sounds of birds and the smell of trees, hoping to be transported out of the Gulf for just a moment. And much later that day, in a mosque right next to that same park, tightly wrapped in my polyester abaya I zoned out with the sounds of prayer, watching hundreds of men try to transcend the fluorescent light facing the Mecca.

Universite Paris-Sorbonne Abu Dhabi

We’ve all had the portrait shoots where one is given one to three minutes to shoot; and while they surely sharpen a photographer’s decision-making and speed of execution, I have to say that they’re not my favorites. Luckily, on one of my last portrait shoots, I had the great pleasure to photograph Prof. Dr. Jean-Yves de Cara, the Executive Director of Universite Paris-Sorbonne Abu Dhabi, who, on top of being a photogenic gentleman, had also allocated a nice chunk of time for the interview and the shoot. He patiently posed in several locations in and outside of the new Sorbonne Abu Dhabi campus, and not once had he asked if I’ve had enough pictures already. Merci beaucoup Dr. De Cara!

Al Ain

A young girl reaches out to cool herself in the mist stream as the tourist train she rides quietly sneaks through the cobble-stoned streets at the Al Ain Zoo. I photographed her while shooting a small feature on Al Ain, an ancient oasis city on the Oman/UAE border.

Should you arrive in Al Ain during the day, you might wonder where did all the people go. The streets, bathed in the white heat of the Gulf sun, compel a quiet space to the few men still going about their business.  If you however, stay awhile, you will discover that the sleepiness of the streets is matched by a tireless activity running just underneath the surface of what’s apparent.

Al Ain has these two energies that run concurrently and tie the city into a peaceful, calm, and yet an efficient and productive entity.  Alongside the heated, placid facade, the life steadily pulses in the kitchens, hospitals, offices and in the back of the shops where tunics get their shape, while the indoor pools fill with resonant giggles of the youth.

As the light matures into a kind walking companion, these two tendencies seamlessly fuse to end the energetic dichotomy of the city. Streets get flooded by shoppers, parks and gardens blossom with families on their vivid picnic carpets, and the air swells with the aroma of foods and shisha.

By the next early morning, as you’ll walk by the busy bus station and across the lively vegetable and meats market your sub consciousness will had recorded the vibrant sounds and sights.  And by the time the heat flares up, you’ll have the understanding of the never-ceasing purr of life that has just retracted from the unforgiving sun to temporarily polarize the city’s character again.

To see more images from my three-day affair with this quiet and, by UAE standards, lush city, please visit  the National View, National’s budding photo blog.

Remembering spring

This image was taken with my phone while on a train to Eastern Slovakia. It was in the fall; yet I kept staring at it today remembering the spring back home: fragrant with the rain and fresh foliage, potent with life, crisp after the sunset.

I pulled the photo out on my iPhone looking for one to test a new app I’ve just downloaded. And there, in the heated traffic in downtown Abu Dhabi, I made Spring from Fall and an image I enjoy from one that I thought I’ll need to reshoot. Such is the power of these clever apps: a little yellow here, subtle vignette there, pulled together with a neat border; they breathe a little magic into the photo.

For me, they push the visual and translate the emotion in a way that I otherwise would not allow myself in the post-production. Perhaps these apt apps will not only become a crutch to all who are too comfortable to get creative, but also somewhat of a liberator to those who need to losen up their conservative ways.

Tunisia continued

A pool full of debris and a burned-out car stand in as memento of Tunisia’s January revolution, in which the popular uprising forced then political elite to flee the country. This looted house once belonged to Houssem Trabelsi, the youngest brother of Leila, Zine el Abidine Ben Ali’s wife. Many of the despoiled houses remain open for the passersby’s reminiscent perusal or further contribution to the demise of once fancy property.

Away from the suburbs of Tunis, in its center on Avenue Habib Bourguiba, the scenery and energy are much less quiet these days. Perhaps in gathering up of a new storm: as Tunisian youth seems strongly suspicious of the former regime’s remnant influence on the country’s young democracy.

Post-revolt Tunisia

I have recently returned from Tunisia, the small North African country that unconsciously planted the seed for the so called Arab Spring via its January revolution.

In Tunis the Spring fever seems to mean falling in love with the country and one’s identity as Tunisian again. While all of the countries that followed the example of Tunisia’s political shake-up are still in the midsts of their volatile aftershocks or still trying for their shot at better governance, Tunisians are venturing out into a new understanding of public life and freedom.

Please take a look at more images at The National’s photo blog (curated by photographer and editor Clint McLean.)

walls

No one has a clue how to solve the “gypsy question” in Slovakia.

Nicolas Sarkozy, in his nonchalant French way, has erected an assumed social barrier between the unadjusted immigrant gypsies in France and their promised land, the endless social-support funds of a fancy Western land. Sarkozy kicked them Romas out.

Slovak municipalities cannot kick out righteous Slovak citizens. So they build walls. In three Eastern Slovak cities now stand less-then-fancy 2-meters-tall concrete walls that prohibit the free movement of the dark-skinned residents of nearby Gypsy localities.

Gypsies talk of racism, the whites point out crime, and let in on an overall fatigue and a lot of fear.

Both groups, however, agree that segregation is not the way.

old and defensless

This is Zuzka. She is my grand aunt. She loves taking care of her older brother and enjoys coffee and cake. She is afraid of snakes and strangers.
After yesterday, the latter are probably completely banned from her home in northern Slovakia.

Two strangers came, citing an official business, talking big words, they asked for money she supposedly owed the state. They got what they demanded from her; and stole the rest of whatever cash was in the house as they searched through its humble insides while Zuzka kept herself busy making her official guests a cup of coffee.

The intruders left their “business” unfinished and left in a hurry as neighbors became suspicious of a car with an out-of-region license plate and came to say “hello.” They wrote down the license plate number and called the police.

The officers, unfortunately, were too late to catch the thieves on the spot, too late to retrieve several months’ worth of social security payments that Zuzka has been saving for times even worse than today, and too late to save the last of the elder’s trust in the world behind her fence.

Thank you, good people of the village, for looking out for one another. It not only takes a village to raise a child, it also takes a village to care for an elder.

Identity

A most wonderful thing happened yesterday. A young friend, a 9-year-old spunky, tomboy-meets-fashion-diva girl and I swung on a salvaged beige swing in a matured evening light. We chatted about moving cool new places, future birthday parties, and designing her first dress.

And as it happens at times, I said something that she didn’t understand. Not because of our age difference, but because of my foreign language upbringing. Sometimes, if I get tired or socially tired, I briefly lose my way with English.  As usual, when I stumble over a word, I apologetically flashed a smile and repeated myself pronouncedly. Eager to make a connection, I then asked if my accent bothers her or is funny to her at times.

She squinted back at me with that dumbfounded half-smile and half-frown look. What accent?!

What awesome power of a child, an untainted mind: to accept one at face value. She always took me for who I was at the moment of our interactions,  and not once wondered about why I sound a bit different. In fact, she didn’t see me as different at all.

My young friend didn’t consider any of my inherent or acquired attributes.

She only saw a human being as is.

Kind of Blue

Making Pictures got its name from my past, where I allowed the space for creativity of a different kind. Now, this past is (luckily I guess) catching up with me.  Depending on the day, leading my hand through motions of lines on a paper brings about energy or meditation.

Both of which I also feel when I photograph.  Perhaps, it is because of my recent hiatus in photojournalism, that I re-connect with this part of self. Regardless, sharing my artwork feels equally as important as posting photographs.

How many of us fit in just one box?

Facing forward

Continuing with Death Boom:

Suzanne lays down to sleep next to Pinky as she and her four sisters begin their life without their mother alive. Although all of them cared for her in the last several years of her life with dementia, and each did her own version of inner work preparing for this day, none of them felt truly prepared. Maybe, a certain sense of relief arrives on the wings of sorrow as well.  Pinky is at peace now. No more violent coughing-fits while she’s trying to swallow her favorite granola and blueberries.  Most certainly though, before one moves through the grief to continue onward to now modified future, she needs the time to process the loss. Each at own pace. As grief is like a fingerprint.

Most of us can probably never feel prepared for our own mother’s passing. This, however, doesn’t mean that we need to push the thought out of our minds completely until the moment comes. A little bit of Memento Mori can go a long way.  Even a subtle realization of our (and the ones close to us) mortality can contribute to a greater clarity of our intentions.

Now I’ll wait a few hours so not to wake her up (my mom lives on the other side of the planet) and call my mom.

in loving company

Everyone knew the time was near. They’ve come and gone, bringing prayers and leaving goodbyes. As the hospice daily shuffle wound down to a soft, yet still cold, March evening, Pauline “Pinky” Jones died in the loving company of her two youngest daughters, twins Elise and Suzanne.

What started as an occasional misspelled word here and there years ago, grew into a full-blown dementia by the time Pinky reached her seventies.  Syntax and memory were the first of Pinky’s assets to go. Then went mobility and in came fatigue and confusion. The once very able mother of five daughters and a teacher of many young minds in her job as educator, Pinky needed help of all willing in the several last years of her life with dementia.

I met Pinky and her incredible daughters in 2006 when I started to research and photograph for my graduate school thesis named DEATH BOOM. The project, focused on the Baby Boomer generation’s part in re-defining the paradigm of death and dying in the United States, became much more for me than a mere graduation requirement. Three years have past since I’ve first walked in to a mortuary. Connecting with people, researching and photographing took a good part of that time. Though the last year and a half I’ve spent thinking about my intentions with the story and as photographer in general. In the mean time, I sat on the story and no one ever saw a single image.

A couple of days ago I finally scanned the rest of my slides and found this photograph… and that’s when I finally understood what they meant when they said that at times, it’s the story that chooses its storyteller, not the other way around. Ego is a funny thing: very necessary in long-term survival and success (however you may define it) but sometimes crippling when trying to find/create a sincere connection to people.

In this photograph: Pinky lies in her death bed while her daughter Suzanne gently holds her head as she and her sister Elise wash and dress Pinky’s body in preparation for a three-day vigil at the Anam Chara Hospice in Boulder, Colo.

Choice of Green

Colors are often assigned special meaning in daily life. Red means stop, green means go, pink was punk, and black is too.

During a few white months in 2004-2005, there was the Ukrainian Orange Revolution, today, under grey Spring skies, there’s a green revolution threatening the government in Iran. This uprising has nothing to do with saving the natural world, rather it has everything to do with shaking the spiritual environment in Tehran.

Following the June 12 presidential election turmulous events in Iran, green became a symbol of the oposition to the freshly re-elected president Ahmadinejad.

While eating a shiny red tomato this morning pouring over a local paper, I saw a black and white photograph of a wounded man lying in a Tehrani street.

The caption said that he was wearing a green ribbon on his finger.

Green, the traditional color of Islam (and the color of Islamic paradise,) today transcends its sacred designation. Somewhere between the stones and the tear gas, it seems to gain a schizophrenic personality.

The young people wearing the green bandanas and holding “Wehere’s my Vote” signs, now cary it as a symbol of revolt against the curent Islamic government.

The other young people who enter thorough the green curtain inside the Imam Khomeini Mausoleum at Behesht-e Zahra (the Paradise of Zahra) cemetery just south of Tehran, cary the color in their hearts in hope for a divine connection as they visit the grave of the father of the Islamic Revolution.

Had he the power to rise again, I wonder what Muhammad would do.

Calm before the Storm

A young man walks accross the Tehran’s Azadi Square a mere month before the Iranian, islamic-era monument became a witness to daily protests by the Tehrani people in response to possibly “miscounted” electoral votes of last week’s presidential election.

Having had the great opportunity to observe the daily life in Iran for a few weeks shortly before the election, I see the upheaval nowadays exciting and absolutely terrifying at the same time.

On one hand, the Iranian people stand at the edge of possible greater freedom. The rest of the world could get a chance to get to know the wit and resilience of Persians.

On the other hand seven people, unwillingly I bet, sacrified their lives in last night’s clashes with the revolutionary guard and police. That’s seven too many. Seven that will never cast their vote again.