What Do We Witness?

The photograph is eighteen years old. Eighteen years marks the legal maturity of a person. But the picture tells the story of a 33-day war. It speaks of destruction—the destruction that invaders brought upon a beautiful city. Eighteen years have passed, yet destruction keeps piling upon destruction. It seems some exist only through this devastation. We are still afraid of how far this destructive desire will go. People walk along a dusty path, seemingly indifferent to the piles of rubble. It’s as if they have seen so much destruction and lived through it that they no longer feel it. They ignore each other, too. They, themselves, are broken. The pressure of the ruins on both sides is so intense that we don’t know how long this narrow path will remain. In the top right corner of the picture, cars move along a street, but it seems even they are falling into this ruin.

The photographer appears to have stepped back, rising above the place, to reveal the depth of the destruction. Usually, the camera places the viewer in the photographer’s point of view. People move across the destruction, and I—the viewer—passively descend into its depths. How far, I do not know.

Eighteen years have passed since this photograph was taken, but the story remains the same, and the shadow of death still weighs heavily over the people of this part of the land. Those two children in the middle of the picture—the two small shining dots of color—what do they want now? If they are still alive.