Archive for the ‘War’ tag
Murşitpinar- Another quick blog entry with some images from Kobane and environs and recent days. The media narrative on the siege has shifted from predictions of the city’s imminent fall to IS being on the back foot in the battle thanks to a sharp uptick in coalition bombing. Although on the surface this is a fight between the harshest kind of Islamists engaged in offensive jihad to eradicate those they deem unbelievers–in this case the Kurds of the secular, leftist PYD-YPG/YPJ–the struggle for Kobane is primarily a battle of ethnic identity politics, at least as many Kurds I spoke with see it.
For lightly buried in the takfiri salafism of IS, particularly I suspect the older members with genuine military experience, is an Arab ethnocentrism despite the modicum of ethnic diversity of IS’s commanders. Then there are the Turkish troops and border gendarmes who are content to watch all this go on from a barely safe distance. Understandably Turkey does not want to be drawn in, at least not under conditions upon which Ankara is not the actor setting them.
There are those who are opposed to the very concept of military intervention in wars far from home based on their ideological principles or because they reflexively distrust the specific crowd that advocates for military solutions to humanitarian crises. What should have been done to rescue Kobane? The best policy may be that such cases be looked at individually rather than the flawed policies of those that came before. Part of why these situations are deemed failures is when people conduct post-mortems on them and find that once the world took its eyes off supporting state/institution-building and reconstruction, the place rapidly devolves into chaos. See: Libya.
What will happen in Syrian Kurdistan–if it is not overrun by IS–will be determined by the post-intervention steps that are far more difficult than demolishing concrete block structures from many thousands of feet in the air. But for now, the Kurds are cheering.
Barcelona- I finally was able to upload this Libya mash-up video I had been working on in NYC from here in Catalunya. For technical reasons beyond my knowledge or control, I was having a devil of a time getting the thing onto Youtube before. I had wanted to get this online before the Friends of Anton benefit event at Christies in Manhattan on May 15. Not that I had anything to do with the event of course, but I was one human degree of separation from Anton Hammerl and I simply thought it would be something nice to do. I’m off to the next conflagration in the shattered Republic of Mali and wanted to get this up beforehand.
This project is obviously not a documentary or scripted television package. These are memories from Libya in total upheaval in 2011. This is my Libya mash-up, dedicated to those photographers that arrived in Libya to tell its story and never made it out. I want to reiterate how grateful I am to the people of both eastern and western Libya. Without their immense hospitality this project would never have been possible. War throws people together in such an odd way who would otherwise likely never have met.
New York- The Avtomat Kalashnikova assault rifle, known popularly as the AK-47 or Kalashnikov, became one of the defining symbols of Third World national liberation movements and a physical manifestation of anti-imperialist thought in the second half of the twentieth century. The Kalashnikov appears most notably Frente de Libertação de Moçambique (FRELIMO)-designed flag of Mozambique pictured above. Hezbollah has a Kalashnikov-like weapon pictured on its yellow and green flag as a symbol of its persistent resistance to Israeli occupation and military hegemony. During the ‘summer war’ in July and August of 2006, the Ba’athist regime in Syria, one of the Shia group’s principal external state backers, had Hezbollah’s yellow banners flying up and down its Mediterranean coast to drum up Syrian domestic support as well as that of visiting GCC tourists. Syria’s cities were plastered with these what should be incongruous visuals that summer. Anyone who covers the developing world’s violent conflicts is likely intimately and awkwardly familiar with the Kalashnikov’s wood and metal sinews coupled with that unmistakable banana clip.
In going through old photo portfolios this week I discovered an image I’d nearly forgotten I’d taken of a massive Soviet-style Kalashnikov monument on the road in central Iran. I love the photo not for its artistic merit obviously but for what it symbolizes. I tweeted the photo to C.J. Chivers, author of the definitive Kalashnikov book, The Gun. In return he created a kind blog post featuring my snapshot which I’ve reposted below.
Barcelona- It is never not a strange, sometimes awkward transition from a war in the third world to the oft petty tranquility of the first. Unable to get a flight from Tunis directly to Catalunya, my best bet was flying to Toulouse in southern France and getting to Spain overland. Landing in Toulouse where ramadan is a relatively minor affair amongst the city’s immigrants rather than a society-wide compulsion as in north Africa was one transition. The radical change in climate was another such transition. The most significant and problematic change though can be one of internal isolation. Of being of a society and yet out of step with its norms. I never felt this so strongly as when returning from Afghanistan and Central Asia to Brooklyn (and later San Diego) in December of 2001.
Bombs, death, solidarity. And then suddenly indie rock kids, art school dilettantes mulling over gentrification as the most controversial issue in their lives and of course, the requisite dive bars. Walking up and down Atlantic avenue in a grubby Russian parachutist jacket given to me by a bartender in Turkmenistan who was a part-time hapless conscript in Turkmenbashi’s ‘neutral’ military, I felt like a Viet Nam vet walking around in a daze in Tampa in 1982. A product of the society but disconnected painfully from it.
Now, nearly ten years on, I have become my accustomed to my own version of normalcy. Riding an immaculate French train through the Pyrenees with chain smoking Spanish mountain bikers, French hikers, and carefree Italian backpackers and me sitting there apart and alone with a laptop and cameras full of images of war and destruction, the intermingling of Europe’s three primary Latin languages danced past my ears. They could never understand nor perhaps should they. I was a witness, an interlocutor between these seemingly disparate but sometimes unknowingly integrated worlds. I arrived back in Barcelona to a city of fully booked hotels and drunken, smiling tourists. Rescued by a friend with a couch for the night, next thing I know I am the debauched tourist, meeting a panoply of people from across the European Union.
It was all as if it never happened. As if the Jebel Nafusa war was some distant, faint relict of my imagination. Was the artillery as bad as I recall? Was the food really so scarce? Some say to live life is to almost die. Well in that stark expressionism, I suppose I have just lived and Barcelona is some sort of waking dream. The skateboards click by. The Catalan chatters at the sidewalk cafe. The Bangladeshis pedal their mysteriously frozen cervesa beers trying to outmaneuver their Pakistani competitors. West African prostitutes aggressively grab at British louts. The breeze passes through my auberge espagnole as a calm city waits outside below. Oh Libya, what have you done to me?