Just Plain Folks: My Introduction Into Photographing People in the Developing World

I first began photographing people when I studied abroad in high school. In those days, I was new at capturing shots of what I thought were “interesting” or “exotic” folks. To put it mildly, I had no idea what I was doing. And so, I resorted to what I thought at the time was a reasonable solution: I used a 250 mm telephoto.

So you can just imagine the scene. There I am, a 16-year old youth sipping Turkish coffee in an Arab market somewhere in the Middle East while surreptitiously sneaking shots of the folks around me as they went about their business. In retrospect I cringe, but at the time I was trying, in my own naïve way, to be respectful. I didn’t fully understand much about foreign cultures in those days nor did I realize that often, one can simply ask to take a photo while traveling abroad (and when told “no,” which ironically is less often the case than one might imagine, listen and move on). Nor for that matter did I realize that as is the case when shooting wildlife, the best shots are taken close-up, and most certainly not with a long lens.

As time went on, two interconnected changes occurred. First, I went to college where, I determined, I would commit my studies to foreign politics, history and culture (most especially that of the Arab/Muslim worlds).

And second, when I traveled abroad in the future, I would make it my business to connect with my subjects in a direct and human/e manner; the people I was studying, I realized, were just that, people, not some sort of exotic freaks. True, they may dress a bit differently than I do or eat different kinds of foods. But over time I learned that, contrary to many of the traditional studies I was required to read in school, the people I sought to work with were just folks — no more, no less. If I could get to know them on a personal, ordinary level (and in time I did that very thing) then they would no longer be “subjects” that I was studying in some sort of petri dish. Rather, they would be folks that I could work with, learn from and, as it turned out in time, folks that I could befriend as well.

But again, this would take time and, as I intimate here, I started out as a young, naïve kid from the American suburbs. Learning how to negotiate through the maze of cultural norms and values that are presented at any given time is not always easy, to say the least. And, as I often discovered over the years, just when you think you’ve got it all figured out, an event occurs which provides an ideal “teaching moment” — assuming you live to tell the tale, that is.

One particular example comes to mind. In the early 1990s, I traveled to Egypt, to this day one of my favorite countries. By that point I had visited the country a number of times but, to be fair, had spent the majority of my time in Cairo and some of the communities in Upper Egypt where many of the ancient Egyptian temples and antiquities can be found. I had not traveled widely beyond these areas.

In this case, I determined to travel by bus to a number of small oases in western Egypt not far from the Libyan border. As one might imagine, such communities in those days were remote and rarely visited by westerners. One of these villages was Marsah Matruh. While there, I happened upon a market (like my experiences as a teen, a prime area for capturing some interesting photos) and began to shoot without a thought or care. Suddenly and seemingly out of nowhere, a young fellow (known as a shbab in Arabic) rushed up to me red-faced, shouting in strongly accented English “Give me fil-um, give me fil-um!”

I didn’t understand at first but in a moment it registered: he wanted my film. I glanced around. All I could see was a girl, perhaps 14 years of age, standing demurely just behind him. Though she wasn’t veiled, her hair was covered, a sure sign that she was a member of an observant family. No one else seemed to be paying us any attention. And then it hit me; had I inadvertently photographed her in my excitement? And oh yes, safe bet, was she his little sister?

And so, I did what any 30-year old American guy would do. I slowly, purposefully replaced my lens cap. I mumbled “sorry” to him in my best colloquial Arabic.

And then, I ran like hell.

I can’t say that I was in the best shape in those days. But the good news is that I was faster than him. After a couple of minutes he gave up the chase. He shouted something unintelligible at me and turned back. I quickly returned to my hostel and, a day or so later, was on the bus out of town. I never saw him again and, when I later had the film processed back in the States, was amused to discover that the girl in question was only in perhaps one or two shots — none of them very good and in any case, she was barely recognizable, her modesty secured.

Since that day I have captured numerous images of women in the Muslim world, many in modesty dress and, for that matter, many who demur from donning hijab or burqa — and yes, many of these were in fact friends or acquaintances. I have never returned to the days of photographing indiscriminately in areas where people are present or worse, of using the telephoto for anything but wildlife shots — and of course, I never will.

Rather, when I photograph people across the developing world nowadays, I do my best to do so lovingly, and above all, to follow one basic proviso: to never forget that every person I photograph is not a static “subject” but is, in fact, someone’s sister, brother, mother, father, wife, husband or child. While their homes or clothing or food choices may appear “exotic,” they are just folks after all, simply going about their business — no different than you or me.