Photo: Young Woman with a Baby
For me there are two stories: The story that attracted me to take the photo, the innocent, often spontaneous action and the story where I became part of the experience, the emotional response.
Why did I take this photo? I asked, as always, very politely, “May I take your photo”? I gestured with my camera and I gestured with my hand sweeping from my heart to the young woman with her baby. She appeared youthfully dressed in an old world style. I loved her mix of colors and patterns. The baby was beautiful as he dangled from her chest in his baby harness. She and her baby were festively dressed. That is what attracted me to take the photo.
Why does this experience haunt me? I looked at the photo at a later time while still traveling in Turkey and I realized that it wasn’t the photo that was haunting me. It was and is the experience that haunted me then, and it haunts me now. She seems totally disconnected to me, to the baby and to the world. It is as if I had taken the photo without her knowing it
It is polite to ask permission to take a photo of children and of families. All of the other times I had gestured and asked, “ May I take your photo?” I was welcomed with a returned gesture, a nod of the head and a look of pride that translated to the picture. It was always a momentary exchange, a momentary connection, a warm response.
This time was different. This time, I was met with what I thought was the shyness of a much younger mother. She didn’t seem to be able to look me in the eye; she swayed a bit on her feet, she looked away from the camera.
I thought she didn’t understand. But it was I who didn’t understand.
Trapped in the moment, concerned that my request was inappropriate, I was waiting for some sign; a nod, a smile, a welcome gesture, a dismissive gesture, I was waiting for any response to relieve me of the awkwardness. Suddenly, I was startled by the voice of the much older man leaning against the tree. With a gesture and a few gruff words in Turkish, it was clear he was ordering her to pose for the photo.
I quickly took the photo and with my usual gesture of opening my hands from my heart to say thank you, I turned to leave. As I was walking away, I heard the gruff voice, again ordering her, and she suddenly turned and stopped me with her hand out for money. My first thought was that her hand seemed to be dirty, in direct contrast to her appearance. In retrospect, I believe it was covered with a henna dye, which is sometimes customary in Turkey. I took the coins from my hand and placed them in her hand and anxiously walked away.
Why did this photo haunt me for weeks after I took it. I had taken many photos of families and children, mothers and babies. Why was this photo different?
Looking back on the experience in the photo, I began to remember that this young woman was indeed very young. She did not touch her baby, she did not look at her baby. There seemed to be no connection, no look of pride. Was it her baby? was the question that emerged for me.
What was her expression? If not a look of pride, was it an expression of acceptance of her place in life? Was it disdain for the older man ordering her to do his bidding? It will remain a mystery, open to interpretation, open to your interpretation and to mine.
What I now experience in this photo is my impression of the oppressiveness of women in Turkey and throughout the world. Women, feeling unable to break a cycle, and a history of submissiveness. The look I feel from this young woman is one of anger, of defiance of the life she is trapped in and contempt for the man leaning against the tree, and for the woman, who is free, snapping her photo. I began to feel that I had not given her the respect she deserved, that I was mocking her in a sense. I gave her money that she was then forced to give to the gruff, uncaring man. Was he her father, her husband, her keeper?
I was drawn to her attractiveness and I ended up exploiting her and contributing to the world she is trapped in. I deserved the contempt I felt, as does the rest of the world for continuing to allow young women to be exploited, a world where women in many countries do not have the freedoms to choose. It is happening in Turkey and in other countries where we expect it to happen, but it is also happening in America, a country where women do have the freedom to choose.
Sometimes I feel helpless and sometimes I feel hopeful and sometimes I feel both. Most of the time I feel grateful for the freedoms I have.