Forgive me, for I am a collection of flaws and I can’t help but hide myself.
Where there’s black smoke, there’s a burning tyre.
We walk towards the rising tower and flaming rubber. We’re a group of journalists wandering around Joza, documenting the violence that has erupted in the community. The photographer beside me starts framing the scene through her lens: angry orange, a littered street, loitering spectators, a smudged sky.
“No photos. No photographs. Go away.” A young boy waves at the camera and furiously shakes his head. “No photographs!”
“Sorry, I’m sorry,” she says as she lowers her camera and moves across the street. (more…)