Absence

I lost Atef Yehya, one of my best friends. It was painful. The pain was not only in his absence, but also in the details of the journey: witnessing his injury, informing his mother, searching for financial support for his medical care, and seeing the medical negligence he suffered for six months. I thought the journey had ended with his sudden death. Yet, while Atef’s journey ended in our world, others started for those who knew him and would have to live with his absence. Yasmine and I arrived at a simple house where a photo of him, dressed in a style familiar to us, adorned the gate. On it was written, “Martyr Sameh Ahmed — a Freedom Martyr.” I was touched by another mother and shared another mother’s pain. I felt his presence despite his absence through the faith of his mother. She had printed his photo on her prayer mat, so she could feel his presence close to her each time she prayed. No one can compensate for the absence of another, but together we can pass through what is deeper than the absence of the body. We live in this world forgetting sometimes what life is all about. This world shakes our faith with doubts, so we seek what strengthens, gives us assurance and deepens our faith. I tried to think of something that would  honor the dead and benefit the living, for we are here for each other. I decided to launch a photography project about the families of martyrs and the stories hiding behind the all too many names in government files. I wanted a way to express my feelings and document what I share with so many others. Where should I start? And how? I decided to leave it to my gut feeling and mere chance to guide me on this journey. From the house of the first missing person in the village of Abo al-Matameer in the Alexandrian desert, to Yasmine Khozam’s house, to the familiar house of my friend Atef, I tried to capture moments shared with kind-hearted families. I strived to document what happened to those still living alongside the memories of those who had passed away in a country going through the daily changes of people coming and going. I have looked for unheard stories that shape our collective history day after day. I carried heavy memories, feelings, stories and a lot of silence from one home to another. As I moved from one house to the next I sometimes lost the ability to control the grief shared with me for hours or days. But thanks to the group of photographers who share this exhibit, with our varied life experiences, similarities and differences, I have been able to overcome those psychological hurdles. I feel grateful for their professional role in contributing to the planning of my photo sessions, the help in selecting suitable photo equipment, and assistance in getting the necessary and seemingly unavailable resources such as lenses and financing. Some of my subjects asked me, “Why did you come?” and I asked myself, “Why did I go?” My answers were usually spontaneous. However, I tried to carve a way between them and me, often communicating not in words, but in the end I shared my dream to document their loved one’s stories, my desire to document the absentee and how life has brought them to where they are. The initial barrier was broken quickly and I am not sure why. They seemed to appreciate that I was not coming for quick press reportage. I even told some of them that the newspaper I work for is not interested in my project, and the question comes back at me, “Why are you here?” I am here because, like you, I know how the absence of a loved one feels. I am here because you and I do not need a lot of words to express what is inside us. The moments of silence, interrupted by the unavoidable camera clicks, are enough for me to understand. I hope to save what my heart sees in my camera. A few seconds are enough. The basic elements of light, a feeling, and eyes say what words cannot. This is not where it ends. Another journey starts in an attempt to communicate and share what I came for. This story was part of the Shouf Photo Exhibit