One day, Philipp re­al­ized: I am not an Athe­ist any­more. As a child and teenag­er he nev­er went to church, not un­til his con­tact with a Kur­dish fam­i­ly did he be­come aware of his spir­i­tu­al side. Once a week, he rides his bike 30 kilo­me­ters to drink from his spir­i­tu­al well – a group of Su­fis.

In the four-part photofilm-se­ries “And then I be­came a Mus­lim”, Michael Hau­ri por­trays Ger­mans who came to Is­lam. This is Part I in the series.

Series Editorial Note – Antonio Marques

Religion is probably one of humankind’s earliest forms of abstract expression. Much earlier than organised religious movements, the need to believe in something bigger than man, a deity that could explain the world, is documented almost as far back as primitive forms of communication. Nowadays, a vast number of different ideologies are “available”, fuelling passion and emotions and, unfortunately for many, fuelling the great love/hate divide created solely by a religious label.

Documenting religion is, in my opinion, one of the hardest things for a photographer/journalist. There will always be shouts of partiality and biases, no matter what the story shows. That can, potentially, be the intention. Choosing a religion, independently of which, can be even more controversial – the very fact of choice seen as non-existent by many theological ideologies. In this series, Michael Hauri has done it brilliantly, not by documenting religion, but by documenting people. I would like to re-emphasize that – Hauri is showing us people, not invisible deities. People that, for one reason or other, decided to embrace an ideology that mostly resembles their own.

If we look around us, the choice of religion hardly comes from study, exploration or informed decision. Rather role models are, without a question, the principal reason for a particular choice – family, community, etc. And I use the word choice liberally because for many the word choice will have an entirely different meaning.

I was lucky enough to have come from a family background that could be seen as religious, but not for a second did they try to mould me or force me when I chose not to have a religion, and not to identify myself with religious beliefs. That is choice. As such, perhaps at some level, I can empathise with the people in these stories – choosing as individuals, saying “This is what I choose to believe”.

Unfortunately, labels still, and will, cloud the mind of many. We are now over 7 billion. I’m sure there is room for a variety of thought and ways for individuals to be seen as a person rather than as only a headscarf, or a cross, or a robe, or a kippah.

Technically, these essays excel on many levels. The mixture of still imagery with footage, both beautiful executed and complemented by a well thought and meaningful soundtrack, turn each story, independently of the subject, into art pieces by themselves. I was quite impressed by the composition of many of the images and how everything works together. Curiously, the choice of “street photography” type imagery, while somewhat unusual for a mainly videography document, makes the whole series shine.

Michael Hauri received a well deserved ‘Axel Springer Prize for Young Journalists 2011′ award for this series.

One of the things that I have tried to explore in this set of works is the relationship between language and representation. We grasp the world through language; but since it is an impure medium already ‘contaminated’ by all manner of historical and cultural residues (and thus ideological in its very essence), our experiences are always partial. ‘Abecedaire’ uses the basic formal device of a child’s language primer in order to explore the question of the relationship between subjectivity and interpretation. Using alphabetical blocks juxtaposed against meticulously constructed scenes, I have tried to provoke the viewer into bringing an active act of ‘reading’ into the work; – one could say therefore that it also tries to posit an equivalence between the interpretation of a work and the ways in which we engage with the world as sentient beings. Experience, or our being-in-the-world is primarily a form of interpretative activity; we frame the world through the perceptual, linguistic and cultural codes into which we are born (or that we acquire).

Editor’s Note – Anil Cherukupalli

Sathyanand’s twist of the language primer which almost everyone in the English speaking world is familiar with through this essay is both playful and profound. On the surface, the saturated photographs are easily attractive and vaguely comforting as they instantly evoke childhood memories of many hours spent learning the English alphabet by rote. But linger a little longer on each meticulously constructed photograph and deeper, often disturbing, thoughts surface. The allusions made with each brightly coloured alphabet in the foreground and a constructed background are manifold. ‘Zetigeist’, ‘childhood’, ‘words’ seem the most obvious of such but even the most obvious allusion lends itself to multiple interpretations. W could mean just words, it could mean writers or it could mean wrong too.

By constructing such multiple interpretations within this series Sathyanand is highlighting the importance of subjectivity in language. Nothing is black and white. What I see, interpret and construct will be different from you. Each of us, based on our subjective natures, process the world differently even if using similar symbols. Uniformity of opinion is not always possible in the subjective world of language. But should we guard against attempts to enforce a universal sameness that a globalised world seeks to impose on us? The ‘M’ for McDonald’s or the bitten apple for Apple, for example, seek to hard code such interpretations. By building many meanings into something as simple as an abecedaire the artist is asking us to delve deeper into the symbols we take for granted. So linger with each photograph, attempt to throw out the A for Apples and C for Cats that you have learnt long ago and instead interpret each alphabet anew based on what you see and have experienced. Trust me, it will be a rewarding and educative experience.

India was stunned when a 23 year old female physiotherapy intern was beaten and brutally gang raped by six men on a moving bus in New Delhi on 16 December, 2012 and thrown out of the vehicle, almost dead. She was first taken to Safdarjang Hospital, received multiple surgeries, and was placed on mechanical ventilation. Though still critical, the victim tried her best to communicate with her doctors by writing notes. On 26 December, 2012 she was moved to Singapore for further treatment, where she died on 29 December while undergoing emergency treatment for brain and gastrointestinal damage from the assault.

As the details of the case became public, outrage and protests overtook the nation. People across the nation and the world took up the case to stage protests against rape and a Government, which was still snoozing. Major public protests took place in New Delhi on 21 December, 2012 at India Gate and Raisina Hill, the latter being the location of both the Parliament of India and Rashtrapati Bhawan, the official residence of the President of India. Braving the bitter cold, thousands of protesters demanding early justice clashed with police, overturned cars, and battled Rapid Action Force units. Demonstrators were lathi charged, shot with water cannons, tear gas shells, and arrested. Near about 375 tear gas canisters were used at India Gate and elsewhere in Delhi to disperse the crowds. Protesters believed that the Indian Government failed to act positively or give credible assurances to the protesters, and instead used police force to stop the protests, restoring to lathi charging, pushing the media out of the scene and shutting down metro rail stations. Meanwhile, the Delhi police imposed Section 144 in various places of the national capital. Seven metro rail stations close to India Gate were closed on 22 December, 2012 to discourage protesters from gathering at Raisina Hill. On 24 December, 2012 police blocked roads leading to India Gate and Raisina Hill to prevent possible mass protests. Nine metro rail stations were closed on that day, affecting thousands of transit patrons. News reporters were not allowed to reach India Gate and Raisina Hill. In addition to CrPC section 144, which disallows assembly of groups larger than five, curfew was imposed near the Presidential residence.

In spite of all these hurdles, the incident generated international coverage and was condemned by the United Nations Entity for Gender Equality and the Empowerment of woman, who called on the Government of India and the Government of Delhi “to do everything in their power to take up radical reforms, ensure justice and reach out with robust public services to make women’s lives more safe and secure.” The 23 years old girl failed to return from the ventilator. But she showed that our society, our system is also under ventilation. It’s high time to awaken our society and realize that we are the doctors to help our society, our system to get rid of the disease. So take responsibility and help our system, our society in bringing it out from the ventilator.

Editorial Note – Anil Cherukupalli
The anguish of a nation was aroused by the barbaric crime committed on a young brave heart and her subsequent fight for her life. Subrata’s essay captures the raw anger and energy of the protests that erupted in New Delhi and the subsequent needless and heavy handed police action to quell the same. There has been much written on the gang rape and the subsequent protests. So, I’ll just concentrate on the photo essay. Subrata has navigated the different facets of the protests brilliantly and brought to the fore the frustration of India’s youth at the dysfunctional, arrogant and uncaring system that is happy to maintain the status quo. The photos of the protestors being pummelled by water cannons which have a surreal, painterly quality to them are particularly haunting. The conflict between the determination of an angry youth intent on reclaiming symbolic but powerful spaces denied to them and the worried law enforcement arm of the government intent on vacating them from there is a study in contrasts. Visuals can be powerful on their own but when they marry the emotions behind such spontaneous protests to powerful storytelling they can transcend being mere documents of what happened to become instead inspiring symbols of civil resistance.

Note: This essay contains DISTURBING CONTENT!

Bibi Zohora, 19, was admitted to Dhaka Medical College Hospital with a severely broken neck. Tortured by her in-laws for dowry, she had returned to her parental home in Nolua, Kabirhat, Noakhali and had a failed attempt to commit suicide by hanging herself from a mango tree. Her poor parents had somehow managed to take her to Dhaka Medical College Hospital (DMCH) for her treatment. But what treatment had been awaiting her? Bibi Zohora was now at the ICU of DMCH, lying amidst another 21 critical patients. But there were only three doctors who seemed rather interested in their private talk. Her parents were the only attendants there to look after their gasping daughter though nobody except the medical staff is allowed to enter any intensive care unit. However, the mother at one stage made out that her daughter was no more alive and started wailing. The doctors hurried to Bibi Zohora and pretended to do everything possible- thumping, pumping and what not. Sensing the presence of a camera, one of the doctors gaped at the ECG monitor reading LOSS OF SIGNAL. He posed as if doing a grave job though the ECG monitor was not connected with the patient.

Bibi Zohora was a victim of dowry death who was driven to suicide by continuous harassment and torture by husband and in-laws in an effort to extort an increased dowry. Dowry death is considered one of the many categories of violence against women in South Asia. Most dowry deaths occur when the young woman, unable to bear the harassment and torture, commits suicide. Most of these suicides are by hanging, poisoning or by fire. Sometimes the woman is killed by setting her on fire; this is known as “bride burning”, and sometimes disguised as suicide or accident.

As per women rights organization’s statistics, from 01 January 2005 to 28 February 2011, 1257 women were killed, 348 were ill-treated and 243 committed suicide due to dowry related violence. Women in Bangladesh are still in a vulnerable situation in the society. To reduce violence against women, society should ensure gender equality, no economic gap between genders, social consciousness and proper implementation of law and order.

Editorial Note – Anil Cherukupalli
Of all the work we have featured so far on Aksgar this has been the toughest to write a note for so far. I made many attempts but each time the horror and tragedy behind the essay overwhelmed me. What can you add to what is so obvious? I cannot begin to imagine what the photographer must have gone through when he was shooting this. As Turjoy said in one of his emails, “I couldn’t sleep at least one week after this experience.” Bibi Zohora’s story is not the first and sadly won’t be the last but her story and situation must be one of the few that have been so graphically and intensely documented. And for that reason it is important to see this essay even if it can be a disturbing experience. Violence against women is in the news currently but it has always happened and will continue to happen if stronger steps are not taken to educate and sensitise men and even women. If violence against women continues to increase at an alarming rate it is because of the colossal failure of our educational, cultural and legal systems. But let me stop here and let the essay speak for itself.

Note: This essay contains EXPLICIT CONTENT!

Since my very first experiments in photography I have been fascinated by human behavior and its various realities, by the ever-present human desire of living in a dream world. The aesthetic of my new project continues this visual exploration at the border between dream and reality, yet this time embraces personal escapism and the act of loosing oneself.

My objective as an artist is to push the boundaries of photography through experimental methods, working with new mediums and discovering new techniques in the darkroom.

Editor’s Note – Anil Cherukupalli

Nathalie’s essay explores a world that lies at the intersection of desire and domination. She was given exclusive access to a unique hotel in Tokyo where fantasies and desire are given free reign in the company of dominatrixes in small self contained universes. Each portrait, through the use of the darkroom technique of selective blurring, offers a sensitive and intimate glimpse of a moment in time in the lives of these women. Some are playful while others are pensive. Some are contorted while others are cheerful. And some others are distant while others are demanding. Collectively, the photographs in this essay are like a window into an alternate world of saturated fantasy and barely suppressed desire.

The photo essay also explores the female form and the various desires it can provoke. In spite of the sometimes shocking nature of the various women featured in nearly dream like settings seemingly acting out their client’s fantasies, the clever juxtaposition of clarity and fuzziness in the photographs through a darkroom technique contrasts the unreal and real aspects of the lives of these women. This also brings a sense of intimacy to the evocative portraits, humanizing the women beyond their obvious fantasy role playing and fantastic settings.

In its present arrangement, the photo essay also has a strange narrative flow even though the photos by themselves are non-linear. It is as if the photos have arranged themselves to tell a story where each photo seems to connect to the next by a gesture or a pose or a position. Is the woman in red who is smoking a cigarette peeking out of her partially opened door into the room in the next photo where a woman lies on the floor, eyes closed in peace with the tendrils of her red hair trailing out like some unknown symbol? Are Yuri, Ageha, Asuka and Kogure competing with each other in some weird sexual gymnastics? Or the one towards the end which offers a rare glimpse at the other side of this profession-the men or ‘slaves’, in this case a masked man, who seems to be staring at Yurika, the woman in the last photo, with a mixture of fear and reverence, as if she personifies the ideal Japanese woman, a curious mixture of tradition and domination. My favorite photo in the whole series is the one of Shelly where she is captured in a pensive mood. Behind her alluring physical charms, there is something mysterious about her as a whole. What is she thinking at that moment? If she reflecting on her unusual occupation? Is she remembering something sad? Or is she just thinking something very mundane? I don’t know. We don’t know. It is this capacity to get simultaneously attracted, mystified, titillated and shocked that is the power of this captivating series that looks into one manifestation of our infinite hunger for escape from mundane existence.

Have I failed love or has love failed me?
The only thing I’m sure of is, somewhere,
at some point something has failed.
And at that very point those three profound words
that I used to utter so softly became trapped inside
and could no longer be spoken.
Did I give up too soon or persevered too long?
Not sure if I welcomed love or pushed it away.
Did I make you leave? How I wish you’d stayed.
My memories are still haunted by you
even though I’ve not gazed deep into your eyes in two years.
A quick glance at you, and I’m back in those old times
for a fleeting moment, longing for something sweeter
such as your lips or something more comforting,
like your touch.
It seems so long ago but how could it not
when even a day without you seems like a year.
Here I am, sitting in my room with lights out;
listening to Pink Floyd,
Hoping there’s a way to make my heart understand
your absence so I no longer have to endure the pain.
I try to move on but my heart is stuck,
Like a broken record playing those memories on loop.
I’ve lost count of the tears shed and sleepless nights spent
They come so frequently, heartbreak seems quite routine..
It was you whom I chose so long ago to give my heart to.
Was it me who also chose to give you away?

Editor’s Note – Anil Cherukupalli

It is never easy dissecting love, perhaps the most difficult to grasp of all human emotions. It is even more difficult doing that for a love that has slipped through. Krishnendu attempts just that visually through this essay and succeeds to an extent in portraying the despair, the darkness and the anguish at the heart of a lover’s lament for a loved one. The chronology of a love gone by is told through images of flight, diverging lines, framed memories, separation and juxtaposition. But there is ambiguity too, especially in the closing image. What does it mean? Will the waves wipe away everything and leave a clean slate? Or has the tide receded and failed to erase the imprints of togetherness? As always, only time has all the possible answers.

When I was seven, my uncle was in his late twenties. Today I am twenty and he in his late forties; it’s been a long journey of twenty years. This project, if at all I can call it a project is a tribute to my uncle. This is a very personal project.

My uncle lost his hearing and speaking ability at a very tender age due to medical negligence and financial incapability of his family at that time. Years of social isolation led to his unstable mental condition as well. Though many can be held responsible for his state, to begin with the family itself, the social attitude towards the disabled and many more. In my work here, I do not tend to blame anyone, find reason or talk of any social issue related to his situation.

This is my personal tribute to a man, a human being who continues to live in utmost silence for more than four decades now. This is just about him, the way he is, with all his perfections and imperfections. One life, one room and how he passes one day at a time. His world clock perhaps is very slow, silent and very different from our competitive world clock. This is his own little space, a room of 10×10, his own and only world.

I wanted to be a voice, perhaps his response to the way he perceives the world. His waking up to the morning sun, his little luncheon, his fear of the dark, his frustrations, his pain, his little world of amusement and also his dreams perhaps. Maybe these are my desperate wish and hope to give his practically non-existent life a befitting tribute. He continues to live with me and my family, a silent presence amongst us.

Editor’s Note – Antonio Marques

Of the essays that we receive for consideration, some make me think more than others. It’s normal, I guess – different subjects, different representations, different moods affect us differently. My Uncle Tukka by Swastik Pal was one that had me staring at the images for an abnormally long period. It’s a story like thousands of others, but reminded me again of the human condition, of the fine line between normality (or perceived normality) and entrapment in a world that I can’t even pretend I could begin to describe. I see the subject, I discern the emotions, I see how they play in the images, but I can’t explain the person.

After the first review, I thought that eliminating a few  of the images from the essay would make it stronger – visually, I still think that way. But the story would lose something. Each image is a fragment of time that gives us something more, a fleeting moment that describes so little, and yet so much. I don’t think it’s my place to cut down on this story.

I’ve also tried to place myself in the shoes of the photographer – creating such a project and developing it into a story with an unfamiliar subject is hard, but creating it with/about a subject that is such a relevant part of the photographer’s life requires more than just photographic proficiency, it requires courage.

Rangoon Hardcore is a body of work looking at the passionate group of youths who make up Rangoon’s underground guitar music scenes. Taken over the course of a year, the photographs show a side of Burma rarely seen in the West  - a Burma of passionate creativity, rebelious style and subversive culture. Despite the obvious difficulties involved in developing any type of sub-culture in one of the most culturally traditional, socially restrictive and economically disadvantaged countries in the world, these punks, metals-heads and hardcore-fans are carving out a vibrant scene of their own. But will their scene flourish under the Burma we are now hearing about – a supposedly reformist Burma embracing a new found liberalism – or will a diminishing level of oppression and restriction also diminish the frustration which drives them and, ultimately, the passion?

Editor’s Note – Antonio Marques

Music breaks barriers, creates identities, fuels and is fuelled by ideologies. Independently of nations or creeds, music prevails and lets the message go through. But creating music requires that special something, a set of conditions that gives it that raw power – if those conditions are not there, music becomes something a little less than music. In Burma, the second largest country in Southeast Asia, a long history of “repression of thought” allied with a traditionally conservative society have brewed the perfect conditions for the innately human rebellion to pour forth in this most universal of ways – music.

The most soundly aggressive music cultures, from punk to hardcore metal, born in garages and basements, far from the mainstream eyes, were always used to express anti-establishment ideologies, whether political, religious or cultural. Burma, like so many other places, has and gives a reason (or many) for this music to exist. Ko Gyi has expertly captured instants that go far beyond music. In his images you have the feeling and expression of any sub-culture, people using music as a way (their only way?) to talk to anyone who cares to listen and pass on their message. Beyond the hair and tattoos, the images make you see the raging sounds of distortion in guitar chords, the screams, the outcast lyrics… and the smiles of those facing life in their own way, in a place where ways of life were very much imposed rather than chosen.

We leave things, and maybe, they leave us, too, on streets, waiting on sidewalks, forgotten and far from shiny, set aside in corners. Long after better days have receded, there they sit–objects of rejection in public spaces: a white plush recliner, a toy, a bike left leaning, a discarded this or that. Items left in window sills, without owners but telling secrets in stillness and scuff. These are unimportant things. Donated, sold, trashed, ignored.  Shelved. These are the items before the journey to disappearing, before transforming, in limbo. There is in them a melancholy material of pleasures lost and now departed debris.

The images were captured and edited in 2010-11 in Portland, Seattle, and a few  small towns north of Seattle. All images were captured and edited on-board with an iPhone 3Gs.

Editor’s Note – Anil Cherukupalli

The flotsam and jetsam of humanity tells a story in itself. The things we discard are reflections of our changing tastes, aspirations and even dreams. A thing we coveted yesterday can become an object to be left on the sidewalk tomorrow. Seattle based photographer Star Rush’s photos are portraits of these melancholic rejects. Moody, reflective and formal in their framing the photos in this essay can also be construed as quiet observations of the dark side of consumerism where in the rush to posses the latest dream sold by the merchants who peddle instant retail gratification we often let go of things that still have a long life left to give.

Upon initial viewing of this essay, it is easy to get side tracked by the fact that every photo in it was shot and edited on an iPhone, that wunderkind of our mobile age. But upon repeat viewing, perhaps because of the sense of gloom the subjects in these photos seem to radiate, Departs leaves me with some uncomfortable questions about our collective propensity to generate so much waste. And that, beyond the many technical trivialities that one may want to know on how these photos were produced on a mobile phone, is perhaps the powerful message one needs to absorb from this essay.

Two years ago, on 12th January 2010, one of the most severe earthquakes recorded in history shook the country of Haiti resulting in over 300,000 victims. Almost immediately, the efforts of the international community by way of donations and relief supplies reached the island nation. Who is responsible for these efforts? Where has the money been used?

Two years on, there are still no signs of reconstruction and promised new beginnings. Unstable political and institutional structures, corruption, mismanagement and crime have gained order in this chaos. The people live in abject poverty and suffer daily from severely poor living conditions. A hopeful future for them is not in sight. Two years of struggle and heartache have followed, with very little progress to show.

I traveled there last October. Through my camera lens I portray the failure of both local and international agencies to change the current situation and the great distress of the population affected.

Editor’s Note – Antonio Marques

As in with other occurrences of major natural disasters, to a lesser or greater extent, the international community has tried to help the people of Haiti. Countries pledged large amounts of money, and personal donations soared. Unfortunately, as with previous occasions on different locations, when the control hierarchy collapses and large amounts of money are available, a more dark and sinister presence might be felt – greed. Money gets diverted, corruption is the rule, and the effects of the disaster continue for far longer than expected, or accepted. There is also a dilution of attention – something else of similar magnitude happens somewhere else and the efforts, in particular when lives are not immediately at risk, gets diverted. 

Rebuilding is much less media-worthy, less dramatic, but not less important. Marco has captured a stunning essay documenting the standing of a nation on the brink of collapse, and portraying exactly what happens when that attention goes somewhere else. These images show an impressive capability for adaptation – it’s human nature to always move on. However, for these people, the earthquake never ended, the difference is that it’s not the ground shaking anymore, it’s their very lives, their survival beyond the disaster.