Segregation It was with more than a little trepidation that I took this assignment in Belfast. Not because of “The Troubles” (and I still can’t get over the understatement in this term), but for photographing something that looks so familiar, something so much like where I grew up, and what I took for granted. Since I began making a living out of photography back in January, much of my work has been centred around events, and all of it in Africa - from Libya, through the Sudans, to Kenya and Somalia. They have been stories of conflict, of voting, of famine and drought. And if I was working on quieter stories, it was still “exotic”; a different scenery, and different peoples, for the largely western audience that views (and buys) my work. Here in Northern Ireland, the terraced houses reminded me of Sheffield. The faces looked the same as those who I grew up with. I wouldn’t have that “safety net” of the exotic on this assignment. I was working with a journalist who I first met in Libya, as we crossed the border from Egypt. The story was for a weekend supplement of Le Monde, and would have roots in a civil war that took place in my own country as I was growing up, but which I realised I knew less about than many other conflicts in other corners of the globe. What shocked me the most were the “Peace Walls”. We talk about—and deplore—the Israeli wall that separates the Palestinian Territories from Israel, segregating two peoples. But these exist in Belfast today. Under the shadow of it, gardens are covered in netting and mesh, resembling small prisons, to protect them from bricks and other missiles thrown over from the opposite side. I had seen the same thing in Hebron. And these are not relics of the past, now that peace talks have brought about a relative calm. People here say that the walls are still needed, to keep two opposing communities apart. Integration is a long way off yet. » Read Belfast, en paix mais toujours divisée — Le Monde des religions » See the tearsheet in my portfolio
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Segregation

It was with more than a little trepidation that I took this assignment in Belfast. Not because of “The Troubles” (and I still can’t get over the understatement in this term), but for photographing something that looks so familiar, something so much like where I grew up, and what I took for granted.

Since I began making a living out of photography back in January, much of my work has been centred around events, and all of it in Africa - from Libya, through the Sudans, to Kenya and Somalia. They have been stories of conflict, of voting, of famine and drought. And if I was working on quieter stories, it was still “exotic”; a different scenery, and different peoples, for the largely western audience that views (and buys) my work.

Here in Northern Ireland, the terraced houses reminded me of Sheffield. The faces looked the same as those who I grew up with. I wouldn’t have that “safety net” of the exotic on this assignment.

I was working with a journalist who I first met in Libya, as we crossed the border from Egypt. The story was for a weekend supplement of Le Monde, and would have roots in a civil war that took place in my own country as I was growing up, but which I realised I knew less about than many other conflicts in other corners of the globe.

What shocked me the most were the “Peace Walls”. We talk about—and deplore—the Israeli wall that separates the Palestinian Territories from Israel, segregating two peoples. But these exist in Belfast today. Under the shadow of it, gardens are covered in netting and mesh, resembling small prisons, to protect them from bricks and other missiles thrown over from the opposite side. I had seen the same thing in Hebron.

And these are not relics of the past, now that peace talks have brought about a relative calm. People here say that the walls are still needed, to keep two opposing communities apart. Integration is a long way off yet.

» Read Belfast, en paix mais toujours divisée — Le Monde des religions
» See the tearsheet in my portfolio

Old Town Mombasa

Whilst Congowea market has a distinctly African flavour, Mombasa’s old-town is something different. There is a much more arab flavour to East Africa’s port, with the Swahili culture adding a very nice twist, particularly whilst enjoying a coffee in a little café tucked away in the back-streets.

Walking the streets at dusk during Ramadan, people prepare to break the day’s fast with their Iftar meal. An echo of France—a painted wall advertising “Épices + Thé + Café”—reminds me of last year during Ramadan, when I was walking the outskirts of Paris in a very Maghreb neighbourhood, en route to the climbing wall in Pantin. Things have changed.

Amongst the Stacks The Bibliotheca Alexandria was another of the reasons I wanted to visit Alexandria. Originally established in 283 BC, the Great Library of Alexandria was one of the first libraries open to the public and was a massive centre of knowledge. Copyright was of little interest back in the days when Alexandrian law demanded the confiscation and duplication of manuscripts arriving in the city by boat. Reading about Google’s scanning of the world’s libraries for its online catalogue, certain parallels come to mind. The new library, the Bibliotheca Alexandria, was opened in 2002 and is an impressive piece of architecture. The sunlight reflecting off the metal discus that forms the library’s form reminded me a little of Libeskind’s Juedisches Museum in Berlin. Beside the entrance, a large, curving, ornamental wall is inscribed with characters from “every known” alphabet; I was limited to understanding those of Arabic, Cyrillic, Japanese and of course Latin, whilst ogling at the hieroglyphs, characters and pictograms of many other languages and civilisations. Inside, the angled windows from the discus form of the building cast a wonderful light over the book-shelves and rows of desks. There is space to hold eight million books, over tenfold more than the 700,000 documents of the original Great Library; although the spaces on the shelves indicated its current stock is somewhat less. Pieces of typographic and calligraphic art are dotted around. I sat with Alexandria’s studious souls, idling away the afternoon with books on Arabic calligraphy and Middle-Eastern & African linguistics. I miss my books.

Amongst the Stacks

The Bibliotheca Alexandria was another of the reasons I wanted to visit Alexandria. Originally established in 283 BC, the Great Library of Alexandria was one of the first libraries open to the public and was a massive centre of knowledge. Copyright was of little interest back in the days when Alexandrian law demanded the confiscation and duplication of manuscripts arriving in the city by boat. Reading about Google’s scanning of the world’s libraries for its online catalogue, certain parallels come to mind.

The new library, the Bibliotheca Alexandria, was opened in 2002 and is an impressive piece of architecture. The sunlight reflecting off the metal discus that forms the library’s form reminded me a little of Libeskind’s Juedisches Museum in Berlin. Beside the entrance, a large, curving, ornamental wall is inscribed with characters from “every known” alphabet; I was limited to understanding those of Arabic, Cyrillic, Japanese and of course Latin, whilst ogling at the hieroglyphs, characters and pictograms of many other languages and civilisations.

Inside, the angled windows from the discus form of the building cast a wonderful light over the book-shelves and rows of desks. There is space to hold eight million books, over tenfold more than the 700,000 documents of the original Great Library; although the spaces on the shelves indicated its current stock is somewhat less. Pieces of typographic and calligraphic art are dotted around.

I sat with Alexandria’s studious souls, idling away the afternoon with books on Arabic calligraphy and Middle-Eastern & African linguistics. I miss my books.

Dome of the Rock This Islamic shrine, part of the al-Aqsa complex, is the oldest Islamic building in the world, and one of the most holy sites in Islam outside of Saudi Arabia. I had seen pictures of it adorning the walls in the houses of many Muslim families that I have met whilst on this trip, although to the majority of them, they will never be able to visit it. For me, the blue tiles & intricate calligraphy brought back memories of the mosques of Esfahan in Iran, my first real experience of a Muslim country. Israeli police patrol inside the site, and it is only accessible to non-Muslims for an hour a day. Access is via the same complex as the Western Wall, one of Judaism’s most important sites. If you are Muslim, access is limited by other means. Most citizens of Arab countries would not be able to visit it due to the travel restrictions surrounding Israel. If you fall into the category of a Palestinian holding Israeli ID, then you can live in, or travel to, Jerusalem (and therefore access the al-Aqsa complex). However, Israeli police do sometimes limit access to the site; just the other day, the Old City itself was closed to Palestinians. Israelis and tourists were allowed to enter. For Palestinians holding Palestinian ID, things get a little more complicated. Access to Jerusalem from the West Bank involves crossing a checkpoint, due to the existence of the (illegal) separation wall. To cross this checkpoint, one must have the right papers. Authorisation to travel to Jerusalem is often granted for Fridays only — the holy day for Muslims. For males to obtain this authorisation, they must be 55 years old. And once authorisation has been gained, there is the issue of actually traveling there. On a Friday, the queues at the checkpoints surrounding Jerusalem are horrendous, as people try to reach their place of prayer. Qalandia—the checkpoint between Ramallah and Jerusalem—in particular, is a very unpleasant experience. People often queue for hours, in a very hot, pushy, humiliating environment.

Dome of the Rock

This Islamic shrine, part of the al-Aqsa complex, is the oldest Islamic building in the world, and one of the most holy sites in Islam outside of Saudi Arabia. I had seen pictures of it adorning the walls in the houses of many Muslim families that I have met whilst on this trip, although to the majority of them, they will never be able to visit it. For me, the blue tiles & intricate calligraphy brought back memories of the mosques of Esfahan in Iran, my first real experience of a Muslim country.

Israeli police patrol inside the site, and it is only accessible to non-Muslims for an hour a day. Access is via the same complex as the Western Wall, one of Judaism’s most important sites. If you are Muslim, access is limited by other means. Most citizens of Arab countries would not be able to visit it due to the travel restrictions surrounding Israel. If you fall into the category of a Palestinian holding Israeli ID, then you can live in, or travel to, Jerusalem (and therefore access the al-Aqsa complex). However, Israeli police do sometimes limit access to the site; just the other day, the Old City itself was closed to Palestinians. Israelis and tourists were allowed to enter.

For Palestinians holding Palestinian ID, things get a little more complicated. Access to Jerusalem from the West Bank involves crossing a checkpoint, due to the existence of the (illegal) separation wall. To cross this checkpoint, one must have the right papers. Authorisation to travel to Jerusalem is often granted for Fridays only — the holy day for Muslims. For males to obtain this authorisation, they must be 55 years old.

And once authorisation has been gained, there is the issue of actually traveling there. On a Friday, the queues at the checkpoints surrounding Jerusalem are horrendous, as people try to reach their place of prayer. Qalandia—the checkpoint between Ramallah and Jerusalem—in particular, is a very unpleasant experience. People often queue for hours, in a very hot, pushy, humiliating environment.

To Beirut The bus from Damascus to Beirut first slogs its way up to the Anti-Lebanon mountainside, then creeps through the long stretch of “no-man’s land” between the Syrian and Lebanese border posts, before winding along the roads surrounding Lebanese ski-resorts and snaking its way back down to sea level to this troubled capital. Along the mountain roads there were several army checkpoints, the soldiers huddling near to their wooden cabins in between stopping vehicles. I had grown used to the frequent sight of guns displayed by Syrian police, army and mukhabarat, but here, things seemed to take on a different dimension. The checkpoints here seemed fiercer than their Syrian counterparts; arriving into Beirut, there was a tank positioned under a flyover. But then Lebanon has a much more troubled, recent past. It was only three and a half years ago that the 2006 Israel-Hezbollah War gripped the south of the country, and southern Beirut was targeted. The evidence of fighting in the capital is visible nearly everywhere. Bullet-holes pock-mark buildings, whilst other still stand derelict, bearing the scars of shelling, presumably from the Lebanese Civil War. But the city is undergoing huge amounts of construction; Downtown has been completely renovated, and the shell of the Holiday Inn, which was under heavy sniper fire in the civil war, is now flanked by other hotel giants. Before I had come here, I had heard people speak of another war with Israel being “imminent” — it is only a month away, I had been told — but that doesn’t seem to stop the investment. Talking with more people in Lebanon, there are those who say that “Israeli troops are massing on the Southern border, and they have called up their reservists”, but then others who say that this talk has been going on for a year or so. “There will always be an invasion next month.” (Neither Hezbollah, nor Israel, would be particularly keen on a war right now. If one comes, it is likely to be due to Israel’s strategy on the Iranian nuclear issue, and Hezbollah’s ties with the country.) On many counts, Beirut does seem to have it all. The city sits on the Mediterranean, is flanked by mountains (with ski-resorts less than an hour’s drive away), and not far north from the capital is some renowned hiking. Downtown & Achrafiyeh are definitely Western-facing; the old souk district is awash with occidental brands and shops, the clock-tower in the Place d’Étoile bears the Rolex brand. The student population around the Hamra & Ras Beirut districts create a little niche of cool little cafés, and in Gemmayzeh there are some very nice bars. The cuisine is divine. People are friendly, although a little too m’as-tu vu for my liking in certain districts. After having spent the last few months in Damascus, I felt much more comfortable in the bustling, populaire Muslim quarters. Despite the mass of concrete, I find the city has an aesthetic charm. Basing myself here is not inconceivable…

To Beirut

The bus from Damascus to Beirut first slogs its way up to the Anti-Lebanon mountainside, then creeps through the long stretch of “no-man’s land” between the Syrian and Lebanese border posts, before winding along the roads surrounding Lebanese ski-resorts and snaking its way back down to sea level to this troubled capital.

Along the mountain roads there were several army checkpoints, the soldiers huddling near to their wooden cabins in between stopping vehicles. I had grown used to the frequent sight of guns displayed by Syrian police, army and mukhabarat, but here, things seemed to take on a different dimension. The checkpoints here seemed fiercer than their Syrian counterparts; arriving into Beirut, there was a tank positioned under a flyover. But then Lebanon has a much more troubled, recent past. It was only three and a half years ago that the 2006 Israel-Hezbollah War gripped the south of the country, and southern Beirut was targeted. The evidence of fighting in the capital is visible nearly everywhere. Bullet-holes pock-mark buildings, whilst other still stand derelict, bearing the scars of shelling, presumably from the Lebanese Civil War.

But the city is undergoing huge amounts of construction; Downtown has been completely renovated, and the shell of the Holiday Inn, which was under heavy sniper fire in the civil war, is now flanked by other hotel giants.

Before I had come here, I had heard people speak of another war with Israel being “imminent” — it is only a month away, I had been told — but that doesn’t seem to stop the investment. Talking with more people in Lebanon, there are those who say that “Israeli troops are massing on the Southern border, and they have called up their reservists”, but then others who say that this talk has been going on for a year or so. “There will always be an invasion next month.” (Neither Hezbollah, nor Israel, would be particularly keen on a war right now. If one comes, it is likely to be due to Israel’s strategy on the Iranian nuclear issue, and Hezbollah’s ties with the country.)

On many counts, Beirut does seem to have it all. The city sits on the Mediterranean, is flanked by mountains (with ski-resorts less than an hour’s drive away), and not far north from the capital is some renowned hiking. Downtown & Achrafiyeh are definitely Western-facing; the old souk district is awash with occidental brands and shops, the clock-tower in the Place d’Étoile bears the Rolex brand. The student population around the Hamra & Ras Beirut districts create a little niche of cool little cafés, and in Gemmayzeh there are some very nice bars. The cuisine is divine. People are friendly, although a little too m’as-tu vu for my liking in certain districts. After having spent the last few months in Damascus, I felt much more comfortable in the bustling, populaire Muslim quarters.

Despite the mass of concrete, I find the city has an aesthetic charm.

Basing myself here is not inconceivable…