Valencia city of Arta & Sciences by Martin Agius

**Valencia** city
of
Arts & Sciences

**by Martin Agius**

When I first saw photos of the City of Arts and Science in Valencia, I immediately said to myself that I should go there.

In 2019, I booked a trip to this magnificent city for the end of March 2020. We all know what happened. Covid-19 came and blocked everything in the world. So, I had to cancel, but luckily, I managed to get my money back for the flights and accommodation.

Years passed quickly and I finally managed to go in 2023. I was relieved at the fact that I could make it at last. As soon as I checked into my accommodation, I headed for the City of Arts and Sciences. When I arrived, I couldn’t believe my eyes; the place was more beautiful when I saw it in person than in the photos I had seen. But suddenly, I was disappointed, as there were parts of it closed to the public. What I had in mind evaporating suddenly evaporated into thin air. I also thought that this place was jinxed for me. I went around and shot what in a half-hearted way. After a long day, I returned to where I was staying and started thinking about the next thing I could do.

The following day, I got up and went back to the city. This time, I was in the right state of mind and believed that I would get some good shots no matter what. This time, I decided to visit the aquarium, which is also part of this city. Here, I also managed to get some good photos. I spent another whole day here and started to get some good photos, even though the event was still running and some places were still closed to the public.

Sunday, I went back to the city in the morning, and when I arrived, I was relieved as the place was cleared from the event’s stuff, and places were once again open to the public. I was over the moon, and I walked and walked and shot a lot. On this day, I entered the Science Museum, where one can also find good spots to shoot.

The place was more magnificent when it got dark, although some parts were a bit too dark as the lights weren't working. I managed to get some amazing shots as the place turned into a sort of other place.

I returned on Monday, which was my last full day here. Every day that I went, I found a good composition, and the light was different because the sun and the shade were moving. I always revisit places at different times of the day, as the light changes all the time. In this way, I also got to know this city by heart, and by the end, I was really happy with my stay and the material I got.

Tuesday was the day to head back home. I took the train to the airport and got the flight home. When I got home, I was so excited that I switched on my iMac and downloaded all the images that I took to the hard disk, but I didn’t look at them, I just uploaded them into Lightroom and switched everything off. I always leave images I took from a shoot a few days before looking at them. I do this to look at them with fresh eyes, and the excitement almost gone or faded.

After a couple of days, I decided to go through the images, and I was really happy with the results. I discovered a few pictures that, although I thought they were decent, looked better. Overall, the trip was much better than I had expected. Maybe one day I will revisit this magnificent place. I definitely recommend Valencia to all Street Photographers enthusiasts.

martin agius

Day of the dead by Don Scott

A man's face has been painted to resemble a skull. A paper, angel-shaped name tag is pinned to his shirt. On the tag is the name Henry, the name of the man's son. These dates are at the bottom of the tag:

12-20-16 – 5-10-19. That is how long Henry was alive. The man has come to Armory Park in Tucson, Arizona to attend the annual All Soul's Day event where children paint cardboard angel wings to wear during the Children's Parade later that evening.

I talked to a woman who lost her child when he was 4 days old. She found that people were uncomfortable when she talked about her son's death. A few months later, she got involved with All Souls Day. Talking with others who had lost a child helped her deal with her loss. The annual event helps her talk about her boy and celebrate him. Her son was a organ donor. His heart went to a little girl and his liver went to an infant boy.

All around the park there are homemade memorials to children who have passed. People share stories about the departed which bring laughter and tears. This event helps many who have lost a loved one.

Don Scott

Josef Koudelka by Shubhodeep Roy

“I tried to be a photographer. I don’t know how to talk. I’m not interested in talking. If I have something to say, perhaps it can be found in my photos. I’m not interested in explaining things in saying “why” and “how.” - Josef Koudelka

As a photographer, I've always been drawn to the masters of the craft, those who don't just take pictures but tell stories through their lens. One such luminary figure who has profoundly influenced not only my work but the entire world of photography is Josef Koudelka. His journey into the realm of photography is far from conventional. He began his professional life as an engineer in Czechoslovakia before transitioning to photography in his late twenties. It was a pivot that would change the course of his life and contribute significantly to the world of visual storytelling.

Koudelka's photographic journey began in the 1950s when he was still a student, and he continued honing his craft while working as an aeronautical engineer. However, it was in 1961 that he truly embarked on his photographic career, capturing the lives of the Roma people in Czechoslovakia and the world of theater in Prague. By 1967, he had fully committed himself to photography.

"I try to be a photographer." These words resonate with anyone who has ever felt the magnetic pull of a creative passion. Koudelka's transition from engineering to photography reminds us that it's never too late to follow our artistic calling. It's a reminder that our true passions have a way of finding us, no matter where we start.

In 1968, Koudelka found himself thrust into a historic moment when he photographed the Soviet invasion of Prague. To protect himself and his family, he published these images under the initials P. P. (Prague Photographer). Despite the risks, he was anonymously awarded the Overseas Press Club’s Robert Capa Gold Medal for these photographs in 1969.

Koudelka's courageous act of documenting a pivotal historical event, even at great personal risk, speaks volumes about the power and responsibility of photographers. His images remind us that photography is not just an art form but also a tool for bearing witness and sparking change.

What sets Koudelka apart is his unique journey. His initial foray into photography through the theater allowed him to refine his technique and develop his signature stark, contrasty style. This experience provided both the technical and financial foundation he needed later to pursue his documentary work with the Roma people.

Koudelka's transition from photographing theater to documenting the lives of the Roma is noteworthy. It highlights the importance of diversifying one's photography skills by exploring different genres. Just as Koudelka's theater work enriched his abilities in documentary photography, other photographers can benefit from diversifying their experiences to become more well-rounded artists.

Another key aspect of Koudelka's approach is his reluctance to explain his photographs. He believes in letting the images speak for themselves, allowing viewers to interpret and create their narratives. This philosophy encourages a more engaging and open-ended interaction with his work, inviting viewers to connect with it on a personal level.

In a world often filled with noise and explanations, Koudelka's approach reminds us to trust our audience. To trust that viewers can derive their meanings and emotions from our work. It's a powerful lesson in the art of subtlety.

Koudelka's mastery of various lenses for different projects is also instructive. He adapted his equipment to suit the specific needs of each project, emphasizing the importance of choosing the right tools for the job. This flexibility and willingness to experiment have enriched his body of work.

In a world where gear often takes center stage, Koudelka's approach grounds us. It reminds us that the camera is a tool, not the creator. It's a lesson in resourcefulness and adaptability.

Furthermore, Koudelka's patient approach to photography is a valuable lesson. He allows his images to "marinate" over time, revisiting them and making deliberate, thoughtful decisions about their significance and placement. This patient editing process ensures that his final body of work is cohesive and powerful.

In an age of instant gratification, Koudelka's approach teaches us that great art often requires time and reflection. It's a reminder that our initial impressions of our work may not reveal its true depth.

Koudelka's enduring passion for photography, even after nearly seven decades, demonstrates that age should not limit one's creative pursuits. He views each day as an opportunity to capture meaningful moments through his lens. This unwavering commitment to his craft serves as a reminder to all photographers to keep their passion alive and stay open to new challenges.

“Many photographers like Robert Frank and Cartier Bresson stopped photographing after 70 years because they felt that they had nothing more to say. In my case I still wake up and want to go and take photographs more than

ever before. But I can see that a certain type of photography has come to an end because the subjects don’t exist anymore. From 1961 to 1966 I took pictures of Gypsies because I loved the music and culture. They were like me in many ways. Now there are less and less of these people so I can’t really say anything else about them.

What I can do is update projects like “The Black Triangle”, as that is about a specific landscape that doesn’t exist anymore. I can show how it was before and how it is now, so people realize what’s going on. That keeps me excited.” - Josef Koudelka

Living simply has been a fundamental part of Koudelka's life. His minimalistic approach to personal belongings and his willingness to live modestly allowed him to focus on his artistic endeavors without distractions. This simplicity not only eased his path as a photographer but also kept him grounded in his pursuit of visual storytelling.

In conclusion, Josef Koudelka's photography teaches us to make our work personal, to follow our passions, and to keep shooting. He encourages photographers to embrace simplicity, prioritize their creative journey over material pursuits, and allow their images to speak for themselves. Koudelka's legacy serves as an enduring source of inspiration for photographers, reminding us that the true essence of photography lies in the raw, unfiltered emotions it captures and the stories it tells.

At the end of the day, there are many lessons we can learn from his passion, hard work, and genius. But remember, at the end of the day– he didn’t pursue his photography for the money, fame, or to impress others. He photographed for the love of it and for himself.

**Recommended Books by Josef Koudelka**

1. "Exiles" - This book features Koudelka's stunning black and white photographs taken between 1968 and 1988, capturing the lives of various exiled communities. It provides a powerful visual narrative of displacement and resilience.

2. "Gypsies" - Dive into Koudelka's immersive photographic exploration of the Roma people's lives. Originally published in 1975, this work remains a significant contribution to the world of documentary photography.

3. "Chaos" - Josef Koudelka's "Chaos" presents a series of photographs taken between 1986 and 1997, capturing moments of upheaval and change in various European countries. This book showcases his mastery of visual storytelling during turbulent times.

4. "Wall: Israeli and Palestinian Landscapes" - Explore Koudelka's recent work that delves into the complexities of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, both in terms of physical barriers and emotional divisions.

Expressions unfiltered: faces of Kolkata and Varanasi by Keef Charles

The eyes, it’s said, are the windows of the soul but it’s the face that offers our camera a more earthly glimpse of the person in front of our lens.

Click. When the forehead may furrow. When the brows knit in contemplation.

Click. When the eyes may light up or glaze over, stare, narrow or widen as pupils dilate, fall downcast or raise heavenward in thanks or disbelief.

Click. When the nose crinkles with distaste or nostrils flare, enraged, jaw clenched.

Click. When the cheeks may hollow, bulge or glow.

Click. When the lips may purse, part in smile or press tight in shy acknowledgment.

Click. The tongue, slightly protruding in bashful response I’ve noticed hereabouts. Click. Pushed out, more playfully, in gesture so cheeky and endearing.

Click. When the teeth show in luscious laugh.

Click. When the chin trembles or sets hard, when the neck is taut and extended.

Click and the ears pin back, radar like.

No two faces the same, the expressions we categorise into boxes. Thoughts escaping in myriad gestures. Comfort and harmony, sorrow and joy. Animated or immobile, silenced by mediocrity or the struggles of hanging on to a dream.

Seeing, seen.

Heart and soul.

It wasn’t particularly that I found the faces of people in India any more expressive than anywhere else but their openness gave greater impact. Perhaps it was also the fact that I had travelled so far to get here, eager to join up again with my big Nordic friend Niklas. Click. That smile beams large as his generous spirit. Time and place, distance travelled to meet up with new faces, unknown save for profiles and occasional messages. Click. That thoughtful look of a beautiful soul, Shubhodeep, anxious to ensure that our trip to his city was both magical and memorable.

I was here to shoot scenes and stories but I was drawn to portraits, storytelling through that most versatile of our features: the face, to which my camera surrendered.

From the baby in barber shop, eyes bright and wide (Click), past the girl with eyes alive with mischief, ready to run (Click), on to the old man staring blankly through bars of the window, resigned, it would seem, to life’s passing him by (Click). These are the faces I saw on my trip to India: Expressions Unfiltered.

Keef Charles

San Javier, founded by Russian immigrants in July 1913

A couple of years ago we went for a tour with some friends through the northwest of Uruguay.

One of the stops was in San Javier, a city on the coast of the Uruguay River, in the department of Río Negro, 370 kilometres from the capital, Montevideo, founded by Russian immigrants in July 1913,

I had read on the internet and in some newspaper reports about the history of the Russians in Río Negro. As far as I was able to inform myself, some 300 families, led by Vasili Lubkov, whom they called the prophet, arrived in Uruguay to found "The Kingdom of God on Earth".

It was a group called "New Israel", then considered a "sect" by the Orthodox religion from which they had split, and they were fleeing from tsarist persecution.

From what I could read they were families originally from the western Vorónezh region and they constituted the largest autonomous Russian agricultural colony in South America, which quickly became a great success. They brought the sunflower and with it the installation of the first sunflower oil factory in the country, which marked an important period of commercialization in the area.

In 1913 only Russians came, but in 1914 small groups of Ukrainians arrived in Montevideo and knowing of the presence of the Russian colony of San Javier, they joined it. Over time there were people from different nationalities, all Slavic, and the Russian, Ukrainian and Polish languages were mixed, also with Spanish.

After marriages with people from the area and the birth of the first Uruguayan children, they have assimilated a lot and gradually adopted local customs, although they maintain some of the customs of their ancestors.

Today there are about 2,000 residents, very few speak the language and only feel those origins as part of their family history.

Last week we returned to this place and we went to the only restaurant where they serve typical food.

Being there I commented that my maternal grandparents came from Lithuania and my paternal grandparents came from Poland, although currently the city where my father was born is in Ukraine, to which they replied that "before it was all the same"…

From what is currently happening, it would seem that political leaders keep trying to change the borders again and again…
Due to the war of Russia against Ukraine, many journalists have gone to find out what the people of San Javier thought about. From what I have read, some prefer not to comment and others only say they are against any armed conflict.

The restaurant is called “Na Zdorovie” and they offer piroshki (dumplings), Shashlik (Шашлык), Varéniki (Varéники), borsht beetroot soup and also Pirog (пирог) which is a cake, among other things. They also have a wine and honey liquor called Kvas.

The people are very friendly and the food was very tasty, but for me, obviously, my grandmother's was much better, as was my mother's. However, the food and the aromas, as often happen, allowed me to evoke my childhood

After lunch we walked a bit around the city, few people were on the streets as is usually the case in small inland cities, especially on a Saturday afternoon, and we went to a small museum where some items brought by the first immigrants have been preserved, as samovars, vintage furniture, ornaments, babushkas and amazing photos from the immigrants.

We had asked for the address of a neighbouring beekeeper who sold honey and made Kvas.

We went to his house, he received us very kindly, we bought some of his products and I also took the opportunity to take some photos. He is a very nice person with whom I spoke for a long time. He told me about some of the photos he had posted on the wall, particularly a photo of a pickup truck since my father had one just like it.
As I left he called me back and filled my hand with roasted and salted spinner seeds.

From San Javier, we went to Colonia Ofir, where we had also been the previous time.

This small agricultural and dairy colony dates from 1951 when some groups of families from Prussia, Russia and Poland settled a few kilometres from San Javier. They were a group of Russian immigrants from a region bordering China, belonging to an ultra-conservative variant of Orthodox Christianity, known as "Starovieri" that apparently dates back to the 16th century when the Russian Orthodox Church split in two and, given the changes in the rites that the new orthodoxy practised, were persecuted and had to flee Russia like the inhabitants of San Javier.

On our previous visit, we passed by the house of one of them, we asked him if he sold cheese and in the meantime, we took the opportunity to talk briefly. He told us that he has arrived there more tan 50 years ago and that before reaching Uruguay they had to go through China, (where they were persecuted again) and some of them emigrated to Argentina, others to Canada and the smaller group to Uruguay. Here they also settled in the department of Río Negro, close enough to the Russians of San Javier, and far enough to live according to their customs.

They are reserved, maintain their customs, and have rarely spoken to the press. They do not use the internet and do not allow cameras. However, before they told us that they did not want us to take photos I had already taken some.

This time, we went back to buy cheese and he reminded us of the previous time. When he saw me with the camera, he told me not to take photos, so I refrained from doing so. He also told us that he was not in good health. His wife was washing the porch of the ranch, and the youngest of his 6 children brought us the cheese.

Except for some children from a neighbouring house, dressed in the old style, we did not see more people among the few houses in the neighbourhood.

I will share some of the photographs of which Ofir's from the previous visit

Eduardo Storch

Exploring Kolkata by Public Transportation

As a traveller who loves to explore a new city, I find that the best way to really get a feel for the place is by using public transportation, so during my recent trip to Kolkata, India, I decided to explore the city using various modes of public transportation. I visited both the central bus station and the train stations.

The people in Kolkata are friendly and welcoming. They are always willing to help you out and show you around the city. However, the traffic in Kolkata can be quite chaotic. The streets are always busy, and there are always people and cars everywhere. The buses and trains are always crowded, but they are a great way to get around the city.

Exploring Kolkata by public transportation was an exciting and overwhelming experience. It allowed me to see the city in a way that I would not have been able to see otherwise. The people, the traffic, and the energy of the city were all overwhelming at times, but it was an experience that I will never forget.

Central Bus Station

The central bus station in Kolkata is one of the busiest places in the city. It is always crowded, noisy, and full of life. The buses come and go at a rapid pace, and it can be difficult to figure out which one to take. However, once you get the hang of it, it is a great way to get around the city. The people at the bus station are friendly and helpful, and they are always willing to assist you in finding the right bus.

Train Stations

Kolkata has three main train stations: Howrah, Sealdah, and Kolkata Terminus. Howrah Station is the busiest of the three, and it can be quite overwhelming. However, the train system in Kolkata is extensive, and it is a great way to travel around the city and the rest of India. The train stations are always bustling with people, and it can be difficult to navigate through the crowds. However, once you get on the train, you will find that it is a great way to see the country. The overnight sleeper trains are particularly comfortable and a great way to save money on a hotel.

Shimi Cohen

Stand Up To Racism Glasgow by Cameron Scott

Saturday 18 th March 2023, a typical Spring day in Glasgow with the weather alternating between periods of cold rain and warm Spring sunshine. We personify the weather by using statements such as “It can’t make its mind up” or “It doesn’t know what to do”, but it seems to make sense and also makes for an uncomfortable few hours sweating under waterproofs that may not actually be needed after all. The changeable weather is also the topic of conversation between groups of protesters as I move amongst them in preparation for the work ahead. I always find it useful to start photographing as soon as I arrive at these events, more as a warm up for the task ahead. It gets the eyes tuned up.

The protesters were gathering in George Square, right in the heart of the city and would embark on a circular route through the city centre before arriving back in the square, where speakers would then address the crowd from a temporary stage. Ironically, they were gathering under statues of men now recognised as playing a role in Glasgow’s shameful historic connections to slavery, and indeed would march along streets with the same association by name.

The event was organised by Stand Up To Racism Scotland and was one of several taking place in major cities across the UK as part of AntiRacism Day. These protests were taking place against a backdrop of increasingly hostile rhetoric and legislation from the global embarrassment that is the current UK government, a government not just without a moral compass but also a total lack of humanity for those in society who need help the most. Propped up by a mainly right wing and supportive mainstream media, and having failed dreadfully on every other metric affecting society, their last-ditch attempt to cling to power and appeal to their support base is legislation designed to stop desperate people arriving on the beaches of South East England. During the previous week, football legend and BBC sports presenter Gary Lineker was suspended after his employers bowed to government pressure. His crime was taking to social media to mention the similarity between the language used in the introduction of thegovernment's controversial Illegal Migration Bill and that of 1930s Germany. He was of course correct, and his suspension lasted only a few days. Coincidentally, this protest was held on the same day that Home Secretary Suella Braverman flew to Rwanda to tour facilities intended to contain deported immigrants, while her policy to carry this out remained the subject of legal challenges. Closer to home in Scotland we have the ongoing inquiry into the death of Sheku Bayoh, a 31 year old father of two from Sierra Leone who died in police custody in Fife in 2015 after being restrained by six police officers.

The crowds, whose banners and placards reference the background detailed above, continued to grow and eventually were called forward by the marshals to form the procession, which finally got underway once the police had closed the road to traffic. Once we were moving the fun began. This is an athletic event, almost a contact sport. Running backwards, dodging street furniture, ducking respectfully under other lenses, a shared joke with another photographer, moving within the crowd, all while framing shots and trying for the best composition, and I just had to get the protester in the Gary Lineker mask. It’s hard work but thoroughly enjoyable. Occasionally the procession would stop, allowing the various groups to come together again, and also allowing both my and the camera’s buffer to catch up, ready for the next leg.

All too soon all three thousand of us were back in George Square once again, ears ringing from extended close proximity to too many loudhailers. Time to catch up with some photographer friends before making my way home, and the topic of discussion – the weather of course!

Musket, Fife and Drum: The Battle of Nantwich

**Musket, Fife and Drum:**

**by Keef Charles**

The Battle of Nantwich

“It’s freezing, they’re going to get so cold,” said the young woman next to me. To which her friend replied: “Well it’s their own fault for doing it this time of year”. What?! We were part of a crowd of thousands who’d come to see a reenactment of a battle from the English Civil War, on Mill Island in the Cheshire town of Nantwich, and maybe she should realise that it was history, not the clemency of weather that dictated when it should be held. Anyway, seeing as how I’d be stood next to them for the next hour or so, I kept my thoughts to myself.

I was lucky, I’d arrived early enough to grab a place at the front but I didn’t like the look of the second safety barrier that was sited five meters in front of me, it impeded my view of the canon crews in the foreground. Both canons were fired several times ahead of the battle and wow, they were deafening. It was, however, the beating of the drums and the sweet blowing of the fifes (similar to a piccolo) that really got me as it heralded the arrival of the troops. I realised, as the procession passed before me, that there was plenty of passion and character evident and that this was going to be a real spectacle. The barriers proved not to be a major issue, except that when it came to the action itself I was desperate to dodge between them and get right amongst the battling players. I wanted to be amidst the action! I envisaged being on my knees for one POV, lain on the ground for another, moving stealthily between the warring factions. Mentally I was straining at the leash but yearn as I might, it was here I had to remain, feet rooted to icy ground, making best use of my 300mm of zoom. As a result the clarity of the images isn’t razor sharp but that’s ok, painterly is good. I wanted to create a story, capture mood, emotion and expression with a street photographer’s eye, give people a feel for what it was like here.

The Battle of Nantwich was fought on 25 January 1644 in Cheshire during the First English Civil War. In the battle, Sir Thomas Fairfax in command of a Parliamentarian relief force defeated Lord Byron and the Royalists. The armies on display were part of the Sealed Knot, which is the oldest reenactment society in the UK, and the single biggest reenactment society in Europe. No wonder then, that they had a guy who entertained (and educated) people before, during and after the event.

He was amusing, anecdotal, explaining why the field of battle wasn’t going to be littered with ‘dead’ bodies. You need to consider, he told us, that the people involved in these reenactments train for months, get up at 5AM to be here and (at this time of year) the ground is ‘colder than a witch’s tit’ (my use of the old saying, not his), so they don’t want to stop playing after just five minutes, they’ve come to enjoy themselves.

The drums aren’t just a call to arms of local townsfolk, the announcer also clarified, each series of drumbeats sends a message, to advance, engage or retreat. Furthermore, way back in the 17th century, women wouldn’t have been allowed upon battle field, not even as fifer or drummer but thankfully times have changed. Thus, despite the fact that it relates to another episode of British history, I couldn’t resist using the song by the folk group Steeleye Span to accompany this article.

Something else I’d accepted but found interesting, was that the skirmishes between the pike bearers whilst very physical, were more like a glorified rugby scrum. For the simple truth is, that as much as these guys love their battling, they wouldn’t want the pikes to be borne in the usual manner, aimed at their faces! That would be unlucky.

Unluckier still were the exploits that day of three brothers. The ensign, besides being the term for a certain British maritime flag, was also the name given to the lowest ranking officer. It was his duty to carry the flag and it was a real point of honour to retain these ‘colours’ throughout the battle. On this occasion, one brother was killed, so another rushed to take up the flag and he too was killed. Into the fray ran the third, but alas that poor family lost all three sons that day, in vain attempt to save the regiment’s pride.

So the proceedings drew to a close.

The muskets made a din, the canon blasts were loud, such that people were advised beforehand to protect their ears from the sonic waves, but that aside, the field was relatively quiet. Some yelling of orders could be heard, some huffing and puffing as the combatants made physical match but it was a reenactment, there were no shrieks or groans of wounded men, no cries of souls leaving this mortal coil. As the tired, sometimes haggard looking participants left the arena, the smell of sulphur still hanging in the air, gunpowder burns on shoulders and sleeves of the musket corps, sheafs of light glinting off the battered helmets of pike bearers, jerkins ragged and torn, I was moved.

This was history come alive.

Keef Charles

Losing My Religion’s

Epiphany / part 1

In fact, this was not the case. "Losing my religion" is actually an old southern expression for being at the end of one's rope, and the moment when politeness gives way to anger. But if you were missing that key detail, you'd think that Stipe's vague vocalist imagery was clearly a comment on the Judeo-Christian tradition.

Stipe, who comes from a long line of Methodist ministers and is an admirer of Buddhism, was merely giving a little known southern saying a poetic facelift, by building a wall of evocative words around it. The gravity he conjures with his hurt, reedy keenness is immense.

Shimi Cohen

Source: https://www.progressive-street.com/blog/20...

Bring on the night by Keef Charles

Arriving late on account of the cold, not prepared to wait around too long in sub zero temperatures, I made it to the cross just in time to hear the tolling of the cathedral bells.

7PM the Winter Watch should be in full flow now. I trod a few paces in the direction of the town hall, from where the procession usually starts but all I could hear was faint drumming.

Retracing my steps I noticed a crowd and muffled shouts further down the main street, shouts that grew louder as I hastened toward them. I spied lights glinting off the helmeted heads of my quarry but there were too many people for me to get my shots. Determined, I eased my way between the onlookers. The Roman Centurions were here to welcome in the season of festivities. This was Saturnalia. A somewhat hoarse commander was bellowing out his message, demanding that we enjoy ourselves. Eat, drink and make merry, he intoned with throaty blessing. Roman soldiers with a particularly British humour.

Chester is a city steeped in history, and quite rightly loves to remind its townsfolk and visitors of its tradition, sometimes with a light hearted twist. Founded as a walled city and garrison of the Romans, their occupation dating to 47/48 AD, it served also as fortified defence against the Viking raids and testament to the border feuds and battles between the English and Welsh. Suffice to say, it has a colourful past.

Colourful indeed, but back in the 1400s, the Winter Watch was more than just a pageant. The City Watch, equivalent to a police force, would patrol the streets of this walled city to safeguard its security. Only when complete could the keys of the various gates be handed over and people breathe easy. Well, actually at Christmas time, rather more was at stake. The ceremony would herald the start of the Christmas banquet and celebrations.

I’d made the trip into town the previous week as well but alas, unlike last year, my shots were dismal. The 18 to 200mm zoom on my Nikon might be flexible but with the energy crisis, the lighting on the street and in shop windows has been drastically reduced, and the 3.5 to 5.6 aperture range starved my camera of light. My shots, whilst having some artistic appeal, were too blurred to be worthwhile using. Some photographers make good use of flash but it’s not my way, so I opted to go with my little used 35mm lens (50mm, allowing for my camera’s format). With severely limited framing opportunities I relied on more light from the 1.8 aperture to grab at least some usable images. I’d been eagerly awaiting this night to try out my lens.

The shots of legionnaires worked. Things got trickier though as they marched off to join the Winter Watch procession. I followed, shooting on the move with less available light but optimistic nevertheless. On arriving at the Town Hall the troop formed a ‘guard of honour’ both sides of the street and as the drumming grew louder and more distinct, the main event was underway, led by the Lord of Misrule. Hot on his heels were the Karamba Samba Band dressed as ghosts and ghouls, the Roman soldiers took their place and marched the city streets with the rest of the colourful characters in tow, including Cooks, Devils, Dragons, Angels, Fire skeletons, Ice Queens, Jack Frost, Tree of Life and a troublesome horde of skeletons, some playing Dixie music. I kept pace, found my moments and shot both the procession and those occasional onlookers who caught my eye, feeling festive and warm.

Not until they’d made their merry way up and down streets and back to the town hall, best part of an hour later, did I start to feel the cold again. A reveller from one of the many Christmas parties, stood outside in empty blue light reminded me of cold’s bite as I walked, back to find my car for the icy journey home, still smiling. A hearty experience and hopefully some worthwhile shots as well. It felt like the season of festivities had begun.

Keef Charles

Venice is lonely

Maybe for some people, Venice is just a city, just a place where they can relax, drink a coffee, eat a tiramisu and have a walk. But are you sure it’s just that, just an ordinary city?

I am not in Venice to document something, I am not here to write a story, because the city itself is my story for three days. It’s very romantic to walk in a story, don’t you think? To live in your own novel written by itself, to laugh and be sad, to share tears and smiles, to enjoy and get confused. I have always dreamt to visit Venice in the winter. Why? Because I’m just scared of the crowds, of all the people running all over, trying to get the perfect selfie, the perfect picture of a sunrise or a sunset…because I want Venice for myself, even if only for a couple of days.

I have always wondered how locals feel when they get up in the morning and drink their coffee with such a beautiful view, but after reading that they have to leave their homes because of the mass tourism, and the problems the city has, I got upset. Is it possible that in less than 100 years Venice is gone forever? It would be so tragic to see this story dying.

Even in November, tourists are still there, more than locals, but I’m able to enjoy and “smell” the city in my terms. I can talk to the narrow streets and fall in love with the lamp lights and the bridges at the night.

In my photographs I’m always trying to capture the soul of a place or human being and that’s why my Venice here is “tickled” with a 50mm Lensbaby in order to create that dreamy and out-of-this-world feeling. This is the perfect lens for a mysterious city. Yes, Venice is loud, but in my photographs, I insist on its quietness, its colourful and romantic spirit and its loneliness and fears.

Ana Maria Prelipcean

The steel bannister’s silent testimony

There was a sense of solitude in those figures emerging silently from the winding staircase of that old building.

Romantic paintings made from soft tones of greens, browns and greys, now frozen in a strange and distant past.

Melancholy is often beautiful.

The Bolhão Market was built during the first world war, on a commercial square where fresh goods were sold, in a place where there was a slough and a stream passed by, forming a bubble of water (Bolhão).

Considered at the time an avant-garde building that combined granite and wood with the use of steel, glass and concrete, the historic building of neoclassical architecture has undergone a renovation process in the last four and a half years due to its advanced state of deterioration. Near fifty million euros have been spent in order to restore its original architecture and splendour. And its doors were finally opened last September, keeping the original function of a traditional market in the city of Porto.

It will no longer be possible to find that woman who, looking for the camouflage provided by the old staircase, made confidences on her cell phone... or the single man seeking the company of the doves that sheltered there.

Doves were banished from the modern building as soon as it freed itself from the shoring that had prevented its ruin for decades. Just like the cats, once sleeping on the covers of the Bolhão vendors' tents oblivious to the unbearable squawking of the seagulls.

The vendors' tent covers are now made of steel and glass gleaming immaculate. The windows glass in the old building was replaced and now the old staircase is filled with light. And its steel bannister, freed from the rust of time, has a new light grey tone.

Now, laughter is heard echoing on the stairs of that old building and young lovers are seen looking for its windows' light.

It is now winter and, by the time I leave my job, the sky has become dark.

The old building of the Bolhão appears on my way home among the flashing lights of the traffic. The market is still open and I decide to cross it.

That's when I see them, almost unnoticeable to those who pass by there at the end of the day, their figures appear in a tangle of steel drawings on the old bannister - which they tirelessly watch over - going up and down the old staircase, sweeping each of its steps...

It’s the image of those women that remains etched in my mind as I leave the old building. Black and white paintings of the end of a journey. The guardians of the memories of a past which I recall with nostalgia and are now engraved on the old steel bannister.

Delfim Correlo

Tyre tracks across my back by Keef Charles

Having spent Saturday with friends in Whitby, taking in the wonder of the Goths and then an evening in Middlesbrough sampling some great live music, did we need anything else to round off the weekend? Maybe not but I’m glad there was: a bicycle race on the Sunday morning, although the title of this piece doesn’t make that clear.

Why not call it something a little more obvious like “Race” by the Swiss band Yello or “Bicycle Race” by Queen, which positively screams out to be chosen. There’s a reason. A friend joked when I posted a shot from this set, that he would only believe I lay on my back in the road to get the ‘tarmac POV’ if I showed the tyre tracks, by way of proof. Ha! I’ve got to admit that I wasn’t risking life and limb laying in the road itself, nor was I on my back, I was shooting with an 18-200mm zoom at the road’s edge, laying on my front, contorting my neck. Don’s comment however, aside from making me smile, did bring to mind the lyrics of Jimi Hendrix from “Crosstown Traffic”. It’s actually a song about fraught relationships, but what the heck…

I’ll be the first to say there’s nothing profound about these images but when I came across them the other day, they brought back fond memories with a certain immediacy. They took me back to April 2018, the noise, the vibe, the end of a full and fun photography weekend with friends Andy and Linda. That Sunday morning there was a buzz in the air, a sense of expectation, the town closed off for a few hours as Guisborough, North Yorkshire hosted the start of the bike race.

It felt like a big occasion but it’s the little things that can make a difference, like, with the people waiting for the riders to crest the hill, a mother stopping in the middle of the road to sort out her son’s shoe. In truth, they weren’t at risk although you couldn’t help but will them to hurry up, lest things got messy. I’ve got to say, the grey cloud laden sky added to the mood and the warm sandstone of the buildings provided a perfect neutral backdrop for colourful riders and machines. So, there you have it, a great weekend and a simple story on the street, albeit one with a strange title.

Keef Charles

Frozen in time by Rene Geensen

Years ago I heard a horrific story from the Second World War and I always wanted to visit the scene and learn more about it. This year we stopped off near Limousin, whilst travelling on holiday to the Dordogne in France. Now was the time to visit Oradour-sur-Glane.

It was a really emotional experience, especially because there is a war going on in Europe at the moment. I wasn’t just interested in finding out more about the story I’d heard so long ago, I wanted to take pictures to show that some people never learn from history. Or is it just being human? Because there is always a war being fought somewhere on this planet.

Oradour-sur-Glane massacre

On 10 June 1944, four days after D-Day, the village of Oradour-sur-Glane in Haute-Vienne in Nazi-occupied France was destroyed and 643 civilians, including non-combatant women and children, were massacred by a German Waffen-SS company. A new village was built after the war but not on the same site, nearby, as President Charles de Gaulle ordered that the ruins of the old village be maintained as a permanent museum and memorial to those who lost their lives.

Background: In February 1944, the 2nd SS Panzer Division Das Reich was stationed in the Southern French town of Valence-d'Agen, north of Toulouse, waiting to be resupplied with new equipment and fresh troops. Following the Allied Normandy landings in June 1944, the division was ordered north to help stop the Allied advance. One of its units was the 4th SS Panzer Grenadier Regiment ("Der Führer"). Its staff included regimental commander SS-Standartenführer Sylvester Stadler, SS-Sturmbannführer Adolf Diekmann commanding the 1st Battalion and SS-Sturmbannführer Otto Weidinger, Stadler's designated successor who was with the regiment for familiarisation. Command passed to Weidinger on 14 June.

Early on the morning of 10 June 1944, Diekmann informed Weidinger that he had been approached by two members of the Milice, a paramilitary force of the Vichy Regime. They said that a Waffen-SS officer was being held prisoner by the Resistance in Oradour-sur-Vayres, a nearby village. The captured officer was claimed to be SS-Sturmbannführer Helmut Kämpfe, commander of the 2nd SS Panzer Reconnaissance Battalion (also part of the Das Reich division). He may have been captured by the Maquis du Limousin the day before. Diekmann's battalion sealed off Oradour-sur-Glane and ordered everyone within to assemble in the village square to have their identity papers examined. This included six non-residents who happened to be bicycling through the village when the SS unit arrived. The women and children were locked in the church, and the village was looted. The men were led to six barns and sheds, where machine guns were already in place.

According to a survivor's account, the SS men then began shooting, aiming for their legs. When victims were unable to move, the SS men covered them with fuel and set the barns on fire. Only six men managed to escape. One of them was later seen walking down a road and was shot dead. In all, 190 French men died.

The SS men then proceeded to the church and placed an incendiary device beside it. When it was ignited, women and children tried to escape through the doors and windows, only to be met with machine-gun fire. 247 women and 205 children died in the attack. The only survivor was 47-year-old Marguerite Rouffanche. She escaped through a rear sacristy window, followed by a young woman and child. All three were shot, two of them fatally. Rouffanche crawled to some pea bushes and remained hidden overnight until she was found and rescued the next morning. About twenty villagers had fled Oradour-sur-Glane as soon as the SS unit had appeared. That night, the village was partially razed.

Several days later, the survivors were allowed to bury the 643 dead inhabitants who had been killed in just a few hours. Adolf Diekmann said the atrocity was in retaliation for the partisan activity in nearby Tulle and the kidnapping and murder of SS commander Helmut Kämpfe, who was burned alive in a field ambulance with other German soldiers.

Amongst the men of the town who were killed were three priests who worked in the parish. It was also reported that the SS troops desecrated the church, including deliberately scattering Communion hosts before they forced the women and children into it. The Bishop of Limoges visited the village in the days after the massacre, one of the first public figures to do so, and his account of what he witnessed is one of the earliest available. Amongst those who went to bury the dead and document the event by taking photographs were some local seminarians.

After the war, General Charles de Gaulle decided the village should never be rebuilt, but would remain a memorial to the cruelty of the Nazi occupation. The new village of Oradour-sur-Glane (population 2,375 in 2012), northwest of the site of the massacre, was built after the war. The ruins of the original village remain as a memorial to the dead and serve as a reminder of such atrocities.

rene geensen

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Another Death In Haiti

For 17 years I was a medical writer for two major American newspapers; first The Washington Post, and then Newsday. And in all that time, with the thousands of hours I spent in laboratories, clinics, and hospitals, I was never on hand in the Emergency Room during a Code, the all out struggle to bring a patient back from the brink of death, often successfully, and some times not. But in the late summer of 2014, when I was in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, photographing for a Miami based NGO called Project Medishare, I was in the right place at the right time.

One morning while I was drinking coffee in the breakroom of Bernard Mevs Hospital, in Port-au-Prince, a Project Medishare volunteer from Minnesota came running from the ER to get me. "Grab your cameras and come on if you want to see a Code underway," he said. Needless to say I gathered up my gear and ran for the always busy, grossly overcrowded Emergency Room at one of Haiti's precious few trauma centers.

I arrived in the ER with the Code already underway. The patient a Haitian woman who had collapsed suddenly at home, was brought to the hospital by an ambulance that took way too long for her good to ever so slowly make its way through the nearly impenetrable traffic jam that is traffic in Port-au-Prince. By the time the woman was brought into the hospital she had already stopped breathing and was in cardiac arrest. But the Emergency staff wasn’t prepared to write her off, and jumped into a 25 minute medical battle with death, with Medishare volunteers and hospital staff struggling to get the woman breathing and restore a cardiac rhythm. The images you see here document that struggle, and I hope they do so in a way that was respectful to the patient. And while these primal battles usually have happy endings in TV medical dramas, in real life they often do not.

You can read another article by B.D. Colen on Haiti here:

click on the image

Lighting the fire by João Coelho

**Lighting the fire**

**by João Coelho**

This is a story made up of women. These are women whose lives and stories have always attracted me and for whom I have an enormous respect and admiration. The short documentary that I bring here is just one episode, one part of the great story that takes place on this remote beach on the outskirts of the capital of Angola. Here, women show everyday how strong, resilient and bonded they are, even in the greatest of adversities

Continuing a knowledge and a destiny that passes from mothers and grandmothers to daughters and granddaughters, these women work from sunrise to sunset on the horizon, breaking shells from mabangas, a clam-like mollusk that is common on the West African coast and is much appreciated as an appetizer or accompaniment to "pirão," a kind of mash made from mashed cornmeal or cassava flour that is the basis of the Angolan diet.

They use a railroad screw to break the shells of the mabangas and extract the precious mollusk. After tens of years of breaking each of the mabangas shells, the landscape has been completely shaped by this work. Huge mountains of empty shells rise up on the beach where it all began and where competition among the women has forced the younger ones to colonize other beaches nearby. This story takes place on one of these beaches, where the sand is no longer visible, only a sea of empty shells stretches out to the real sea, the one made of water. Certainly, new mountains will rise in this sea because the destiny of these women is written at their birth: they are women of the Mabangas, from birth until they die.

The work here is not just about breaking the shells, the vast majority of women also have to divide their energy and attention to take care of their children. It is also the women who negotiate the best price to buy the mabangas from the fishermen who bring them in from the sea, amidst a shouting and signaling that only they understand. After closing the deal they have to carry the heavy bowls on their heads from the water line to the top of the hills where they sit in family groups to break the shells. Like art and fate, women also inherit the places where they sit from their grandmothers and mothers. It is common to see three generations of women working at the same site for more than 10 years, gathered in a circle around the shell booty.

During the day, the mabangas are broken and sold raw, but as the day comes to an end, the bustle begins to boil the ones they couldn't sell or the ones that will have to be kept until the next day to prevent them from spoiling. This is where this story begins, and this is also where a new business is born on the beach: the sale of charcoal, firewood, pieces of plastic and old shoes collected from the town's garbage dumps to start the bonfires. By the time the plastics and shoes reach this beach, they have come a long way and their price has been inflated by more than one intermediary, the garbage scavenger, the man who transported the cargo, and finally the one who controls the business here on the beach. But this is a necessary cost for the women, this is the only way they can light their fires.

With an impressive dexterity, they manage to light a fire with a handful of sticks, after blowing out the tiny ember that has just lit itself. Thicker sticks are arranged on top, and plastic and shoes eventually spark strong, long-lasting flames. The burning of plastics and rubbers from shoes thickens the evening on the beach, spewing heavy, toxic fumes into the air that stubbornly refuse to leave the earth and the lungs of these women. The dominant color is dark grey, in the atmosphere, on the clothes and on the skin of the women as they swallow this smoke around the bonfires. Tiredness also hovers in the air, and not even the colorful flames of the fire can disguise the color of these women's souls, also heavily grey. Despite being plunged into this almost post-apocalyptic environment, they have enough spirit and strength to show smiles, to play and help each other.

Strong arms and a resistance that insists on not giving up after a day of hard work, carry heavy bowls of mabangas to the iron pots placed on top of the bonfires. After they are filled, they pour in some seawater and cover them with rags that are so old that it is impossible to distinguish their color. A kind of mental clock, made from years of experience, tells them when it is necessary to stir the pot with a stick to ensure an even cooking, and when it is finally ready. Again, another tremendous effort, now to dump the cooked mabangas in the heavy iron pots onto nets and cloths laid out on the empty skeleton sea of mabangas. This is the work that is already promised for the next day, as soon as the sun begins to rise on the horizon, a day that will be just like all the others.

When will the day come when the sparkle in these women's eyes will not just be a reflection of the fires they lit on this beach?

João Coelho was born in Angola in 1964 but was forced to leave his country at the beginning of his adolescence, due to the War of Independence. He has spent most of his life in Portugal; Returning to native Angola only in 2007. João's interest in photography was dormant for many years, until 2018. Finally, working as a consultant of projects in the public sector, he found his motivation to pick up the camera again, to respond to the emotional and sentimental attraction for that land that he left in a brutal way at the beginning of adolescence.

João Coelho is a true documentary photographer. He works on projects calmly, without haste, never satisfied with them. The choice of the lens, a deep wide-angle, the violent but perfect contrast of black and white, and above all the photographer's ability to coexist with his protagonists, becoming part of them, almost invisible, giving life to this wonderful testimony

João Coelho

Forbidden dives

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MYANMAR by Anne Launcelott

A farmer who has sought higher, dryer land during the monsoon season, on our way from the airport to Mandalay — **MYANMAR**

**by Anne Launcelott**

In 2016 I was invited by three photographers I had met on previous trips to join them on their travels to Shan State, Myanmar during the monsoon season. Our mutual love of travel and photographing simply for the love of it has forged a wonderful friendship and has resulted in more than one trip together. Always the gentlemen, incredible photographers I learn so much from, and being the best of travel mates made this trip one that is dear to my heart.

Myanmar has a rich history of hospitality and openness – the people are deeply spiritual and are warm and welcoming. As a result of isolation and misrule, Myanmar is a poor country and one feels they have stepped back in time. When I first visited Myanmar in 2012, there were no cell phones or ATM’s and the internet service was very spotty. Now everyone has a cell phone, used mainly for phone calls and taking photos, but otherwise the country has remained much the same.

We were met at the airport upon arrival in Myanmar by Bobo Zaw our fixer and the director at Panoramic Myanmar Tours. On our drive to the hotel in Mandalay the effects of the monsoon were soon evident. Fields were flooded and people had moved some of their belongings and livestock to the shoulder of the road where the ground was higher and thus dryer. Once the flooding recedes, they return to their houses. Many preferred to remain in their flooded homes and yet when we photographed them we were treated to waves and smiles. For us, we could not imagine living like this, but for them this is a normal occurrence every year.

We had no set agenda as we started our drive to the north towards Shan State. We would see some thatched roofed homes in the distance so we would drive down a dirt road in that direction. We were always greeted with curious looks, smiles and excitement because many had never seen foreigners before. I would wander around by myself and I would often be invited into a woman’s home. Such open kindness and trust were in evidence wherever we went. In exploring various small, remote villages we discovered a monastery off the beaten track and we got a good feel for the hard working people and village life. It was the season to plant the rice patties, prepare the fields for another planting and harvest the fruits of their labour, which consisted of tomatoes, corn and cabbages. With the lush greenery after the rain, the red soil and dramatic cloudy skies, the colours would pop and we could photograph all day long because the light was never harsh. Taking a train to Kalaw was an adventure in itself and I would recommend going by train anywhere in Myanmar for the experience.

Returning south we visited a hidden village near Bagan. Hidden because they do not want a lot of outsiders to that life remains as is. The males wear their hair in a traditional hair knot on top of their heads. The head monk in the village keeps this ancient tradition alive, and when he passes it no doubt will also. Women tending to their cattle near the famous Bagan pagodas were very engaging and fun to interact with and photograph. Our last stop was a nunnery where we were free to wander. Many of the nuns were quite shy at first but eventually they would open up to me and have fun as we conversed by using universal hand gestures.

It is hard to believe what has happened politically in Myanmar recently. I have no idea when it will be safe to travel there again now that the junta is in control. Thanks to the guidance of Bobo we were able to visit so many interesting villages and thus really get a feel for what rural life is like. These photos and essay about Myanmar I dedicate to Bobo who has lost his business, first to the pandemic and then to the military junta. The soldiers have already broken into his home injuring him and terrorizing his wife and son. He is trying to leave Myanmar so that his family is safe, my heart and thoughts are with him while I try unsuccessfully to date to find a way to bring them to Canada.

A family during the monsoon season, Mandalay

Women wait to board a train, Taung Byone Village

A country lane leading to Ohae Phoe Village

Ohae Phoe Village

Staking tomato plants, Ywar Ngan Village

Harvesting of the cabbages, Thayat Pu Village area

Loading the cabbages to take to market, Thayat Pu Village Area

A country home, Pwe Pyat Village

A newly planted field of cabbages, Pwe Pyat Village

Collecting cow dung to fertilize the fields, Main Ma Yae Taung Village

Pin Sain Pin Village

A young monk, Pin Sain Pin Monastery

Pagoda, Myin Ka Village

A woman tending to her livestock, Myin Ka Village

Loading produce, a train stop from Kalaw to Thazi

A train stop from Kalaw to Thazi

A young boy with the traditional hair knot sitting in a twig hut, the "hidden" village

Cattle herders from West Pwar Saw Village, Bagan

A young nun, Than Pyin Nunnery, Bagan

Anne Launcelott

Ascending to Mount Gerizim by Corinne Spector

A Samaritan Passover celebration May 2021 by Corinne Spector

We've heard of the Good Samaritan – the story of the good person who helped a man who had been robbed, beaten and left for dead along the road, when others did their best to avoid him. But what most people don't know is that this Samaritan tribe still exists today, quite close to where I live in central Israel.

The Samaritans, or Shomronim as they are called in Hebrew, continue to live in peace, straddling two worlds by holding identity papers saying they are both Israelis and Palestinians. Many of them live in the Israeli city of Holon, adjacent to Tel Aviv*, but their holy site is near Nablus, on Mount Gerizim. They speak three languages: Hebrew, Arabic and also Shomronit, which includes just 22 ancient-looking letters and sounds like a combination of Hebrew and Arabic. They are considered an Israelite group that broke off from the Jews of Judah in the time of King Rehoboam (son of Solomon and grandson of David) who lived from 972 BC to 915 BC**.

Today, they look and act like all of the other Israelis around (one woman is even a famous children's television actress), yet when it comes time for Sabbath and holy days, their festivities are completely different. They perform ceremonies just as they did in ancient times, over 4000 years ago. In fact,
the Hebrew word for Samaritan is 'Shomroni' which means to keep or to guard; they believe they are guardians of the Bible, as it was written originally.
Of course, their Bible is written in the Shomronit letters.

Recently I had the opportunity to join the Samaritans in celebrating the 7th day of Passover when they climb up Mount Gerizim. The mountain is 881 meters high and they view it as the oldest and most central mountain in the world.
It is the site where they believe the Holy Temple existed, and not in Jerusalem as other Jews do. Jerusalem, they say, is not mentioned in the Five Books of Moses, the only ones they believe in, and Moses is their only prophet.

For me, as an almost totally secular person, this was an entirely new, yet also familiar ancient cultural and spiritual experience.

The Samaritans met at 2:30 am at the Kiryat Luza synagogue near Nablus. Dressed in the style of the Israelites who left Egypt, they wore belted white trousers and white shirts or robes, reminiscent of Joseph's striped robe.
Their shoes were left outside in piles in the lobby of the synagogue, while they prayed.

Around 4:00 am, we put on our shoes and began the climb up Mount Gerizim. It was a group mostly of men, with some children and a few women.
The group begins, in the darkness, to follow one another quietly up the mountain, singing and praying about the Exodus from Egypt and the Feast of Unleavened Bread (Passover) when they stopped at each station.

The Samaritans were lit by the moon --their white clothing glowing. The group stopped at several stations along the way, including spots they believe are the altar where Abraham almost sacrificed his son Isaac, and the place they call "God will provide" where Abraham found a ram to replace Isaac. There is also the site of the altar of Adam and his son Seth, the site of the 12 stones where Joshua crossed the Jordan river with the Israelites into the land of Israel, and the Everlasting Hill (in the Samaritan bible: The blessings Jacob gives Joseph are greater than those of the ancient mountains, greater than the beauty of the everlasting hills).

As we went up, the first rays of the sun begin to light the way. The bible scroll, lifted up by the High Priest, was lit up as if God has touched it.
The worshippers looked like the first group of people after the dawn of Creation, and what I saw was a collection of holy moments. We experienced the sunrise together, just as those before us did on Mount Sinai when they received the Ten Commandments, and a kind of spiritual inspiration hovered over us all. When they came down from the mountain, they enjoyed a festive meal together.

Here, so close to home, is a simple and pure ceremony, just like ours once was so many centuries ago.

********

More background about the Samaritans, Judaism and Israel:

The Samaritans were a community of over a million people in the fifth century CE, but as they refused to leave Mount Gerizim, they experienced centuries of extreme persecution by the various nations that came through this area, and were converted to Islam and Christianity against their will, even raped and killed. In short, by the year 1917, the Samaritans almost became extinct, with only 146 members spread out across Israel.

*After the State of Israel was established in 1948, and a historian named Itzhak Ben Zvi became President (from 1952-1963), he called on them to gather from all around Israel because "sparks outside the fire will die out". The first town that accepted them was Holon, and much of the community still lives there, in total now numbering about 800 people. Others remain near Nablus on Mount Bracha and Mount Gerizim.

**The Samaritans broke off from the Israelites when there was a disagreement about whether Elli, an experienced mentor of priests, 60+ years old would become the High Priest (Cohen) or rather the "rightful heir" named Uzi, a mere 15 year-old boy whose father Buki the High Priest, had just died.

As the Samaritans see it, the rest of the Jews' religion has become diluted over time as a result of the many places where the Jews have been scattered. The Samaritans, however, have kept their practices exactly and they say that members of their group hold exactly the same values the Samaritans have always held.

There are five main Samaritan principles:
1. There is one God, that of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob
2. There is one prophet: Moses
3. There is one bible: the Five Books of Moses
4. Their holy place is Mount Gerizim, the house of God where the Holy Temple stood 5. At the 'End of Days' they believe that those who have done good things will be rewarded, and those who are found lacking, will pay.
All Jews today believe in the first and last principles; they also believe that there are more prophets and other holy books, and Jerusalem is the capital.

I was born in 1961 in Morocco, and live in Israel at the age of nine months. I spent my childhood in Jaffa. I was always a storyteller; I am the eldest of six sisters,
so I always invented and told them stories. My passion for photography was born
a long time ago. It seems I always had a camera but I never really learned to take photos. I always documented my daily life, and that of my family, and with my camera, I wanted to tell stories.

Corinne Spector FIELD REPORTER

The Holy Fire , Jerusalem by Shimi Cohen

The Holy Fire, Jerusalem – May 2021

Orthodox Christians flocked to Jerusalem’s Church of the Holy Sepulchre on Saturday to celebrate the Holy Fire ceremony, gathering in far greater numbers than last year because coronavirus restrictions have eased.

This season’s religious holidays in the Holy Land, home to religious sites sacred to Christians, Jews and Muslims, have been overshadowed by tragedy, as Israel mourns the death of 45 Jewish worshippers killed in a stampede overnight between Thursday and Friday at a religious festival in the north of the country. Children were among the casualties.

The ceremony, symbolizing Jesus’s resurrection, is one of the most colourful spectacles of the Orthodox Easter season, usually attended by many pilgrims.

With Jerusalem, under lockdown last year’s Holy Fire ceremony was held in the near-empty church that is revered by Christians as the site of Jesus’s crucifixion, burial and resurrection.

Jerusalem’s Greek Orthodox Patriarch then emerges from the crypt where Christians believe Jesus was buried, lights a candle with the Holy Fire and disperses it to the faithful

The Holy Fire 2019

Shimi Cohen FIELD REPORTER

Jiftlik, Jordan Valley by Shimi Cohen

What at first glance looks like a circus tent, at second glance looks like an animal farm, and at third glance, in the light of the laundry hanging outside and the cheers of the girls heard inside, realize that people live here, and that the huge black tent is actually their home.

A Bedouin is a person who lives in the desert "Badia" and hence his name Bedouin. The Bedouin live the simple life in the desert, a life in which routine hardly changes.

Such as: returning the herds, camels, horses, living in a tent and a nomadic life.

Keeping the herds is an integral part of the Bedouin lifestyle because it is actually the backbone economically, and the Bedouin have no intention of doing more than that because the desolate desert land does not allow for agricultural cultivation and therefore the Bedouin are not proficient in agriculture.

The Bedouin made a living from his various flocks such as the meat, milk and hairs of the goats and the roads he made the tent, and his clothes (the abaya), and weaved the areas on which he sat.

The desert life and its conditions forced the Bedouin to wander from place to place, in search of pasture and water sources for his various herds in the desert area.

He therefore adapted to an irregular lifestyle without deviating or invading any other area outside the desert area, and all the Bedouin’s wanderings were solely within the boundaries of the desert.

This adaptation shaped the Bedouin as a person facing difficult situations because he had to take care of himself, and his family, his herds and establish the pasture he sought.

He invented sophisticated methods to deal with desert "animals, cooking, medicine, exploration and navigation."

All these made of the Bedouin a man with a sharp eye and a sharp mind who took advantage of him in dealing with the desert. The camel and the horse are an indispensable part of the Bedouin's life, he uses them to wander from place to place.

A large part of the Bedouin left the desert for many reasons, so some of them had to live a permanent life on the new territories that were allotted to them.

They moved from the desert to fertile land and had to become farmers in order to cope with their new way of life.

In Israel, the Bedouin go through a new settlement process in villages planned and prepared mostly by the authorities.

Since the establishment of the state, the Bedouin have stopped wandering and started a new life that is not similar to the life of the Bedouin in the desert, although the tendency remains to love the tent and the horse which symbolize the Bedouin's pride alongside the Bedouin's courtesy and preservation of its tradition.

Shimi Cohen