WA#6: Final Draft

Introductions first take place. The Father, blind, is named Jafar. The mother, Sittina. The eldest child, a girl, Dalila. Jamani, a boy, is the middle child and Kwame, the baby boy. The hired translator tells them my name is Eric.

I first tell them my story:

“I am traveling through your country on business.” (Pause, translation). “I am a photographer for a magazine called National Geographic. Our next issue highlights life in Sudan. I am capturing shots that entail all aspects of life here.” (Pause, translation). “If you consent, your family may be displayed in a public magazine. Of course I must first inquire: would you all so graciously allow me to take a picture of your family?” (Pause, translation).

Sittina cradles her baby intently, looking as though we foreigners may reach for the child at any moment. The two elder children gaze wildly around at my jeep, photography instruments, and fellow white coworkers. Jafar keeps his head at a constant tilt as though looking into the sky, absorbing every word coming from the translator’s mouth. They keep close to each other, still apprehensive towards us foreigners.

Jafar is the first to move after a long pause that succeeded my question. He slowly brings his head down until it faces me, as though his blind, swollen eyes can see me. I can sense he is sizing me up, in his own adapted way, considering my question. After another pause, he speaks. His words are directed to the translator, but the powerful look on his face remains directed at me. He speaks slowly but with immense pride. I don’t speak his language, but a strong demeanor and a mind of wisdom is a universal language of its own.

The translator says, “Will this disgrace our family name?”

I was taken aback by this question. I had prepared myself for more detail-oriented questions, even flat out rejection to taking the picture. This question was beyond me and my cultural upbringings. Of all things, he was most concerned about his family name? I was sure there couldn’t possibly be more than one person within 800 miles from here that even subscribes to National Geographic. I was lost for words. After a minute, I fumbled out, “Oh um, well, no. No I suppose not. I mean, oh no, of course not. This picture is for positive purposes. Your family will remain entirely anonymous. Unless you would like to have your family name in the magazine?” (Pause, translation).

Jafar spoke again and the translator said, “No. Anonymous.”

“Very well. If you would just spare me a minute.” ( Pause, translation).

I took some time to absorb the surroundings. It was practically a barren wasteland. There was no sign of water anywhere. About eight ‘huts’ embodied the village, if one could even refer to them as such. These ‘huts’ were made from cardboard, straw and canvases. They looked about as effective as strainers in terms of sheltering from wind and rain. I noticed one piece of cardboard on their hut said “VELVEX. Super Soft Napkins.” There was a small box of those stored in the glove compartment of my jeep for me to wipe my mouth with after eating. I suddenly felt guilty about my sanitary needs.

I shuffled the family until they stood between their hut and a neighboring hut. I made sure the “VELVEX” was showing. The setting sun was at their backs. That was all the rearranging I had to do as they immediately fell into the familial positioning I was looking for. They gathered around each other, holding hands and shoulders. As I looked through my lens, a secure, loving, loyal family stared back at me. I peered above the camera, smiled wide and pointed to my animated grin. The children lost their fascination with the camera and were now mesmerized with the jeep and my white coworkers. Jafar and Sittina, however, turned the ends of their lips up ever so slightly, maintaining their solemn pride.

Click.