The power of photography is its ability to tell it like it is

Even the best writers will attest that no matter how powerful be the prose, a picture is worth a thousand well-chosen words.

The power of photographs was once again brought into sharp focus (pun intended) after China arm-twisted the Bangladesh government into shutting down a photography exhibition entitled Tibet 1949-2009.
The exhibition, which was organised by the Students for a Free Tibet, showed a myriad of images of the Himalayan nation with all its ups and downs. The photographs were at times graphic in their depiction of an oppressive China, and on others magical in their imagery of one of the most beautiful countries on Earth.
But China doesn’t seem to be able to differentiate between the aesthetics of politics and the politics of beauty. China, and its penchant for ‘history-as-we-know-it’, however, is not up for debate here. Every country has its own way of dealing with a chequered past. This column is about the power of photographs.
Even the best writers will attest that no matter how powerful be the prose, a picture that cuts to the heart of the matter – whether jovial or devastating – is worth a thousand well-chosen words. Photographs know no language, and require the viewer to possess only one faculty: The ability to see.
Photographs have been used to document ‘the real story’ throughout most of the tumultuous 20th Century. From the Great War to Vietnam, the horrifying ability of humans to kill innocents has been portrayed with a graphic sense of foreboding. Our innate predilection for cruelty is unfathomable, and so we must keep snapping away in the hope that wisdom will someday dawn.

Photographs are apolitical in as much as they are amoral, as they should be. Like music, photographs transcend man-made barriers. They are beasts of their own device

Closer to home, my pictures have been used to bring fraudsters to book. When I worked in a national daily based in New Delhi, I was asked to cover drought-affected villagers in 1996.
On assignment I got a picture of an elderly farmer sitting in his arid farm, the soil cracked wide open by the blazing sun. The picture was published, and not long after I received a telephone call from the Life Insurance Corporation of India (LIC). They wanted to know where exactly the picture was taken as, they claimed, the farmer in question was dead and his children had claimed the insurance money four years before this picture was taken.
They then asked me if I could take them to the farm so that they could see this modern day Lazarus for themselves. I did and they saw him, alive and kicking. Needless to say the case was kicked straight into court – the photograph used as evidence and me as a witness.
Photographs are apolitical in as much as they are amoral, as they should be. Like music, photographs transcend man-made barriers. They are beasts of their own device, and that is why governments across the world would rather choose to hide images than words. Words can be misinterpreted, but how could you say that the picture of a young Vietnamese girl, her body burned as she ran from her village, was anything short of murder.
You can’t, and neither did the American public.