…15:17…Sarajevo… before i arrived i looked at photographs of Bascarsija, The Old Town, taken during the Siege of Sarajevo when the famous part of the city was obliterated. every photograph was filled with smoke, fire, and destruction that reigned the sky. i wanted to stand in the same place where most of these photographs were taken. today, instead of missiles, bullets and artillery, the sky was mostly filled with birds gliding from rooftop to rooftop.
i’ve tried for ten years to photograph stories about women and children who experienced the Siege of Sarajevo. all attempts lead to a dead end. this time, i’m in Sarajevo to continue photographing my project about transgender and gender non-binary people. i had also tried to photograph this subject in Sarajevo for years and got nowhere. a couple of weeks ago, out of desperation, i tried again and was able to photograph six people who i’m extremely grateful for their bravery.
this photograph reminds me of a photograph i took years ago in Alexanderplatz. a bird flew into the frame while i was photographing an abandoned building that had Stop Wars painted across the top.
…15:20…Sarajevo….i walked four steps into the room and took it. the shades were cracked open, framing the cityscape.
i’ve always wanted to stay at the former Holiday Inn in Sarajevo. from my first day at university until graduation, all the news we got about the war raging in the Balkans came from the reporters who were housed in the Holiday Inn. at a place i used to eat on campus called The Tavern, they had a television that broadcast CNN. a shocking war in the middle of Europe captured my imagination.
every broadcast during the three year Siege of Sarajevo seemed to have the Holiday Inn, which looked like it was built with yellow legos, in it. this hotel, built for the Winter Olympics just 10 years prior, was now sitting in the middle of Sniper Alley. later in my career i met photojournalists who covered the war, and everyone of them told me, you just walked into the Holiday Inn, and the war came to you.
this is my first night, and these walls have too many stories to tell. i could tell when i walked up the driveway and was dwarfed by this strange yellow Lego. i’ve tried for ten years to photograph stories about women and children who experienced the Siege of Sarajevo. all attempts lead to a dead end. tonight, i’m in Sarajevo to continue photographing my project about transgender and gender non-binary people. i had also tried to photograph this subject in Sarajevo for years and got nowhere. a couple of weeks ago, out of desperation, i tried again. i plan to photograph six people for the Embrace project. i’m always nervous the night before photograph. the doubts always creep in.
i haven’t met any of the people i’m photographing yet. my first portrait is in nine hours. but from my brief correspondence i know i’m going to learn from these six brave people. i have been in Sarajevo for eight hours. it’s a beautiful place and the people are friendly. but i’m not sure how accepting it is to the transgender and gender non-binary community. these six people already have my respect for being brave enough to share their story with me.
…9:02…Sarajevo….Sniper Alley just outside the Holiday Inn Hotel. Thirty years ago, during the siege that lasted four years, Sniper Alley ran along the main boulevard into and out of Sarajevo. Sarajevo is a long and narrow city that sits in a valley with mountains on each side. Serbian snipers were positioned in the high-rise buildings along the road and mountains a little further away. They picked off anything that moved in the street or who they could see in the windows of the apartments. Civilians still had to move around the city to survive. They risked their lives each time they stepped outside to get water, food, or wood to burn for heat.
What seemed insane but was reality, they either ran down a street to hide behind an obstacle, like a destroyed tram or car, or would wait for United Nations armored vehicles and walk behind them, using them as shields. It was luck that kept people from dying in the street. In most cases, if someone was shot, the body couldn’t be retrieved easily since the snipers would then prey on the people trying to recover the body. It was barbaric.
…16:19…Sarajevo….A woman walking alongside the traffic in what was known as Sniper Alley during the Siege of Sarajevo. Thirty years ago, during the siege that lasted four years, Sniper Alley ran along the main boulevard into and out of Sarajevo. Sarajevo is a long and narrow city that sits in a valley with mountains on each side. Serbian snipers were positioned in the high-rise buildings along the road and mountains a little further away. They picked off anything that moved in the street or who they could see in the windows of the apartments. Civilians still had to move around the city to survive. They risked their lives each time they stepped outside to get water, food, or wood to burn for heat.
What seemed insane but was reality, they either ran down a street to hide behind an obstacle, like a destroyed tram or car, or would wait for United Nations armored vehicles and walk behind them, using them as shields. It was luck that kept people from dying in the street. In most cases, if someone was shot, the body couldn’t be retrieved easily since the snipers would then prey on the people trying to recover the body. It was barbaric.
…11:08…Sarajevo….A young woman standing on the corner, underneath a bullet riddled building in what was known as Sniper Alley during the Siege of Sarajevo. Thirty years ago, during the siege that lasted four years, Sniper Alley ran along the main boulevard into and out of Sarajevo. Sarajevo is a long and narrow city that sits in a valley with mountains on each side. Serbian snipers were positioned in the high-rise buildings along the road and mountains a little further away. They picked off anything that moved in the street or who they could see in the windows of the apartments. Civilians still had to move around the city to survive. They risked their lives each time they stepped outside to get water, food, or wood to burn for heat.
What seemed insane but was reality, they either ran down a street to hide behind an obstacle, like a destroyed tram or car, or would wait for United Nations armored vehicles and walk behind them, using them as shields. It was luck that kept people from dying in the street. In most cases, if someone was shot, the body couldn’t be retrieved easily since the snipers would then prey on the people trying to recover the body. It was barbaric.
The New York Times printed my portrait of Shigeko Sasamori, a well known atomic bomb survivor who died this week in Los Angeles. It’s my first portrait of an atomic bomb survivor that they’ve ever published. I’m proud that a larger audience will know about Shigeko because her life deserves attention. After everything she endured, she still gave empathy to the world every moment of every day.
I received the sad news that Shigeko Sasamori passed away in her sleep this week at the age of 92. Shigeko was 13 years old when the atomic bomb detonated over Hiroshima and suffered deadly injuries. She was so badly burned that she was unrecognizable. Her father found her days after because she kept repeating her name. In 1955, Shigeko was chosen to be part of a small group of young girls called the Hiroshima Maidens. They were brought to New York to have reconstructive plastic surgeries. Shigeko immigrated and lived the majority of her life in Los Angeles.
I photographed Shigeko while she visited New York through Hibakusha Stories to speak with students at high schools and universities. Hibakusha Stories gave several hibakusha (atomic bomb survivors) the opportunity to communicate with thousands of students for almost a decade.
The first photograph is of Shigeko dancing with students at Hunter College, and the other is with high school students at Brooklyn Friends during 2013. It was amazing to see the connection each hibakusha had with students who were 60 years younger than them. The attention and respect that the students had was surprising. I often wonder after all these years if they still realize how lucky they were to have met hibakusha like Shigeko.
I’ve never exhibited photographs of Shigeko in any of the From Above exhibitions. Maybe because my time around her dictated that the photographs were more documentary than the portraits in the project. It feels like I took these photographs yesterday, but more than a decade has passed. I’m grateful for that small amount of time Shigeko allowed me to be there with my camera.
“I thought the bomb was dropped right next to me. But actually the bomb was detonated 2,800 meters (almost 2 miles) away.” -Takeshi Minekawa
I recently received the sad news that Mr. Takeshi Minekawa passed away on January 5th, 2024. He was 87 years old. I photographed him near the hypocenter where the atomic bomb detonated over Nagasaki. This portrait has only been shown at the From Above exhibition in 2018. I took the photograph nearly a decade after I began photographing hibakusha, atomic bomb survivors.
Mr. Minekawa was nine years old when the atomic bomb exploded. He was with his parents when the plane carrying the “Fat Boy” atomic bomb flew over Nagasaki. They went outside to look when the air raid siren sounded and were overwhelmed by the enormous boom, flash of light, wind, and heat immediately after the explosion.
This portrait is part of my project From Above, which is a collection of portraits and reminiscences of atomic bomb survivors and firebombing survivors from Dresden, Tokyo, Coventry, Rotterdam, and Wielun. From Above is permanently exhibited at the Nagasaki Peace Memorial Hall for Atomic Bomb Victims. It has also been exhibited internationally in museums, exhibition spaces, and at the United Nations. From Above was released as a limited edition book that was sold at PhotoEye.com. It is sold out, but I have the last copies. Contact me if you’re interested.
“My sister kept asking, “Where’s mother?” Suddenly, she went silent. That was probably the moment she passed away. The next morning, I arrived at my home and found my mother’s body. All of her clothes were burned off. She was 39 years old.” -Jouji Fukahori, atomic bomb survivor
I received the sad news that Mr. Jouji Fukahori passed away on October 28th at the age of 94. Mr. Fukahori was 14 years old when the atomic bomb destroyed Nagasaki. He lived 500m (1/3 mile) from the hypocenter in the Urakami district. It was home to 15,000 Christians and the Urakami Cathedral, the largest cathedral in East Asia.
The area was transformed into a field of ash. It’s estimated that three-quarters of the population in Urakami died. Many of the residents who survived only did because they were away from the area. The stone cathedral was split into pieces. Its twin bell towers were pummeled to the ground. One tower was thrown down the hill, which the cathedral was built on top of. I photographed Mr. Fukahori standing next to damaged religious statues that remain on the grounds of the rebuilt Urakami Cathedral.
This portrait has been shown on-line, but has yet to be seen in a From Above exhibition. I’ve worked on preparing an exhibition print and want to show it at the upcoming From Above exhibitions. I didn’t photograph him until ten years into the project. There are a lot of portraits in the project, I’ve begun to rotate some in during the middle of exhibitions so that more can be seen.
From Above is a collection of portraits and reminiscences of atomic bomb survivors and firebombing survivors from Dresden, Tokyo, Coventry, Rotterdam, and Wielun. From Above is permanently exhibited at the Nagasaki Peace Memorial Hall for Atomic Bomb Victims. It has also been exhibited internationally in museums, exhibition spaces, and at the United Nations. From Above was released as a limited edition book that was sold at PhotoEye.com. It is sold out, but I have the last copies. Contact me if you’re interested.
“I was 4 years old when the atomic bomb was dropped. So I don’t know “normal life.” I hated the war for a long time, but realized having a grudge does nothing. I have to speak and leave messages to the next generation.” -Hidetaka Komine
Yesterday I received the sad news that Hidetaka Komine passed away, a couple of days before his 84th birthday. I met Mr. Komine during the second day of my initial trip to Nagasaki. He was the fifth hibakusha, atomic bomb survivor, I met. I remember it clearly because he was an unforgettable and remarkable person. He left an impression even before we were introduced. When I was walking back into the Nagasaki Atomic Bomb Museum, I caught a glimpse of a man wearing a leather jacket and smoking a cigarette. He looked like he rode a Harley Davidson. Twenty minutes later, when it was time for my next interview and photograph, the man with the leather jacket walked in, it was Mr. Komine. He immediately started speaking and using his hands like I do, more direct and aggressive than any person I met in Japan. Even though I had no idea what he was saying, I knew he was interesting. He reminded me of the characters from my childhood in Brooklyn.
Mr. Komine lived a tough life, but he fought through the struggles and lived with dignity and pride. He could admit to the pain, anger, sadness, and regrets. There was no veil of secrecy in his words. I’m not sure I’ve ever met someone who was tougher, sincere, or more compassionate. This is what real strength is to me.
He became my friend from the first moment. I returned to Nagasaki many times, and he was always there to greet me, and developed a friendship with my translator Seiichi. On my second visit to Nagasaki in May 2010, I exhibited the first portraits at the Nagasaki Peace Museum so that everyone I photographed could see. At that point, the project was seen once in Tokyo and there wasn’t any interest from venues in Nagasaki. Izumi and I were persistent. When Mr. Komine came to the exhibition with the other hibakusha, we spoke about my trip to Dresden to photograph firebombing survivors. But I will always remember him speaking with another person I photographed and saying that he didn’t recognize them because “Paule made them look better in the photograph.” That was Mr. Komine’s personality, like a character from Brooklyn and not like anyone else in Japan.
“If I had not encountered the atomic bomb, I don’t know what kind of life was waiting for me.”
The atomic bomb was one of Mr. Komine’s first memories of life. He was the first to tell me that the life of an hibakusha was cut in two. The life before the atomic bomb, and then the sharp cut the moment after the bomb exploded. His entire life he was subjected to discrimination, and prejudice. One day as a child he had enough of the fierce bullying because the atomic bomb left him with injuries that made it painful to walk. He fought back, risking serious injury, but he considered it a salvation to stand up for himself.
It wasn’t until he was 50 years old that Mr. Komine publicly spoke about his experiences. He was ready earlier in life to speak than most hibakusha. It was an honor that Mr. Komine was my friend. He made me a better person, and had more compassion and strength in one of his fingernails than I have in my entire body. The world was a better place with him in it. He will be missed.
