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Grozny, Chechnya, January 1995. “Death in Grozny.” Outline of a body in the snow, after a Russian rocket attack: black ash, dark snow, shattered glass, trees now ragged stumps, their branches snapped off by the blasts. The streets of Grozny were a no man's land.

The old souk in the Old City of Aleppo, a UNESCO World Heritage site: once the most charming 4,000 square meters in the Middle East, the most famous postcard in Syria, a vertigo of voices, of tales and colors, overflowing with life. Now all that remains is rubble. You walk, your feet sinking into the rubble, ankle-deep: bent spikes, rusty iron bars, shattered glass, bullet-riddled sheet metal, shutters blown apart, powdery dust and stone. Rebels take you around, trailing from alley to alley, from shop to shop, as if you were a tourist: “This is the cotton market... This is the gold market, and down here’s the silver. On your right are the spices.” And they are, but in the rubble. “Brides buy their wedding gowns here,” and they point to something. “Here are the wedding rings.” The verbs are in the present tense, but you see nothing, not even a rat. April 2, 2013.

Downtown Grozny, Chechnya, April 2001.  Since the death of her child Zelina often stares into the distance, her eyes seeking something far away, so elusive. She says she is already dead, and if only time would hurry up.

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Grozny, Chechnya, January 1995. “Death in Grozny.” Outline of a body in the snow, after a Russian rocket attack: black ash, dark snow, shattered glass, trees now ragged stumps, their branches snapped off by the blasts. The streets of Grozny were a no man's land.

The old souk in the Old City of Aleppo, a UNESCO World Heritage site: once the most charming 4,000 square meters in the Middle East, the most famous postcard in Syria, a vertigo of voices, of tales and colors, overflowing with life. Now all that remains is rubble. You walk, your feet sinking into the rubble, ankle-deep: bent spikes, rusty iron bars, shattered glass, bullet-riddled sheet metal, shutters blown apart, powdery dust and stone. Rebels take you around, trailing from alley to alley, from shop to shop, as if you were a tourist: “This is the cotton market... This is the gold market, and down here’s the silver. On your right are the spices.” And they are, but in the rubble. “Brides buy their wedding gowns here,” and they point to something. “Here are the wedding rings.” The verbs are in the present tense, but you see nothing, not even a rat. April 2, 2013.

Downtown Grozny, Chechnya, April 2001.  Since the death of her child Zelina often stares into the distance, her eyes seeking something far away, so elusive. She says she is already dead, and if only time would hurry up.

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Stanley Greene

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Stanley Greene

Stanley Greene

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Stanley Greene

Stanley Greene

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