October 23, 2013, commemorates my third Alive Day, the day that I survived the moment when an Afghan anti-personnel mine performed its intended task faultlessly by severing my left leg below the knee and my right leg above the knee. Less obvious were the myriad other internal injuries that were even more life-threatening and have seen me in and out of the operating theatre for two and a half years. I was not shocked or surprised by what happened. I had long resigned myself to the possibility that one day my number would come up; that it would be my turn to feel the pain.

As a result, my career has been effectively suspended, but during this drawn-out period of recuperation I happened to document some newsworthy events. I dodged groggy rhinos while working on a poaching story, and earlier this year I covered the riots in Zamdela, south of Johannesburg, which offered a glimmer of hope for the future as I was able to keep up with the frenetic action on my prosthetics.

The appalling scenes of public violence resembled South Africa during its struggle against the apartheid regime, and while nineteen years of democracy have gone by, the utopia promised to every citizen remains an illusion for most. Eight people were killed on that day of civil unrest, and just like all those years ago, I was there to photograph the dead.

2013 also marks the tenth anniversary of the war in Iraq. The decision by the United States of America to attack and occupy a sovereign country left in its wake a culture of murder which the government justified by the threat of terrorism and the fabricated fear of Saddam Hussein’s imaginary arsenal of weapons of mass destruction. Violence and death on an unprecedented scale pursued innocent Iraqis and, despite the withdrawal of US Forces in 2011, the madness continues to this day. The civil war in Iraq is another chapter in America’s War-On-Terror which effectively started twelve years ago when the US waged war against Osama Bin Laden in Afghanistan in retaliation for the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks in New York City and Washington which killed some three thousand people.

I highlight these anniversaries because I understand how fortunate I am to be able to observe their passing one more time. I often wonder why the secondary, massive, explosive device that was attached to the land-mine that day failed to detonate.

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There have been many other instances when I courted danger and escaped unscathed while others around me did not. The answer remains hidden, but if it is just dumb luck or the shielding hands of a greater force, I am equally indebted.

I am grateful that I am still able to see that mischievous glint in my boy’s eyes, and admire my beautiful daughter who confronts the world like a young adult. I am thrilled that I can still skip a breath when my wife runs her hand through her hair. These are the things that constantly remind me that I have been given a second chance.

2013 has been a time of retrospection, and I have pored over my body of work with very different eyes from those that first captured those images. I am not sure what I had hoped to find in those boxes filled with yellowing B&W prints, negatives stuffed in unmarked envelopes, slides in sleeves, and boxes filled with modern media storage devices. Alas, I did not find that “masterpiece” missed while editing under pressure, nor did I stumble across some other hidden truth.

Nonetheless, my muddled search triggered a flood of memories and emotions concealed amongst the jumble of photographs. A further revelation was how often my images failed to live up to the memory of a specific moment and how whole chunks of my photography could be described as mediocre at best. In spite of these shortcomings, I believe that my work stands as a testament to the lives of those whose heroic deeds I witnessed, to the suffering of innocents, and to lives lost.

This minor oeuvre also establishes my passage through history with all its trappings and baggage – love, death, friendships, regrets, and lessons learnt. I was not surprised to learn that I now relate differently to individuals who reside in my photographs – lives that were torn apart by war, and especially the mutilated. I ponder longer and look deeper at these pictures as if searching for something that might or might not be there, for answers I hope exist.

Many years ago, a young Angolan girl stood on her one remaining leg, her body balanced on crutches, staring defiantly at the camera as if challenging me to take the picture. I recall an out-of-body experience as I awkwardly and self-consciously closed in on her with my camera. This was one of my earliest encounters with a mutilated victim of war and I was the one filled with fear.

To this day her timeless stare speaks of hardship, pain, war and loss. Yet, more importantly, she declares that although she is a casualty, she will never submit to being a victim of the foul deeds of men. I still have so much to learn.

Joao Silva

Joao Silva

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