A gripping eyewitness account of the Palestinian plight.
Larry Towell, one of the finest photojournalists working today, made seven trips to Palestine between 1993 and 1997 and documented the Arab/Israeli conflict in a powerful series of pictures. Immediate and full of raw feeling, his images bring the viewer into the active center of a bitter struggle. The photographs reveal the tragedy of a society subsumed in violence: a fist clenched around a rock thrusts through the frame, a soldier jerks a small child off the ground by the wrist, a mother covers her face with a photograph of her gun-wielding dead son.
I join the foray and run as close as I can. Open-fire regulations sanction shoot-to-kill. We run through the alleys. We hear them behind us. The footsteps are catching up. We hear the weight of guns, boots, and the grunting that stops dead as we turn the corner and take chairs in the assembly of mourners.
"A sniper, fifteen meters to my left, crouches into position with a high-powered rifle fixed on me, playing a nerve-wracking game. Others [point] at the motionless old men who continue to ignore them, grieving the death of their boys. Their fighters. Eventually the soldiers tire of the amusement and leave."--from Larry Towell's journals
Larry Towell, one of the finest photojournalists working today, made seven trips to Palestine between 1993 and 1997 and documented the Arab/Israeli conflict in a powerful series of pictures. Immediate and full of raw feeling, his images bring the viewer into the active center of a bitter struggle. The photographs reveal the tragedy of a society subsumed in violence: a fist clenched around a rock thrusts through the frame, a soldier jerks a small child off the ground by the wrist, a mother covers her face with a photograph of her gun-wielding dead son.
I join the foray and run as close as I can. Open-fire regulations sanction shoot-to-kill. We run through the alleys. We hear them behind us. The footsteps are catching up. We hear the weight of guns, boots, and the grunting that stops dead as we turn the corner and take chairs in the assembly of mourners.
"A sniper, fifteen meters to my left, crouches into position with a high-powered rifle fixed on me, playing a nerve-wracking game. Others [point] at the motionless old men who continue to ignore them, grieving the death of their boys. Their fighters. Eventually the soldiers tire of the amusement and leave."--from Larry Towell's journals
