Cultural Differences and One Expensive Camera

From a letter home to my parents and family:

Speaking of pictures, here’s an interesting story, a warning tail for Colin in his future photo journalism work:

Last week, on February 8^th actually, I came out of “work,” that morning being the Inspection for the middle schools and high school. As I was headed back toward home to type up a project proposal I began to hear chanting and yelling. Gathered around the Prefet’s office (Prefet = Mayor of a local region, more than a single town), basically surrounding the Secretary General and yelling at him, were maybe 60 middle school aged kids. As the SG was trying to calm them down I looked up and here come maybe 200-300 more kids marching up the street. Clearly many of the children for the middle school just down the street had walked out to march. Asking around I learned that it was the anniversary of the 1990 killing of four University students in Niamey by government troops and the students were marching to commemorate the event. However, the march I witnessed quickly lapsed into a mass of wild children brandishing sticks and throwing stones. They swamped the road (the main artery between Gaya and Benin, and thus a major transit point), stopping all traffic. I saw a number of semi trucks pummeled and a couple cracks started in windshields. Clearly the students were out to cause trouble and I don’t know what semi trucks had to do with the 1990 killings, but they drew the wrath of many a stone. Clearly, it seemed that the event was getting out of control.

So what do I do? Oh, I go back to my house to get my camera and my voice recorder (thanks dad!) to do some recording myself. I followed the group down to the bridge at the other side of town, letting them stay well ahead of myself and not wanting to be seen as being involved with what was going on. On the bridge, there was a blockade of a type. One semi was stopped in one lane and another truck was turned sideways in the other lane, its purpose being to dump rocks for the construction of new gardens. No idea (even to this day) whether the semi was stopped by students as part of this or just conveniently abandoned for the moment (broken down?). I snapped two pictures, one of the police in their pickup truck and one of the students massed near the bridge. Then I stood by and watched for a couple minutes. When the police began to move in to disrupt the march, I backed off to behind their lines and watched from maybe 50 yards away. The police made a hasty retreat due to a hail of rocks from students on the other side of the bridge and suddenly I was enveloped in police in riot gear. Wanting a picture of the barricade, if that’s what it was, I ventured forward and took another picture.

Turning around to head back behind the police line I was suddenly confronted with three or four officers asking me about what I wanted to take pictures of. Where was my press card? Why was I there? They tried to grab my camera but I refused and started to walk away. That’s when someone else stepped in front of me. I was really surrounded this time. They told me I had to come see the Commissarie who was sitting in the police truck. Not seeing much of a choice in the matter, and thinking that just explaining that I was a Peace Corps volunteer might clear up the situation, I went over. She asked who I was, why I was taking pictures, where was my press card, where was my passport. I told her I was a PCV, my passport was at home, a 5 minute walk away, and that I had no press card. She told me to give her the camera, I said no. She then told the man behind me to hold me. Suddenly not only was I surrounded, but I had to officers holding onto my arms. She then explained that if I didn’t give her the camera, she would arrest me for not having my passport on me. If I gave them the camera, then I could come back with my passport later and try to get it back. What choice did I really have? They took the camera. I stayed next to their car, followed it around as they moved from spot to spot (trying to be rid of me I’m pretty sure), called the Prefet who, being ex-military himself, told me I had no right to take pictures and that I would never get my camera back (so much for him being a help, he never even fixed my broken door and wall like he was supposed to…). So, to try to make a long story shorter, I left in anger, more precisely they almost ran me over leaving for their compound. That camera is like a baby to me, and as most of you know I’ve already lost one to the pacific ocean, and the prospect of this other one being forcefully taken was not pleasant.

Days of run around later and saying “Oh, it’s my fault, I didn’t know you had to have a permit to take pictures” I was finally able to get the camera back. Taken Friday, returned Wednessday night. Hours of waiting at the commassarie for their boss to get back: easily 6+. Not fun. Makes me not want to help these people. But really, if anything it makes me want to pursue even more my student government programs to try and advance the rights of people here, or at least their perception of what rights should be because I think that rights are truly infringed upon here. Thank your lucky stars you live in a country where you can take pictures without the risk of being arrested.

As I recall from my law classes, anything in the public view is fair game for picture taking. And, here, they tried to tell me that the same restrictions they imposed on me were in place in the US, in fact everywhere. Well sorry, that’s not true. They were adamant about it and didn’t believe me when I said otherwise. I tried to explain that once you start down the path of telling people what they can and can't take pictures of, it can be a slippery slope. Where do you draw the line? For me, it's best to keep things free and clear.

Ok, it’s getting me worked up more just to think about it. Let's just put it down as another lesson about the life of people living elsewhere. Also a lesson in the risks and troubles that journalists face all the time. That is one hard job!