{"id":650,"date":"2015-02-12T07:46:10","date_gmt":"2015-02-12T07:46:10","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/?p=650"},"modified":"2023-08-30T07:45:07","modified_gmt":"2023-08-30T07:45:07","slug":"2014-stories","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/2014-stories\/","title":{"rendered":"2014"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
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T<\/span>he year of 2014 began in a busy and chaotic, but also amazingly loving, place. Dhaka, the huge and crowded capital of Bangladesh, this small green country almost entirely embraced by India, crisscrossed by rivers and riverbanks and covered in small patches of\u00a0fields and rice paddies, and inhabited by 160 million people, making it the by far most densely populated country in the world (city-states like Hong-Kong and Singapore aside). It had been a year since we last were here \u2013 too long, much too long, and we were happy to be back.<\/p>\n

We arrived only days before the parliamentary elections, which were to mark the end of a tumultous year. Bangladeshi politics are much like that, there’s constant rivalry\u00a0between the country’s two main political parties, and\u00a0the ongoing tribunal for crimes commited during the war of 1971 had brough all kinds of issues to the table.<\/p>\n[aesop_image imgwidth=”900px” img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/MG_02431.jpg” align=”center” lightbox=”off” captionposition=”left”]\n

So the Dhaka we landed in was a bit\u00a0different from the city we had left behind. It was in the midst of a series of sudden urban\u00a0battles where members (well, rather people bribed and picked up around the city) of the main youth\u00a0political factions\u00a0fought each others in the street.<\/p>\n[aesop_image imgwidth=”900px” img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/20140214-_MG_1520-900.jpg” align=”center” lightbox=”off” captionposition=”left”]\n

Besides that, Bangladesh was very much her familiar and friendly self. Full with generous and hard-working people, constantly finding innovative solutions to life in a cramped, congested city. Life in\u00a0Dhaka has a pace and energy like nothing else. Street life is more than street life here \u2013 it’s like scene after scene from an instant, living, never-ending, never-stopping, urban adventure movie.<\/p>\n[aesop_gallery id=”200″]\n

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B A N G L A D E S H \u00a0 V O T E S<\/p>\n

A crowd had gathered in the hall of Dhaka\u2019s main hospital\u2019s burn unit. Doctors and nurses in white robes, people with cameras and microphones pushing their way through. In the midst was a woman and her three children; the youngest of them, a ten-year-old son, was crying, burying his head in his older brother\u2019s chest. Their mum, Halima Akhter, cried out to the people with microphones surrounding her.<\/p>\n

\u201cWho will help us? My children all depend on their dad, how are we now going to get by?\u201d<\/p>\n

Halima Akhter\u2019s husband, fruit vendor Farid Miah, had just passed away inside the ward, the last of a number of civilian victims of a series of arson attacks against public transportation vehicles in Bangladesh. The bomb, which burned nearly half his body, had been thrown into the bus he was traveling on two weeks earlier.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

On the day of the elections, all motorised traffic had been banned in Dhaka and businesses and shops kept closed. It was a rare sight in this megacity: the otherwise congested center was still and quiet, its streets empty of busses and cars. The rickshaw drivers were happy \u2013 left exclusively with all the customers, without a single motor-driven competitor on the road.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Samira Sadeque, who spent the morning at a voting station in Banani in northern Dhaka, saw only seven people vote all morning. She didn\u2019t vote herself either, she says.<\/p>\n

\u201cOftentimes, at least you can vote for the less of two evils. But not this time. The worst thing is the political system here makes you feel that as a citizen you cannot change anything.\u201d<\/p>\n

From an update (in Swedish) for Sydsvenskan<\/a><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n[aesop_gallery id=”200″]\n[aesop_timeline_stop num=”2 February” title=”2 February”]\n

W<\/span>e spent\u00a0January and February going around the country, following the rivers and its\u00a0narrow, winding (or dusty, hectic and absolutely straight) roads. We passed by Hindu temples hidden among the greenery and derilict palaces in Old Dhaka; we stopped on the island of Bhola which is literally disappearing bit by bit as a consequence of the changing climate. We got invited to countless cups of tea and plates of rice \u2013 and even cooked Lebanese food (loubiyeh bel-zeit, green beans with oil and tomatoes) in a typical outdoors Bangla kitchen (our friends liked it, but they felt it was missing spice!).<\/p>\n[aesop_image imgwidth=”900px” img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/20140127-_MG_7227-900.jpg” align=”center” lightbox=”off” captionposition=”left”]\n

We also spent time in Jessore, the last town in Bangladesh before the Indian border, halfway between Dhaka and Calcutta. It’s a typical border town in many ways, with constant movement and people passing through. Everything travels this way: food and medicine, livestock (clue: in one of the countries, cows may absolutely not get killed; in the other, beef is an appreciated kind of meat), clothes and drugs. And people. Trafficking \u2013 the kidnappig, forcing, stealing and luring of human beings from one place to another \u2013 is a major issue in Bangladesh. Here’s part of a long piece we did for The National in Dubai:<\/p>\n

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F O R \u00a0 S A L E<\/p>\n

\u201dI used to be happy before. Now, I cry a lot in the evenings. I cry because of my fate which brought me here.\u201d<\/p>\n

The words belong to Halima, a teenager with a sincere, childlike smile. She stands in a doorway in central Jessore, the last town in Bangladesh before the Indian border. The streets outside are busy, lined with vendors and shops. Everything is for sale here: bananas, rice, hardware, textiles. And women. The doorway leads in to one of Jessore\u2019s biggest brothels.<\/p>\n

\u201dI was brought here a few years ago, I lived in the streets at that time. A man took me to Daulatdia, the biggest brothel in Bangladesh. He sold me to the owners, who kept me in a room and gave me drugs. Then, a man suddenly came in and started taking off my clothes. I was so scared, I didn\u2019t understand what was happening.\u201d<\/p>\n

Halima continues to tell her story as she walks inside. Clothes hang to dry from the balconies, the air smells of frying oil and chilli. Someone is putting on make-up in front of a mirror. Red lips, a layer of whitening cream covering her face.<\/p>\n

Halima doesn\u2019t know her age exactly, but she thinks she\u2019s 17. She has lived in different brothels since that first day when she was taken away.<\/p>\n

\u201dI dream about having a family, just like everyone else. But I don\u2019t think I will ever have that life.<\/p>\n

Continue reading in\u00a0The National<\/a><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n[aesop_gallery id=”226″]\n[aesop_timeline_stop num=”3 March” title=”3 March”]\n

W<\/span>e spent March in one of Bangledesh’s northern neighbours \u2013 Nepal, a different place in many ways. No more riverbanks and village mosques, no salwar-kameezes<\/a> and beards in henna red \u2013 instead, towering mountains and urban smog, courtyards and narrow streets, temples in carved wood and stone.<\/p>\n[aesop_gallery id=”271″]\n

It’s also different because Nepal is a place where people come. Visitors in Bangladesh are rare and few \u2013 in Nepal\u00a0they’re everywhere. In the 60s and 70s, it was the hippies who came to Kathmandu, following the Hippie Trail<\/a> through Iran, Afghanistan and India; today it’s backpackers and tourists \u2013 not interested like their predecessors in cheap and mysterious things to smoke, but in hiking the spectacular mountains. For us, the month\u00a0in Nepal meant time to work\u00a0with material we already had: tape recordings, notebook scribbles, photos and ideas from interviews and meetings in Bangladesh.<\/p>\n[aesop_image imgwidth=”900px” img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/20140320-_MG_9761-900.jpg” align=”center” lightbox=”off” captionposition=”center”]\n[aesop_image imgwidth=”900px” img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/20140404-_MG_0353-900.jpg” align=”center” lightbox=”off” captionposition=”left”]\n[aesop_image imgwidth=”900px” img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/20140404-_MG_0182-900.jpg” align=”center” lightbox=”off” captionposition=”left”]\n[aesop_image imgwidth=”900px” img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/20140408-_MG_0534-900.jpg” align=”center” lightbox=”off” captionposition=”left”]\n[aesop_image imgwidth=”900px” img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/20140408-_MG_0556-900.jpg” align=”center” lightbox=”off” captionposition=”left”]\n

One story, published as part of a series on the topic of “forbidden love”, came from Cape Cod in northern Massachussets \u2013\u00a0the\u00a0very northern tip to be exact, where the city of Provincetown meets the sea. Provincetown is a place like nowhere else, not only on the cape but elsewhere too. Love \u2013 rainbow-colored love, free-thinking love, all kinds of love \u2013 is truly cherished here.<\/p>\n

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” W E ‘ R E \u00a0 L I V I N G \u00a0 O N \u00a0 T H E \u00a0 E D G E \u00a0 H E R E “<\/p>\n

\u201cBefore we start singing, we\u2019re changing some of the words. Each time it says \u2018god\u2019, put \u2018goddess\u2019 instead.\u201d<\/p>\n

We\u2019re inside a wooden church with a high ceiling and red carpets leading up to the altar. It\u2019s mid-morning choir practice, an hour before Sunday mass. The man talking is Jon Arterton, the choir leader and \u2013 when it\u2019s not Sunday \u2013 free-thinking show artist.<\/p>\n

\u201cThen, instead of \u2018our father\u2019 we will sing \u2018our mother\u2019. We have centuries of male domination behind us, it\u2019s time to make up for that.\u201d<\/p>\n

The choir members pick up pens and erasers, replacing the words as instructed. They divide themselves into three groups: alts, tenors, basses. All represent different voices, but the members share one thing in common. They\u2019re in love with someone from the same sex.<\/p>\n

We\u2019re in Provincetown, Massachusetts, a small coastal town on the American east coast known also by the name \u201cP-town\u201d. It\u2019s a conventional seaside city in many ways: boats lie waiting in the harbor, restaurants serve fish and seafood, houses have rugged wooden facades. But one thing soon reveals you\u2019re not in a fishing village like any other. The flags. Most houses in Provincetown are adorned with proud, rainbow-colored flags \u2013 this is a place where the norm is gay, not straight.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re living on the edge here, in many ways. It’s a place where you\u2019re really free to be who you are. That\u2019s why I can\u2019t live anywhere else,\u201d says Sewall Whittemore, one of the choir singers, as she walks down the stairway after mass is over.<\/p>\n

On the way out is a notice board with colorful posters and notes. Meetings with Provincetown\u2019s LBTQ seniors, lessons in \u201cRacial Justice for White People\u201d, an upcoming show with Jon Arterton and his partner. Inside the tiny bathroom, on a table next to a romantic painting of a fisherman, is a box with complimentary condoms. \u201cLove is the spirit of this church\u201d, a notice says.<\/p>\n

A short walk from the church (which by the way calls itself a \u201cmeeting house\u201d) \u2013 past posters for lesbian literary nights and the summer\u2019s Bear Week, and a kitschy garden fountain decorated with Barbie and Kens in army boots and pink glitter \u2013 is Napi\u2019s, one of the oldest restaurants in Provincetown. It\u2019s owner, Napi Van Dereck, is also an informal historian of the city.<\/p>\n

\u201cProvincetown was always an accepting city, attracting all sorts of people. You know this is where the first pilgrims landed, escaping religious oppression in England?\u201d<\/p>\n

He continues.<\/p>\n

\u201cThen came the artists, attracted by the isolation and the endless dunes. They just piled into town, they found it easy to live here. Food was cheap, easy to get by. You didn\u2019t need a lot of money to be here, and the population was friendly. This was World War I when thousands of artists and writers and hangers-on poured back into the US. After that, the gays of course. Today, I would say half the people who run the city are gay!\u201d<\/p>\n

Part of a story (in Swedish) for Sydsvenskan<\/a><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n[aesop_quote type=”block” background=”#ffffff” text=”#000000″ width=”55%” align=”center” size=”1″ quote=”\u201cThen, instead of \u2018our father\u2019 we will sing \u2018our mother\u2019. We have centuries of male domination behind us, it\u2019s time to make up for that.\u201d ” parallax=”off” direction=”left”]\n[aesop_image imgwidth=”900px” img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/IMG_4403.jpeg” align=”center” lightbox=”off” captionposition=”left”]\n[aesop_timeline_stop num=”4 April” title=”4 April”]\n

R<\/span>eturning to Bangladesh also meant returning to an absolute, unrelentless heat. The heat in April and May, before the monsoon finally (finally!) arrives, is overwhelming, and leaves you with nowhere to escape. It finds its way inside your consciousness, then stays in your memory and can be evoked in your mind \u2013 like a smell or a beloved childhood song.<\/p>\n

From now on, the Bangladeshi heat will always bring us back to a particular place \u2013 Savar, a sprawling city not far from Dhaka. It was never known outside the country, until April 24, 2013. On that day, only a few hours after the break of dawn, a building in central Savar suddenly collapsed. Thousands of workers were immediately, horribly, buried inside, in the deadliest accident ever in the global garment industry.<\/p>\n

We had thought\u00a0about it a lot in Dhaka. Talked about it, gone to demonstrations and exhibits commemorating the event. On a theoretical level, in our heads, we had an idea of what had happened. That cracks had appeared in the walls the day before, that workers had been sent home. That they had been called back the next morning, told not to worry, to go inside and work \u2013 if not, they wouldn’t get paid. That people had entered the building, walked up the stairs to the sixth and seventh and eight floors, where heavy machines and illegal additional structures made the building so heavy that it finally, that very dark morning, just gave away.<\/p>\n

We knew that. But it was not before that day in Savar, in that heat (the same heat that had suffocated April 24\u00a0the year before), that we came close to actually understanding.<\/p>\n[aesop_image imgwidth=”900px” img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/20140419-_MG_2639-900.jpg” align=”center” lightbox=”off” captionposition=”left”]\n[aesop_quote type=”block” background=”#ffffff” text=”#000000″ width=”55%” align=”center” size=”1″ quote=”\u201cThen, it all collapsed. Everything went dark and incredibly hot.\u201d ” parallax=”off” direction=”left”]\n

It was not before we sat down with the young football player who had rushed to the site, then home to get saws and heavy tools, then back to try and dig out, drag out, amputate and free, people who were stuck. Not before we met the man who happened to be visiting Savar when he heard the sound of the collapse, ran there, him as well, and began to help, but instead got buried among the others and now, one year later, was in a hospital bed with no ability to move his body and with his little daughter at his side, both with tired eyes and a silent sense of patience. Not before walking around among the rubble that was still there, the pieces of cement and torned strips of clothes, talking to mothers and fathers seeking their children who were still “missing”, only documented on the printed employment contracts the parents held in their hands.<\/p>\n

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U N D E R \u00a0 T H E \u00a0 R U B B L E<\/p>\n

The heat towards the end of April is almost unbearable. Still, crowds have gathered on the site where Rana Plaza used to be, with not a cloud in sight. Family members carry framed photos of their missing sons and daughters; street kids dig through the rubble searching for pieces of iron and things they can sell.<\/p>\n

Bangladesh\u2019s garment industry has grown for each year since it was established in the 1980s, and today it makes for \u00be of the country\u2019s total exports. After China, Bangladesh produces more clothes than any other place in the world. Sweden, like most other countries in the West, is a top consumer. In 2012 and 2013, we imported clothes with the tag \u201cMade in Bangladesh\u201d for 4,5 billion SEK.<\/p>\n

The Rana Plaza collapse was not a singular event but one among many. Fires, workplace accidents \u2013 no one knows exactly how many people have died in all, but incidents are reported (or not reported) each year in the country\u2019s 5 600 factories.<\/p>\n

Only a short rickshaw ride away from the site is CRP, a big hospital and the only physiotherapy clinic in Bangladesh. This is where many victims were rushed after the collapse \u2013 and this is where many still remain.<\/p>\n

At the far end of the hospital area, nearby the workshop making artificial arms and legs, sit rows of simple brick buildings. Families stay here to get accustomed to life with their new body parts, or crutches and wheelchairs, before moving back to their homes again. 24-year-old Rihanna, who only uses her first name, used to work on the seventh floor of Rana Plaza. She walks with careful steps, one step at the time, ducking for colorful scarves and tunics hanging to dry. Her right leg is the same she always had; the left one is made here at CRP, replacing the one she lost in the collapse.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey had sent us home the day before because they noticed cracks in the building. But then in morning they said everything was fine, that it was safe to go in. That we wouldn’t get paid otherwise. So we went in. Then, it all collapsed. Everything went dark and incredibly hot. A wall fell down on my leg and crushed it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Back at the site, evening is about to fall. The crowds are still there, the heat remains intense. The walls are covered with posters, large ones, printed for this occasion. A large banner, fastened with ropes, says: \u201cRana Plaza. Never again\u201d.<\/p>\n

From stories (in Swedish) for Hufvudstadsbladet and\u00a0Sydsvenskan<\/a><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n[aesop_gallery id=”281″]\n[aesop_timeline_stop num=”5 May” title=”5 May”]\n

A<\/span>nother piece we worked on in Kathmandu, to the sounds of early morning puja and speeding motorbikes, and only leaving the computer to get hot momos stuffed with vegetables and soft paneer, was a story from home. From Beirut. Vi l\u00e4ser, a magazine about books and literature published in Sweden, has two spreads in each issue inviting\u00a0readers to a place somewhere in the world. We had earlier done a story from the childhood home of Bengali giant Rabindranath Tagore; this time we wrote about Hamra, an iconic part of cultural Beirut.<\/p>\n[aesop_content color=”#ffffff” background=”#333333″ width=”800px” columns=”1″ position=”none” imgrepeat=”no-repeat” floaterposition=”left” floaterdirection=”up”][\/aesop_content]\n

A \u00a0 C U P \u00a0 O N \u00a0 H A M R A \u00a0 S T R E E T<\/p>\n

No matter when you pass by \u2013 early morning, midday or after dark \u2013 they will be there, seated comfortable in their chairs. The men and women, all past their retirement age, with ashtrays and small cups of coffee in front of them, gazing out on the street \u2013 Hamra Street, with its smooth and organic chaos of old Mercedes taxis, delivery guys on vespas and people crossing the street. A bit further down on the pavement, young kids with worn clothes are shining shoes. A group of friends walk past them, with neon tights and smartphones in their hands. Next to the ashtrays on the tables are folded issues of the morning newspapers: L\u2019Orient-Le Jour in French, and Assafir in Arabic.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

By the early 1970s, Hamra Street had a number of (already iconic) coffee shops: Horseshoe was there since ten years back, frequented\u00a0by the likes of Adonis, Syrian journalist Ghada al-Samman and a visiting Samuel Beckett; next door was Caf\u00e9 de Paris, with brightly colored outdoors\u00a0tables and chairs; opposite on the other side was Modca and, of course, Wimpy, where Yasser Arafat and his comrades came to\u00a0meet.<\/p>\n

\u201cIn the sixties and seventies there was one \u2018coffee\u2019 \u2013 that\u2019s what we called them \u2013 for each group. The communists, the poets, the Naserists; all had their own place and atmosphere,\u201d says Khaled Bedeir, more known in Hamra under the name Mike. Since 1952, he\u2019s cut the hair of customers in his small but legendary Mike\u2019s Barber Shop.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey all came to me \u2013 ambassadors, politicians, journalists. Once, even [murdered Swedish prime minister] Olof Palme was here.\u201d<\/p>\n

But everything was soon about to change, for both Mike and the coffee shops. For all of Lebanon. In April 1975, 27 people were killed on a bus in one of Beirut\u2019s suburbs: that marked the first incident of what was going to be a large-scale conflict, involving neighboring countries (both of them) and global powers, and not reaching an end until 1991. The climate in Beirut changed quickly: tourists were asked to leave, people\u2019s daily lives began to smell of fear and despair. Playwright scripts and revolutionary pamphlets were cleared from the caf\u00e9 tables, instead, customers sat down to hear about the latest fighting.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Today, decades after the end of the war, Hamra Street is again lined with shops and caf\u00e9s. The streets never really sleep, neither do the people \u2013 the shopkeepers, taxi drivers, trash collectors, students and the kids in\u00a0the street. The area remains a place for gathering writers,\u00a0only now the Horseshoes and Wimpys bear names like\u00a0Mezyan or\u00a0T-marbouta, and notebooks are replaced by laptops with glowing symbols of a fruit.<\/p>\n

There\u2019s this idea that you can get a sense of Beirut by visiting her coffee shops. That the talks across their tables say something about the city and its inhabitants. In that case, Hamra remains her usual self: always there, only in constant change.<\/p>\n\"\"\n\"\"\n

From a piece (in Swedish) for\u00a0Vi L\u00e4ser<\/a><\/p>\n[aesop_quote type=”block” background=”#ffffff” text=”#000000″ width=”60%” align=”center” size=”1″ quote=”Artists, writers and journalists from all across the Middle East found in Beirut what they missed at home. Michel Aflaq, the legendary Syrian thinker, came from Damascus to write his pamphlets in Beirut; Mona Saudi, sculptor and artist from Jordan, travelled through the city as a 17-year-old, en route from her parents’ house to Europe. The Iraqi poet Sargon Boulous crossed the border to Lebanon by foot, carrying nothing but a translated copy of Shakespear’s King Lear.” parallax=”off” direction=”left”]\n[aesop_parallax img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/20130911-_MG_8353.jpg” parallaxbg=”off” captionposition=”bottom-left” lightbox=”off” floater=”on” floaterposition=”left” floaterdirection=”up”]\n[aesop_timeline_stop num=”6-7 June-July” title=”6-7 June-July”]\n

L<\/span>ast year, Swedish crafts magazine Hemsl\u00f6jd got awarded not once but twice \u2013 first as #1 cultural publication of the year, then as the recepient of the Swedish publishing award. Much deserved: the team behind Hemsl\u00f6jd put a lot of work into making it smart and thoughtful. Here are two features we did for them during summer:<\/p>\n

First the story of\u00a0jamdani, a delicate Bengali weaving craft dating\u00a0back to before the Mogul times. Only a few decades ago the art was close to\u00a0disappearing \u2013 then,\u00a0a woman from Dhaka named\u00a0Monira Emdad\u00a0discovered the few remaining artisans and started what was to become\u00a0a revival, which has enabled the community of small-scale artisans to grow and preserve their craft.<\/p>\n

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T I M E \u00a0 F O R \u00a0 J A M D A N I<\/p>\n

At first glance, South Rupshi looks like any other village in the Bangladeshi countryside. Tea stalls line the roads, kids play in the mid-day heat, rickshaw-drivers pedal their decorated bikes. But this place is different. Bundles of yarn in bright colours hang to dry in the sun. People sit on their porches, spinning threads onto spindles. Inside almost every home, a traditional loom is set up. South Rupshi is a village of weavers \u2013 the ancestral home of a proud, age-old craft.<\/p>\n

The main road in the village is lined with small tin houses. Inside one of them, side by side behind a wooden loom, sit Parbin and Abdul Salam. They\u2019re a married couple \u2013 but also lifetime colleagues.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe spend each day here, morning to evening, weaving together. It\u2019s a good job now that jamdani has become more sought-after. It\u2019s clean and safe, which many other jobs are not. And we can work together at home,\u201d says Abdul Salam.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

These days, South Rupshi\u2019s weavers are busy. There\u2019s a high demand for saris, and enough work for people to support their families. But this was not always the case. Only a few decades ago, traditional weaving was a forgotten heritage. Until sari entrepreneur Monira Emdad brought it back to memory.<\/p>\n

\u201cIn the early 1980s, when I was traveling in rural Bangladesh, I came across these hand-woven saris, more beautiful than I had seen anywhere else. Back then, they were only worn in the villages. It was impossible to find fabric of that quality in the cities,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n

She immediately sensed the potential of the hand-woven textiles, and started bringing saris from the villages to Dhaka, where she introduced them to her friends.<\/p>\n

\u201cSoon, I operated a small sari shop out of a tin shed in central Dhaka. I brought new designs and colour combinations to the weavers, based on what the urban customers wanted.\u201d<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

With the growing popularity for jamdani, opportunities for the producers are changing. Last year, UNESCO declared jamdani an intangible cultural heritage, stating its importance as \u201ca symbol of identity, dignity and self-recognition\u201d.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe have many customers now, which is good. Shopping malls and outlets pay well. But our families, those who make the saris, still cannot afford to wear them. Salaries for common people here are much too low,\u201d says Muhammad Jahangir.<\/p>\n

The weavers earn about 200 to 500 taka per day ($2.5-7), little more than someone working in Bangladesh\u2019s garment industry, where the monthly minimum wage is 5300 taka ($70).<\/p>\n

\u201cBut this is much better for us. We can stay in the village and work nearby our families. And it\u2019s not dangerous, we only use our brains here,\u201d says weaver Mohammad Azim.<\/p>\n\"\"\n

From Hemsl\u00f6jd’s issue about\u00a0The needle<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n[aesop_gallery id=”322″]\n[aesop_image imgwidth=”900px” img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/MG_4801-140711-900.jpg” align=”center” lightbox=”off” captionposition=”left”]\n

The next story came from Guatemala, where members of the Mayan population wear handmade and beautifully decorated blouses called\u00a0huipils.\u00a0To the community, the huipil represents a continuation between the past and present; to others in the streets of Guatemala, it functions as a reminder of the country’s unique\u00a0Mayan heritage. Ixquik, a woman we met in the mountan town of Zunil,\u00a0said that to her, the huipil is like a book, chronicling the living past and present history of her people.<\/p>\n[aesop_content color=”#ffffff” background=”#333333″ width=”800px” columns=”1″ position=”none” imgrepeat=”no-repeat” floaterposition=”left” floaterdirection=”up”][\/aesop_content]\n

C R A F T E D \u00a0 S I S T E R H O O D<\/p>\n

\u201cThe historical Mayans were strong and intelligent, but they didn\u2019t write any books. They passed on their traditions like this, through their hands.\u201d<\/p>\n

Alejandra Micaela Ujp\u00e1n, from the small town of San Juan La Laguna in central Guatemala, holds up a heavy blouse with decorations in deep, shifting colors. It\u2019s a huipil, the traditional dress still worn by many from the Mayan community.<\/p>\n

\u201cTo me the huipil is sacred. It connects me to our ancestors, links me to the past. I always wear the huipil, every day. From different parts of the country, not only from here. It\u2019s the product of the hard work of a fellow Mayan woman,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe blue color represents the lake, the green the mountains. The decoration around the neck is a rainbow, or xokon-a, in [the Mayan language] tzutujil.\u201d<\/p>\n

Just below the collard, on the front of the blouse, is an embroidered geometrical pattern. It represents the nahuals of the Mayan tradition, says Alejandra Micaela Ujp\u00e1n; 24 protective totems, derived from the animal kingdom.<\/p>\n

Nowhere else in Central America has the Mayan culture managed to survive and reinvent itself like in Guatemala. A major part of the population identifies as Maya (official statistics say 40 per cent, but many believe the real number to be close to 60 per cent), and the traditional textiles are strong markers of this trans-regional culture. The huipils \u2013 and the people who wear them \u2013 have survived attempt after attempt at marginalisation and destruction: centuries of repression and discrimination, culminating most recently in the horrendous 1960-1996 Guatemalan civil war, when 200 000 people were killed, mainly civilians from the Mayan population.<\/p>\n

\u201cAt that time, wearing the huipil was dangerous. The clothes became a way of identifying people, because they tell where you come from and where you belong. My husband was a victim during the war, he was taken away and tortured by the military. He still has the marks on his arms and neck,\u201d says Alejandra Micaela Ujp\u00e1n.<\/p>\n

From Hemsl\u00f6jd’s issue about\u00a0Linen<\/p>\n[\/aesop_content]\n[aesop_gallery id=”334″]\n[aesop_timeline_stop num=”8 August” title=”8 August”]\n

P<\/span>art of a photojournalism workshop Karim did in\u00a0Antigua, the old colonial capital of Guatemala, was documenting a segment of life in or around the city. Antigua is a very touristy place, with cobblestone streets and houses in dusty pastels, but with\u00a0outskirts and a dusty market home to workers\u00a0arriving from the mountains, children with shoe-shining boxes, and those with nowhere to sleep.<\/p>\n[aesop_image imgwidth=”900px” img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/MG_4577-140705-900.jpg” align=”center” lightbox=”off” captionposition=”left”]\n

It was through\u00a0some of these Antiguans that Karim got in touch with La Luz de Jesus, a place hidden in the greenery outside of neighboring San Lucas. People come there get rid of their addictions \u2013 all kinds of\u00a0people, fathers and grandfathers with regular jobs, abandoned teenagers, and those who literally have been picked up from the street \u2013 lying in a pool of water or outside a cheap and shady bar.<\/p>\n[aesop_content color=”#ffffff” background=”#ffffff” width=”100%” height=”10px” columns=”1″ position=”none” imgrepeat=”no-repeat” floaterposition=”center” floaterdirection=”up”][\/aesop_content]\n[aesop_gallery id=”632″]\n[aesop_quote type=”block” background=”#ffffff” text=”#000000″ width=”65%” align=”center” size=”1″ quote=”\u201cHe was lying in a pool of water. What\u2019s sure is that if he would\u2019ve stayed in the streets like that he would be dead by today. He was so cold we thought he had died.\u201d ” parallax=”off” direction=”left”]\n

We worked on another story in August too, one of the very big and important Central American\u00a0issues right now: how\u00a0millions of men and women, often very young, leave Guatemala, Honduras and El Salvador and try, with all means possible, to reach across the U.S. border. Thing is, many of them come back. They’re deported, put on chartered planes, flewn across the country and back to where their journey started. Back to square one. We spent time at the airports in Guatemala City and San Pedro Sula, where several flights with deported migrants land every day.<\/p>\n

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N O \u00a0 P L A C E \u00a0 L I K E \u00a0 H O M E<\/p>\n

A small crowd has gathered on the grass outside Guatemala City\u2019s airport. They wait patiently, milling about outside the gates. Suddenly, a plane appears in the sky and sinks behind the wall. It\u2019s the sign that everyone has been waiting for \u2013 one of flights filled with men, women and families deported from the United States that land daily.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m here to meet my brother. He called us yesterday saying that he was coming back today,\u201d says Azucely, a young woman with one child resting on her hip and another playing at her feet.<\/p>\n

Her brother had been in the US for five years, she says, when he got caught without papers. The police held him in custody for months before deporting him \u2013 at first, he didn\u2019t want to sign the deportation order. Azucely herself went through the same ordeal only a year before.<\/p>\n

\u201cI had been in the US for nine years when I was deported, all the time without papers,\u201d she says. \u201cI have three kids born over there. I left Guatemala when I was young, only 14. My mum took a bank loan to send me. She did the same with my brothers too.\u201d<\/p>\n

Azucely and her family are far from unique. Their experiences are part of a common narrative among young people from the region, who are migrating in \u00adever-growing numbers. The Central American immigrant population in the US has nearly tripled since the 1990s, and now makes up the fastest-growing segment of the US Latino population. But many stories have a very sudden end \u2013 with deportation and a one-way ticket to whatever country issued their passport.<\/p>\n

\u201cEach week, between nine and 14 flights land here, full with people. Most come with nothing at all. We give them juice, bread and beans. They can call someone in their family,\u201d says Mario Hern\u00e1ndez from Asociaci\u00f3n de Apoyo Integral al Migrante, a local migrant support group.<\/p>\n

He stands under a modest shelter right inside the airport walls. A big sign says: \u201cWelcome to Guatemala. You are with your people in your country\u201d. There\u2019s a phone on one of the tables and a poster from a shelter home in the city where people can sleep if they have nowhere to go.<\/p>\n

Outside the airport, more people have gathered to wait. Eventually the heavy gates open with a click and families move closer in expectation. A young man in uniform lets the people waiting on the other side out, one by one. When Azucely\u2019s brother finally appears in the trickle of deportees, their mother starts to cry. She hasn\u2019t seen him in five years. As the family walks away, Azucely says that they are going home to their village in Guatemala\u2019s south-west.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t think we will try to go back another time. There are so many police in Mexico now, and it\u2019s dangerous crossing the border. Also, mum says no. It\u2019s too expensive \u2013 and we\u2019ll only get sent back again.\u201d<\/p>\n

From a piece (in Norwegian) for\u00a0Aftenposten Innsikt<\/a> and (in English) for\u00a0The National<\/a><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n[aesop_quote type=”block” background=”#ffffff” text=”#000000″ width=”60%” align=”center” size=”1″ quote=”\u201cI worked as a mechanic at the airport. In Tampa, Florida. Very hot. I came across the border, through Mexico. No visa, no work permit, no nothing like that. Guatemala has become expensive, but wages are minimal. The restaurant, Pollo Compero \u2013 you have to work for one day to pay for a meal there. In the US, if you work one hour you can buy two hamburgers.\u201d ” parallax=”off” direction=”left”]\n[aesop_timeline_stop num=”9 September” title=”9 September”]\n

F<\/span>rom Guatemala we continued south, crossing the border to nearby\u00a0Honduras. Another world in many ways \u2013 more laid-back and green, with a tropical heat and soft beaches, heavy papayas and simple wooden huts overlooking the ocean. And the beans are red, not pitch black like in Guatemala.<\/p>\n[aesop_image imgwidth=”900px” img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/IMG_0924-140824-900.jpg” align=”center” lightbox=”off” captionposition=”left”]\n[aesop_image imgwidth=”900px” img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/IMG_1054-140825-900.jpg” align=”center” lightbox=”off” captionposition=”left”]\n[aesop_image imgwidth=”900px” img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/IMG_1105-140825-900.jpg” align=”center” lightbox=”off” captionposition=”left”]\n[aesop_image imgwidth=”900px” img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/IMG_1112-140825-900.jpg” align=”center” lightbox=”off” captionposition=”left”]\n[aesop_image imgwidth=”900px” img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/IMG_1148-140825-900.jpg” align=”center” lightbox=”off” captionposition=”left”]\n

The first place you reach after the border, an\u00a0hour or so on a bus along the coast, with\u00a0endless banana plantations and newly erected palm oil farms lining the road, is San Pedro Sula. We spent a couple of weeks in the city, known for its\u00a0easygoing and friendly attitude, its businesses and industries \u2013 and, for being the most dangerous city in the world. More people than anywhere else get killed here each year, and violence has grown to become an ever-present part of daily life. Inevitably, it’s shaping people’s lives.<\/p>\n

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N O W H E R E \u00a0 M O R E \u00a0 D A N G E R O U S<\/p>\n

San Pedro Sula, close to the border with Guatemala, is the industrial capital of Honduras. Known for its tropical climate, its friendly attitude \u2013 and its murders. The city is number one in global homicide statistics, with 187 killings per 100 000 inhabitants each year. Number two, Venezuela\u2019s Caracas, and three, Mexico\u2019s Acapulco, are far behind, with 134 and 113 murders per 100 000 people respectively.<\/p>\n

For the people in San Pedro Sula, death has inevitably come closer. It\u2019s like what Frantz Fanon, the post-colonial thinker, said: violence, once it has been introduced into society, can never leave. It grows roots, enters people’s minds. Becomes part of what is normal.<\/p>\n

A young man who calls himself \u2018La Fresa\u2019 tells his story. He talks about his family \u2013 wife and a little son \u2013 and childhood \u2013 with different foster families, all very poor. But he reveals no details about places, no names. He lives his life in hiding, secrecy. Since he was a young teenager, he has made his living as a sicario, a hit man.<\/p>\n

\u201cI have several guns, fifteen all in all. But this is my favorite. It\u2019s killed 32 people.\u201d<\/p>\n

La Fresa puts a polished gun on the table in front of him. He wears sneakers and a football t-shirt, pulls a balaclava over his face for the portrait photo, but removes it as he starts to talk. He\u2019s part of an \u201corganisation\u201d he says, assassinating people for money. Mostly rich and elite figures \u2013 business men and politicians, people with powerful enemies.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut I feel no guilt. What happens to them is their destiny. If I felt guilty I couldn’t do this. The only time I feel something special is when we kill mareros, gang members. They\u2019re brutal and murder families and kids, so taking them out feels like the right thing to do.\u201d<\/p>\n

Still, he\u2019s about to do his last assignments soon, La Fresa says. He doesn\u2019t want to continue any more \u2013 he just lost his best friend and partner in the organisation. And his kid is growing up.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s this song that goes \u2018When I was little I wanted to be where I am now.\u2019 That\u2019s how I feel. When I was young I had nothing, today I\u2019ve come somewhere. I wanted to be a judge or a lawyer, but instead this is where I ended up.\u201d<\/p>\n

Part of stories (in Swedish and Norwegian) for\u00a0ETC<\/a>\u00a0and\u00a0Aftenposten Innsikt<\/a><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n[aesop_parallax img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/IMG_0364-140821.jpg” parallaxbg=”off” captionposition=”bottom-left” lightbox=”off” floater=”off” floaterposition=”left” floaterdirection=”up”]\n[aesop_quote type=”block” background=”#ffffff” text=”#000000″ width=”60%” align=”center” size=”1″ quote=”San Pedro Sula is also like any Central American city. Its city center is busy, with street markets and cramped streets leading out from the central Parque. People sit in the shade under big trees, vendors carry boxes with cigarettes and cheap chewing gum around their necks. Towards the western edge of the city, a the foot of the green Merend\u00f3n mountains, the sprawling suburbs take over. The streets here are lined with colorful fast food chains and houses behind high walls. ” parallax=”off” direction=”left”]\n[aesop_parallax img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/IMG_1782-140901.jpg” parallaxbg=”off” captionposition=”bottom-left” lightbox=”off” floater=”off” floaterposition=”left” floaterdirection=”up”]\n[aesop_quote type=”block” background=”#ffffff” text=”#000000″ width=”60%” align=”center” size=”1″ quote=”\u201cWe’re the only ones left, the neighbors have fled. The constant insecurity, the gangs. My mum left, she has diabetes and the shootings affected her pressure. But she returned recently, and a few neighors are starting to come back. The police says it’s ‘mara free’ now, but we don’t know.\u201d ” parallax=”off” direction=”left”]\n[aesop_parallax img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/IMG_1897-14090.jpg” parallaxbg=”off” captionposition=”bottom-left” lightbox=”off” floater=”off” floaterposition=”left” floaterdirection=”up”]\n[aesop_quote background=”#ffffff” text=”#000000″ width=”60%” align=”center” size=”1″ quote=”\u201cI have fifteen all of all, but this is my favorite gun. It’s killed thirty-two people.\u201d ” parallax=”off” direction=”left”]\n[aesop_parallax img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/IMG_1717-140901.jpg” parallaxbg=”off” captionposition=”bottom-left” lightbox=”off” floater=”off” floaterposition=”left” floaterdirection=”up”]\n[aesop_quote type=”block” background=”#ffffff” text=”#000000″ width=”60%” align=”center” size=”1″ quote=”For the people of San Pedro Sula, death has come closer. It\u2019s like what Frantz Fanon, the post-colonial thinker, said: violence, once it has been introduced into society, can never leave. It grows roots, enters people’s minds. Becomes part of what is normal.” parallax=”off” direction=”left”]\n[aesop_parallax img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/IMG_3771-140903.jpg” parallaxbg=”off” captionposition=”bottom-left” lightbox=”off” floater=”off” floaterposition=”left” floaterdirection=”up”]\n[aesop_timeline_stop num=”10 October” title=”10 October”]\n

O<\/span>ctober is a good month\u00a0in Bangladesh, the rains have stopped and it’s getting a bit less hot. This means business for one of the biggest sectors\u00a0in the country: the brick-making industry. Autumn and winter is the high season for brick production, and the 10 000+ fields across the country, covered in a layer of orange dust and employing millions, are simmering with activity.<\/p>\n[aesop_image imgwidth=”900px” img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/20140202-_MG_87401.jpg” align=”center” lightbox=”off” captionposition=”left”]\n[aesop_quote type=”block” background=”#ffffff” text=”#000000″ width=”55%” align=”center” size=”1″ quote=”\u201cMy name is Hashi, which means smile. It’s like me. I always smile to people.\u201d ” parallax=”off” direction=”left”]\n[aesop_content color=”#FFFFFF” background=”#333333″ width=”800px” columns=”1″ position=”none” imgrepeat=”no-repeat” floaterposition=”left” floaterdirection=”up”]\n

1 0 \u00a0 0 0 0 \u00a0 C H I M N E Y S<\/p>\n

Bangladesh, with 160 million inhabitants, is a country urbanising incredibly fast. The need for cheap and available building material is constant, and serves as the driver for one its biggest industries: brick-making. Millions of bricks are burned each year, on simple fields across all of Bangladesh.<\/p>\n

“It\u2019s very easy to get started with brickmaking,” says Shamim Iftekhar of the UNDP in Dhaka. “All you need is a small piece of land and 40-50 lakh taka [$6000]. In half a year, you can get five times that investment back.”<\/p>\n

Almost all bricks produced today are made using a technology from\u00a0150 years back, and has changed little since. Soil is mixed with water, formed into bricks using wooden forms, then left to dry in the sun and\u00a0burned in traditional kilns.<\/p>\n

Nearly every part of the process is done entirely by hand, by workers of all ages; grandmothers work next to children, shaping the bricks with rapid movements; young men and women carry stacks on their heads, from field to kiln, kiln to truck. Many come from rural parts of Bangladesh and stay for months at a time at the fields. Payment is irregular, the work monotonous and heavy.<\/p>\n

“This is an industry with absolutely no regulations. It\u2019s a place where people get hurt or die but nothing happens,” says Saydia Gulrukh, an activist for workers rights.<\/p>\n

The city of Khulna, like most Bangladeshi cities, has brick fields scattered in the countryside all around. A large field stretches along the banks of a river, right\u00a0south outisde the city. The sun has reached its peak and there is nowhere to seek relief and shade. A group of men, all with lunghis tied casually around their hips, dig mud from a hole in the ground. Their arms are thin but strong, covered in layers of dry and cracked mud. A stream of women, men and kids walk past them, with rubber sandals or no shoes at all, and scarves tied around their heads, carrying stacks of bricks on top. Back and forth, back and forth, until the workday is over.<\/p>\n

Robia, ten years old, unloads her bricks, then unties her scarf. Someone takes out a mobile phone, starts playing a Bengali song \u2013 a hit, because people know it. Robia smiles and starts dancing, kicking up dust around her feet.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d she says, \u201cI don\u2019t want to work here when I grow up. I want to become a dancer.\u201d<\/p>\n

Featured on\u00a0Al Jazeera<\/a>\u00a0and (in Swedish) in\u00a0Dagens Arbete<\/a><\/p>\n

[\/aesop_content]\n[aesop_gallery id=”411″]\n[aesop_timeline_stop num=”11 November” title=”11 November”]\n

A<\/span>fter almost a year spent between Bangladesh and Central America, we returned to Beirut in November. One step outside the airport and you’re back: the smell of fumes and narguilehs stuffed with apple tobacco; the fearlessness\u00a0and charming\/mad\u00a0traffic maneouvers; the eternal waves rolling towards\u00a0the Mediterranean shores.<\/p>\n

Many Novembers have passed since we first came to Beirut in 2009 and 2010, but for one reason or another, we have never been in town for a special and, since 2003, reoccuring event: Beirut’s very own 42k race. Until this year.<\/p>\n[aesop_image imgwidth=”900px” img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/IMG_1118-141109-900.jpg” align=”center” lightbox=”off” captionposition=”left”]\n

New York, Berlin or Marathon’s Marathon \u2013 whatever kind of marathons they are, the one in Beirut is different. The Lebanese capital is known (and rightly so) for its many paths that lead in different directions, and for the diversity (and at times divisiveness) of those who thread them. But on rare occasions, all\u00a0paths seem to lead the same direction, allowing people to walk\u00a0together and not apart.\u00a0Beirut Marathon (well, technically you should run, not walk) is one of them.<\/p>\n[aesop_image imgwidth=”900px” img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/IMG_1132-141109-900.jpg” align=”center” lightbox=”off” captionposition=”left”]\n

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R U N \u00a0 B E I R U T ,\u00a0 R U N !<\/p>\n

Since months back I had been following the lead-up to Beirut Marathon, a race that\u2019s been organised since 2003, only growing bigger for every year. It has survived \u2013 outsmarted, perhaps \u2013 the usual outbreaks of political conflicts; not even in 2006, after the destructive July war, was there talk of cancelling\u00a0(instead, the race that year was called \u201cFor love of Lebanon\u201d).<\/p>\n

On\u00a0the morning of the race, it was as if all clouds for a moment had disappeared from the Lebanese sky. It was sunny, and it seemed that everyone had\u00a0took to the streets \u2013 literary, ready with their running shoes and numbers across their chests.<\/p>\n

The race is a marathon, but the marathon runners in reality are only a small minority \u2013 maybe 500 or so of the total 37 000 who had signed up. Many are not even there to\u00a0run, only to take part. Families with strollers, groups of friends, those who walk from start to finish.<\/p>\n

Or workplace colleagues from all\u00a0parts of the country, like the runners from UNIFIL, the international peace-keeping force in the south, all in UN-blue t-shirts and accents from India, Korea or Bangladesh. Others wore t-shirts said things like, \u201cI run for cancer,\u201d or the official race slogan, \u201cPeace, love, run\u201d. Runners in bridal gowns protested against child marriage; a team of diplomats from different embassies symbolically passed the stick from hand to hand.<\/p>\n

From a column (in Swedish) for\u00a0Sydsvenskan<\/a><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n[aesop_image imgwidth=”900px” img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/IMG_1310-141109-Edit9-900.jpg” align=”center” lightbox=”off” captionposition=”left”]\n[aesop_timeline_stop num=”12 December” title=”12 December”]\n

F<\/span>inally, December. Always decisive, marking the end of an\u00a0era and the beginning of another. We were still in Beirut, watching the evenings grow\u00a0darker and days windier, spending time to work\u00a0on both new and old things. We visited many Syrian families living in garages, half-deserted buildings and make-shift tents. It’s been nearly\u00a0four years since the refugees started to arrive\u00a0in Lebanon, and two years since they came in large numbers, but the situation remains the same. It’s only the kids that have grown bigger, the memories older, the distance farther. And Lebanon, tiny Lebanon, is all of a sudden home to\u00a0more refugees per capita than any other country in the world.<\/p>\n[aesop_image imgwidth=”80%” img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/IMG_2335-141215-Edit-900.jpg” align=”center” lightbox=”off” captionposition=”left”]\n[aesop_image imgwidth=”900px” img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/IMG_2368-1412151.jpg” align=”center” lightbox=”off” captionposition=”left”]\n[aesop_image imgwidth=”900px” img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/IMG_2382-1412151.jpg” align=”center” lightbox=”off” captionposition=”left”]\n[aesop_image imgwidth=”900px” img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/IMG_2731-1412151.jpg” align=”center” lightbox=”off” captionposition=”left”]\n[aesop_image imgwidth=”900px” img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/IMG_2984-1412161.jpg” align=”center” lightbox=”off” captionposition=”left”]\n[aesop_image imgwidth=”900px” img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/IMG_2987-1412161.jpg” align=”center” lightbox=”off” captionposition=”left”]\n[aesop_image imgwidth=”900px” img=”http:\/\/karimphoto.com\/2014\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/01\/IMG_3011-1412161.jpg” align=”center” lightbox=”off” captionposition=”left”]\n

Also, before leaving 2014 behind,\u00a0Karim digged deep into his photo archives, stopping at November 2011 and\u00a0Cairo’s “battle\u00a0over Mohammed Mahmoud” \u2013 one of the big protests of that revolutionary year \u2013 which he shared in a feature for Australian Flint Magazine.<\/p>\n

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B A C K \u00a0 T O \u00a0 T A H R I R<\/p>\n

What began as a peaceful protest turned increasingly violent, as riot police were employed in the neighbourhoods surrounding Tahrir. Mohammed Mahmoud Street, leading up from the square alongside the American University of Cairo, became a literal war zone, at once filled with panic and ad-hoc organised protestors.<\/p>\n

It quickly acquired significance among those fighting for their city, and the walls lining the street filled up with beautiful works of art. The young people who lost their lives were portrayed as angels, and graffiti promised they would never be forgotten. Many were painted with patches over their eyes, symbolising the injuries people had from getting shot by riot police, or from the strong tear gas used against the protestors.<\/p>\n

Today, more than three years later, Egypt\u2019s Tahrir generation continues their battle for a peaceful, free, civilian state. Some of the most prolific activists are in prison, as are many members of the Muslim Brotherhood, the Egyptian army\u2019s foremost contester to power. The graffiti on Mohammed Mahmoud has been removed and painted over several times, but the angels and their memory remain.<\/p>\n

More in\u00a0Flint Magazine<\/a><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n[aesop_gallery id=”482″]\n

Next chapter: 2015!<\/p>\n

Photos by Karim Mostafa, text by\u00a0Jenny Gustafsson<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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