Bright, sparkling eyes peer out from underneath matted gazelle lashes. Dusty hair swept back, gathered with a rubber band. Stained pink dress, worn out at the seams makes her looks pretty when she smiles, white teeth glistening. Plump feet, dirty nails, toes dancing in the dirt.
More dancing toes skip across the dusty road, pretty worn out dresses billowing as they join their friend. Six glistening smiles contrasted against six dirty faces. Their bodies jostling to be in the picture.
Fitted white linen top gleaming in the mid afternoon sun, crouching over the dust behind the jostling girls. Blonde hair protected under a wide-brimmed hat. Seven glistening smiles. The moment is immortalized.
Smoke swirling around his head, out of his mouth. Sweet smelling. Life etched into his sunken cheeks. Eyes lethargically observing. Next to him a game of backgammon. Sweet smoke swirls over the board. Paint peels behind. Scars of time etched into the wall. A photograph at an art gallery: the moment is immortalized.
Night time. Glistening smiles asleep with other dusty bodies on the small bed. A brother arrives back with the donkey. The cart crammed with the city’s dregs. The brother as filthy as the cart. This is the summer, but these children are not on holiday. They are not at school to be on holiday from. They work in the family business, the business of their neighbourhood: sorting rubbish. Her bright, sparkling eyes of innocence will soon disappear. Her life will not.
On his way home from the café after a day of boredom he will eat what his wife has prepared from the meager allowance she has for food. Maybe he will lash out at her when she mentions for the third day in a row that the children need new shoes. Not out of hatred, but frustration at not being able to find work to support the people he loves the most. He does not sit smoking out of laziness. There are no jobs.
At a dinner party in a pristine downtown apartment in another land, a guest asks about the picture on the wall with some beautiful dusty girls. The host remembers the moment. Children excited about having their picture taken, wanting her to be in it with them and really yes, so beautiful. And despite the stench of their neighbourhood, and the rats running around, they are really very happy. Imagine.
Traveling the world stared at by many; the beauty of the moment is admired by far away faces. Knarled wood-like features complement the paint peeling off the wall. Superb. Mysterious swirling smoke from the magical Middle Eastern hubbly bubbly. Dramatic. Life is so different there.
Seeing how other people live is fantastic. In perspective. Would the host and photographer of the magical Middle East visit a housing estate, or equivalent, in own country and look for the beauty? Poverty in their own country and culture is usually something looked down on and steered clear of. There is nothing glamorous or mysterious about a picture with a dirty child or depressed man in our own city.
What does it say about us when we feel good about taking these pictures from other places? When we listen to the voices of the poor everywhere but in our own country?