If I spend all day shooting in a camp, I find that I can pretend until I don’t feel like I’m pretending anymore. There’s a lot of urine in the gutters and parents who beat their kids, but I walk around with a straight back and smile at small children. I laugh with old ladies and share beers with old men.
I find the dignity, where it surfaces. I look for it. I write down what everyone says and feel useful. Then I come home grim, depressed.
If I’m working at home, like today, I’m looking out at the island from a hotel on a hill. Finally, I am appreciating what is beautiful here. Then it rains. I think about the tents, but since I’m not actually in one, both my guilt and my gratitude feel disingenuous.
— http://www.aolnews.com/2011/01/15/a-journalist-in-haiti-a-year-of-collecting-pain/
