We pulled over to the side of the rugged mountain road to wait for the second vehicle to catch up. From out of nowhere, people started to emerge. First there was the bashful young girl carrying one of her goats and shooing the rest out of the way of our jeep. Next it was two or three young men, come to check why the vehicle had stopped. Their curiousity mounted when they saw the two white faces among the locals. I smiled and waved a friendly hello. They grinned and gestured excitedly for their friends to join them as they stared in wonder at my strange pale face.
I leaned out of the vehicle and showed them my camera. Without shared language, I gestured to them,
asking their blessing to take their picture. They smiled tentatively and I clicked my first shot of the
young man with the broadest grin. I turned the camera around to show his likeness in the small screen.
His eyes opened wide in amazement. When he burst out laughing, more young men gathered at the
sound of the commotion. The first young man pointed at his friend and then at the camera. I clicked
again and showed the second man. Soon, they were all clamouring for pictures of themselves or their
friends. The commotion grew louder as each one became more insistent that I snap their picture for all
their friends to see. One of the men, covering the bottom of his face with his gabi (large cloth worn
draped around their shoulders and/or head), gave me a sly flirtatious look, and I smiled as I envisioned
the stories they would tell in their village tonight of the foreign women who wanted their picture to take
home.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted another young man hovering just outside the circle. I turned to
include him in the group, but at the sight of him, my breath caught in my throat. Slung casually over his
shoulder was a semi-automatic weapon. On his face was a stern, disapproving look.
My mind raced back to the stories I’d heard just before coming to Ethiopia, about a group of French
visitors who’d been kidnapped in this very region. So close to the border with Somalia, this part of the
country had a reputation for volatility and rebel attacks.
One of my companions in the car spotted him too. “We should go,” he said nervously. Our driver began
to rev the motor. Perhaps I had gone too far, taking my pictures and encouraging such a large crowd of
young rowdy men to gather. Perhaps I was putting us all at risk. I imagined all of the dark possibilities
that could come of this innocent action. I took a step back toward the car. The safest thing would be to
climb back in, close the windows, and drive. But I wasn’t sure if I wanted to do the safest thing.
Leaning past the other young men, I smiled tentatively toward the man with the gun. His expression
and stance didn’t change. I lifted my camera to my eye and waited to see if he would react. He didn’t. I
clicked. He stared. Then, slowly, showing I had no ill intent, I turned the back of the camera toward
him. His eyes, when he spotted his image, grew a little wider. Then, though there was no perceptible
change to his furrowed brow, I saw the corners of his lips curl upward ever so slightly. I grinned back at
him.
Many times in my travels in countries where I don’t speak their language, I’ve seen the camera serve as
an instrument of friendship. Through the wonders of digital technology, I’ve seen many outbursts of
delight when they’ve spotted their own image or that of their friends on the screen. In my work back
home, I’d also seen it serve as an instrument of persuasion and bridge-building, when I used my photos
to communicate the stories of the people I’d met in Africa and beyond. Now I began to wonder – could
the camera also serve as an instrument of peace?
Picture and words courtesy of Honorary Sister and world explorer, Heather Plett.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009 by 
