I begin my day by scanning the news on the internet. And one recent morning, my heart broke and I nearly wept when a story on the Syrian refugee crisis included a photograph of a toddler whose body washed up on a Turkish beach. He’d drowned when his family’s boat capsized in the roiling sea crossing to Greece.
It seemed like all the pain of humanity, all of its suffering and sadness, was reflected in that photograph. A child’s death, an uncaring world, wretched, bloody conflicts that go on and on, ravaging lives.
I called my oldest son and asked him to give a deep hug to our little grandson, who’s only slightly younger than the Syrian child.
I also knew there’d be controversy over the photo.
Many people believe such photos exploit human pain and pander to our lower nature, including the morbid curiosity that, given the opportunity, draws us to watch other people suffer.
Journalists counter that such photos humanize tragedy in a way that’s impossible in writing, that confronted with the human elements of an unfolding tragedy - as the photo confronts us with the refugee crisis - people are more likely to demand change or offer assistance.
Indeed, in recent weeks the response to the refugee crisis has intensified. It seems likely the photo has contributed to that.
All of this brought me back to another sad morning and another photograph. I was editor of a daily newspaper in Vermont some years ago when a little boy was killed by a car while waiting for his schoolbus. Our photographer snapped a moving photograph of the boy’s parents, embracing in their grief. On the road near them were the little boy’s shoes.
We ran the photo on our front page. Some people were horrified - believing we’d exploited a family’s worst nightmare. I felt differently and stood by the decision to publish the photograph.
To my mind, journalists hold a mirror to the world every day. That’s particularly true in small Vermont communities. Some days the mirror shows joy - a Fourth of July parade, a high school graduation. Other days, it’s darkened by tragedy. A family’s grief becomes a community’s grief. We can only hope that, moved by a photo, families talked that evening about bus-stop safety.
Still, having seen their grief, I still ache for that family even now, as I ache for the Syrian refugees. I think it’s right to run the photos, but I’m glad I’m not the one doing it anymore.
