im exhausted. the images remain in the camera.
its one of those moments where i need to process the world, before i process those images.
im afraid. im fairly sure that i failed as a journalist on this occasion: i didn’t ask the questions, didn’t get the difficult images. but sometimes you just have to be human.

there is chance’. she is seven years old—tall, with a tiny scar under her left eye. i have no idea what kinds of horror shes seen. a child of the war in the congo. an orphan. raped, abandoned.

fourteen children are sitting in the small sitting room, watching a film. she’s sitting in the corner, head in her hands. she wont answer questions. she wont look up.

but she doesn’t fight when i pick her up, put her in my lap. she curls up against me, and reaches for my hand. and she holds it tightly.

i know that ill never understand these stories. never be able to show the beauty of these children in photographs. ill never do truth justice. but isn'nt it more to love? i want to learn to love.