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Rouen (Franc) - J’ai connu Robin, il y a bien longtemps. C’était un jeune informaticien qui voulait devenir photojournaliste. Plusieurs tentatives en free-lance se sont soldées par des échecs. Il a dû reprendre son métiers d’origine pour vivre. Et puis il y a quelques années l'ultime tentative a été la bonne. La passion et l’opiniâtreté ont été les plus fortes.
Aujourd’hui, il diffuse ses reportages par l’intermédiaire de l’agence Sipa Presse.
La plupart du temps, il est en Afrique, particulièrement en Ouganda, pays qui lui sert de plaque tournante pour opérer sur plusieurs pays limitrophes. En ce moment, il est en France pour régler des problèmes administratifs qui lui permettront de travailler de nouveau en Ouganda. En attendant, il couvre les événements sociaux, liés à la réforme des retraites. Malgré une certaine précarité liée à son statut de journaliste indépendant, sa passion n’est plus négociable.
Chapeau l’ami !
profession reporter
Rouen (France) - I knew Robin a long time ago. He was a young computer scientist who wanted to become a photojournalist. Several attempts at freelancing have ended in failure. He had to go back to his original job to live. And then a few years ago a last attempt was the right one. Passion and stubbornness were the strongest.
Today, he broadcasts his reports through the Sipa Presse agency.
Most of the time, he is in Africa, particularly in Uganda, a country which serves as a hub for him to operate in several neighboring countries. At the moment, he is in France to settle administrative problems which will allow him to work again in Uganda. In the meantime, he covers the demonstrations linked to the pension reform. Despite a certain precariousness linked to his status as an independent journalist, his passion is no longer negotiable.
Hats off friend!
“The Reporter”
The telegram from his editor was clear. He needed to file copy by midnight. He threw his scarf down; poured himself a massive slug of bourbon; lit a cigarette and got to work. He started to type up the story of the gangland killings that would expose gangster and police chief alike. Suddenly, the phone rang. A familiar voice: asking to meet him urgently in the bagel bakery opposite. He left the desk and headed out. He never returned.
(Thanks to Ian Coombs for loan of most of the props)
(repost)
That is what the California Highway Patrol officer said.
We were ensconced in an open garage waiting out an armed 211 suspect when those words were spoken.
My call came in at 2:30. A man was barricaded in his apartment after a shootout with police. At the time, I was home sick with a headache the size of the Rock of Gibraltar. But a barricade is a barricade and I threw on some clothes and rushed to the scene.
I stopped at the road closure and was waved through by one of the CHP guys that yelled, “Hey, I know you....go ahead.”
“OK”
After parking the car where the chippy said I should, I asked our esteemed parking enforcement officer (also known as the Parking Nazi) who was standing guard, where was everything happening and where should I go.
He motioned somewhere down the street towards some low-rent apartment complexes and told me to walk on the right side of the street through a vacant lot - nothing but dirt and a creosote bush.
“OK.”
I kept an eye out for what was going on and watched as the guys from the PD’s Special Response Team ( SRT) moved into place.
“Cool,” thought I and grabbed a few shots of one of the guys creeping across the roof, rifle in front of him, pack behind. I thought, “If I get nothing else this will be good art."
I heard people yelling at me and here comes the PIO from the Barstow Police running across the street telling me that hey, I was right in the line of fire and I should like move.
“OK.”
“Don’t go south of the palm tree,” he said, “that way you won’t be in the line of fire.”
“OK. Can I stand behind the palm tree?”
“Sure,” he said, “but I’m not responsible if you get shot.”
“OK”
Seemed to be my thought processes at the time, singular “OK’s”
I stood behind the palm tree for a little bit and then moved — I really wasn’t in the mood to get shot.
The reporter showed up, a radio guy showed up, a small TV station guy showed up and we all sat around in the heat waiting for something to happen....for a long time.
Negotiators were on the phone, relatives got on the phone to try and talk this guy out. The man had been wounded slightly in the first shootout — shot in the hand and the arm — and yelled out to his friends that he was afraid the cops were going to shoot him on sight.
We all knew that this would never happen, but the guy wouldn’t come out. The cops even brought him cigarettes when he asked for them - actually threw them up to him on the balcony. If they had wanted to shoot him, they could have at that time.
I got permission to wander a bit, down in parking area where the CHP rifle shooters were set up — watched them concentrate completely down their black gun sites. I was close enough that if I stuck my head out I could see the guy’s balcony — really, really well — with bloody curtains swaying in the wind.
Time wore on, heat got worse, men got shifted around so as to give the ones sitting in the sun a break.
We waited. Cops gave me Gatorade and water. It was hot.
As dusk set in I kept hoping this guy would come out with his hands up while I still had light to shoot by. Even with my new digital camera (YEA!) I was still a newbie at using the flash in low light situations so I wanted halfway good light.
I simply couldn’t figure out why this guy would NOT come out.
Was it the macho mentality of the whole gang banger personality? Was it that he knew he was facing some major jail time? He was already a loser in that department. What possibly could be worth prolonging this stand-off?
Time wore on some more. The apartment complex residents started getting restless. Hoots and hollers and jungle-like monkey noises came from the apartments and from those watching and waiting behind the lines. A bottle was thrown.
I have to admit, this made a me a tad nervous. I could just see this thing erupting into an all-out riot. Half the people in the complex were convinced the cops were going to gun the guy down and the other half were afraid of the first half.
Soon the cops had enough waiting and started firing tear gas canisters into the apartment. Oh my! Horrible sound those loud guns. Once that tear gas thing started I didn’t stick my head out any more. I crouched down behind a car. I could still see the CHP shooters but wasn’t in the line of fire.
Good thing.
Several minutes after the first rounds of tear gas were volleyed into the apartment there came three quick shots - pop - pop - pop — out the sliding glass door — over the balcony.
“Holy shit,” thought I, “that guy is firing at us.”
“Hey,” I yelled, “Was he shooting this way.”
“Yes, Lara, he was shooting this way.”
I crouched down lower. Just about fully dark now. The people that had come out to watch were yelling the guy was yelling babies were screaming and one Barstow cop remarked, “I can’t believe these people brought their kids out to a gunfight.”
Law enforcement did not return gun fire but more tear gas was used.
Still no sound, no reaction from the barricaded man.
One of the CHP guys came back down into our spot and said that after the three rounds fired by the suspect, one more shot was heard a few minutes later - muffled. Not aimed out the sliding glass door — inside the building.
He said quietly that he had heard _that_ sound before.
Time was starting to lose meaning. Amidst the noise and chaos I had been on the phone relaying the latest developments to the reporter who had gone back to write his story. More tear gas was lobbed into the building but the feeling was that the man had offed himself with that final fourth shot.
My deadline to leave was fast approaching — close to 9 p.m. I had the images from the afternoon’s deployment and some close-ups of the guys close to me. But no resolution. No closure.
The crowd up the street was really starting to turn ugly and I debated going up to photograph that, but figured that a camera flashing would trigger the already riotous behaviour that was growing.
Two guys threw bottles at the sheriff’s SWAT team. Ooooh, not a good idea. Those SWAT-dudes are bad-asses with attitudes and guns. They do NOT take kindly to being pelted with bottles. The bottle-throwers were arrested and the crowd scene cooled after that.
No lights were on in the apartment, no movement was seen and all negotiations had long since broken off. The man’s last words and comments to the negotiator were pretty much that the only way he was going to leave was in a body bag.
I still hoped not, but I left to file my art. Before I left the center of the action, which is where I had been allowed to stay (don’t ask me why, I was just allowed to stay.) I made sure the police chief and one of the LT’s knew I was returning and wanted to be back close to where things were happening.
“Sure.” they said, “Just show your press pass, tell whoever we said it was ok and come on back - stay out of the line of fire.”
“OK”
I left, filed the creeping-across-the-roof pic and one of two officers and a bullet proof shield and came back.
Things were as I left them — no more noise, no more nothing.
About 11 p.m. the sheriff's office took over. The Barstow PD SRT and CHP back-ups had been on duty squinting down their sites for almost 8 hours, it was time for a relief team.
I watched the camouflaged SWATs come in, dash about the courtyard smashing out the remaining lights that would put them in danger and get into place, covering each other with guns pointed toward the apartment as they ran across the courtyard.
I couldn’t help myself, I thought “Jeez, this is just like in the movies.” Only this time it was for real — surrealistic, but real.
When the Barstow guys and CHP left I was still standing there all by my lonesome. One of them yelled back at me, “You probably ought to come out too.”
“OK.”
That seemed like a good idea to me — it was dark and I didn’t like being alone.
I came up out of the garage hole and plopped down on the front of a fire truck. Sheriff’s homicide detectives were wondering who the hell was I and why was I there. I smiled, introduced myself and sat back quietly on the fire engine, hoping that no one would actually notice me. I even put my camera down.
The sheriff’s Captain saw me, smiled and let me stay. I was now considered a “friendly.” Cool.
I had kept in contact with the night editor at our sister paper, even after the Dispatch went to bed, did some interviewing, got the correct on-the-record-quotes that supported the police’s version of what happened and waited — and waited.
For almost an hour after the SO took over a deputy called out over a loud speaker. “Aaron. Come out with your hands up. The building is surrounded.” Every few minutes for almost an hour. Over and over. The same tone of voice. No emotion. It could have been a computerized recording it was so precisely repeated, but it wasn’t.
Aaron didn’t come out.
Talking time was up and the SWAT team started in with more powerful tear gas. Volley after volley. No Aaron. He was either immune to the gas or dead.
Soon the team took out the doors and entered the building using flash-bang devices before going into each room - “auditory and visual distractions” they call them.
Hell honey, those are bombs.
Every time they said over the radio they were setting off another one, all the law enforcement guys, suits, SWAT dudes, everybody around me, put their fingers in their ears. I wish I had photographed that, but it is hard to hold a camera with your fingers in your ears.
Time moved faster, soon after the SWAT guys entered they called for the SO medics that had flown in on a chopper. Word came out fast that it was over, Aaron was dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.
It was one o’clock in the morning. There was almost a palpable sigh, a slumping of the shoulders when it was over. I had been at the scene for almost ten hours.
It was not a good resolution. Not the one that everyone; law enforcement, medics, firefighters, friends and family had hoped for.
I remembered what the CHP shooter said after word came in about the fourth shot — “We are in a stand-off with a dead man.”
He was right.
•••••••••••••
Rest in Peace Aaron
This bird was quite far away when I first encountered it. She saw me taking pictures of her and moved to a branch much closer for these shots. Word must be out that a reporter for Flickr is compiling bird photo collections for display. She even combed her hair for the shot
Adega Maziero =>
www.panoramio.com/user/5393464/tags/Adega%20Maziero%20-%2...
mais imagens: Álbum Foto-Repórter =>
www.flickr.com/photos/wilsonhouck/sets/72157634629050510/
mais imagens: google-panoramio =>
NDTV Reporter taking feedback from a person after voting during Karnataka Assembly Election 2023 in Bengaluru.
Rouen (France) - Lors de la manifestation contre la loi sur le recul de l'âge des retraites, j'ai eu le plaisir de retrouver des amis et anciens collègues. Angèle à la caméra et Fred au micro. J'ai fait cette photo au début de manifestation pendant une interview. Il est plus facile d'interviewer les manifestants quand ils ne marchent pas encore. Sinon le Journaliste reporter d'image (cameraman) est obligé de filmer en marchand à reculons. Un exercice difficile car les manifestants marchent souvent trop vite.
Pour la petite histoire Angèle est un peu le couteau suisse du journalisme. Elle filme comme on peut le voir sur cette photo, mais elle est aussi rédactrice et une excellente présentatrice du journal. Je n'oublie pas mon ami Fred qui est un journaliste de terrain et lui aussi, un talentueux présentateur du journal télévisé. Nous avons souvent travaillé ensemble comme chroniqueurs judiciaires.
Rouen (France) - During the demonstration against the law on raising the retirement age, I had the pleasure of meeting up with friends and former colleagues. Angèle on camera and Fred on the microphone. I took this photo at the beginning of the demonstration during an interview. It is easier to interview protesters when they are not yet marching. Otherwise, the image reporter (cameraman) is obliged to film and move backwards. An exercise that is not always easy because the demonstrators often walk too fast.
For the record Angèle is a bit like the Swiss army knife of journalism. She films as you can see in this photo, but she is also an editor and an excellent presenter of the newspaper. I don't forget my friend Fred who is a field journalist and a talented television news presenter. We have often worked together as legal reporters.
Jasper briefly sat outside today to see if summer had returned. He quickly learned it had not and promptly returned to the couch by the fireplace.
This ashy prinia was calling out loud, right at the break of the dawn to announce his territory and that fact that he's alive and flying to avoid competition for food, shelter and family!
The lower beak is slightly blurred due to the speed in which it was calling!
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The ashy prinia or ashy wren-warbler (Prinia socialis) is a small warbler. This prinia is a resident breeder in the Indian Subcontinent, ranging across most of India, Nepal, Bangladesh, Bhutan, Sri Lanka and western Myanmar.
(Source: Wikipedia)
“Bassano Sposi Reporters" è una equipe creata da "Franco Ferri Mala PhotoTeam". Un Team professionale per i Vostri servizi Fotografici. Siamo a Bassano del Grappa in Via Museo 35, Tel.0424.220798- Cell.346.8872914.
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