Last Words

The Texas Department of Criminal Justice posts the last statements of death row convicts. (via Slate)

November 10, 2009
Offender: Valle, Yosvanis
"I am sorry, I never wanted to kill your family. I never wanted to kill your family or these people. I am sorry for the way I talk in English. I did it to myself... Thank you brother, don't hate nobody, I feel good. I love my family, I love you Jesus. Be strong mama, I love you sister. I love Jesus. Warden I am ready.

October 27, 2009
Offender: Blanton, Reginald
Last Statement:
Yes I do. I know ya'lls pain, believe me I shed plenty of tears behind Carlos. Carlos was my friend. I didn't murder him. This what is happening right now is an injustice. This doesn't solve anything. This will not bring back Carlos. Ya'll fought real hard here to prove my innocence. This is only the beginning. I love each and everyone dearly. Dre My queen. I love you. Yaws, Junie I love yall. Stay strong, continue to fight. They are fixing to pump my veins with a lethal drug the American Veterinary Association won't even allow to be used on dogs. I say I am worse off than a dog. They want to kill me for this; I am not the man that did this. Fight on. I will see ya'll again. That's all I can say.

There is also a link so that you can see the background information on each and every single person executed. This has to be one of the most harrowing, disturbing and yet meticulously-kept public record.

STOP PRESS JUST GOT MY HANDS ON REVOLUTIONARY ROAD GOD BLESS YOU COLIN FOR BRINGING IT ALL THE WAY FROM LONDON SINCE NO BOOKSTORE HERE HAS IT AND NOW I LOOK FORWARD TO A NIGHT OF NOT SLEEPING OH HAPPINESS

i write this with the expectation of receiving ridicule, since I was only a photographer in the newsroom for less than a year. My friends are still working there, and those who have left did so with years of experience under their belt.

Even with my dismally short tenure, I have never forgotten the sense of camaraderie in that place. Of course, I realise now that I had been insulated from the myriad of flaws that come with working with a large corporation. As a freelancer, I didn't have to think about staff evaluations, about the promise of promotions, about pay increases, about claiming days off. I was young, desperate to be wanted - I would have worked every day if they asked me to.

I write this now because I just finished an unpleasant argument with someone who accused me of working too hard. It is something that people say a lot about me here, but I suppose that only I am privy to the truth.

I have learnt when to shut off, when to close down that computer, when to say enough is enough. I don't feel like i have to prove anything anymore, and I do not feel guilty when I choose not to reply that email that has been sitting in my inbox for too long.

This is something very difficult to do, as I am surrounded by people whom the title of 'workaholic' does not justice. These folks work from 8 in the morning till past midnight, and still feel like they haven't done enough.

My point is - I am not like that. I did that for the first couple of months, but such a workload left me utterly broken and useless. And so, I stopped it.

I now have to break that little pact I made with myself.

The news agency was meant to be separate - an independent entity that was silently supported by the main organisation. Due to mismanagement and a whole host of other reasons, the news agency was struggling to stay afloat. Radical changes were needed if it were to survive.

My boss - the one who had started everything - had somehow come to believe that my incredibly short work experience as a news photographer meant that I had the expertise to lead a news agency.

And I, echoing Joo's everlasting words of wisdom "Better me than anyone else", readily agreed.

My department was already struggling with the workload we had - with all my time spent on fixing day-to-day matters, I could barely find the time to plan the much needed long-term brand and vision for the department. And still, I couldn't say no.

The small news team moved in five days ago. Three young men that had miraculously continued to stay with the sinking agency even though they were paid miserable salaries to work seven days a week. They had a certain air of desperation that was all too familiar. One of them had howled in protest when I said I was planning to start putting them in shifts. The thought of not being called on for a job, and thus missing out on a shoot, was completely unacceptable to him.

And so, I now lead a team of eight and an agency that distributes stock, editorial and news imagery. Shutting off is fast becoming an impossible option.

But there is now a new vigor in the room. These boys do not leave when the clock strikes 5 in the afternoon. Inappropriate jokes, sarcastic remarks about politicians, callous comments about bomb explosions, the question "Did anyone die?", the familiar rush rush rush to get things done, spell names right, dig up the background facts -- forgive my sentimentality, but I felt I had come home.

I suppose this nostalgia will wear off in a couple of months, after the bullshit had piled up and the realisation that WE ARE NOT MAKING A DIFFERENCE has set in -- but till then, I'll be damned if I don't enjoy every last second of this.

In about two and a half hours I will find out if I need to go to Nepal on a visa run.

Showdown

So I think I ended up spamning everyone on Facebook today - many apologies for this, but I didn't really have any other platform (Twitter doesn't work from mobile phones here).

Long story short: We planned to have a simple exhibition to raise awareness about Tibet's fight for independence. Folks at Chinese embassy were none too pleased. We refused to cancel the exhibition. Police from the Bangladesh Police Special Branch (akin to the intelligence unit) made repeated visits and threats.

© Shehab Uddin / DrikNEWS

All of this culminated in a showdown of sorts today. The police ended up locking the gates so that no one could enter or leave. Shahidul Alam, the founder and director of Drik, ended up having to climb over the gates again and again just to get in and out.

© Adnan / DrikNEWS

The chief guest arrived - Professor Muzaffar Ahmed, president of Transparency International Bangladesh. He wasn't allowed in either. But he kept smiling, and I couldn't help but giggle whenever I looked at him. I suppose being in charge of fighting corruption in the country makes you quite immune to such things.

© Shehab Uddin / DrikNEWS

So, we ended up launching the exhibitions on the streets since the police refused to budge. We gave out refreshments, just as they would have if it had taken place inside the gallery. The policemen refused their share of cake.

Professor Muzaffar Ahmed (left) launching the exhibition on the streets with Shahidul Alam.
© Adnan / DrikNEWS

© Shehab Uddin / DrikNEWS

An interesting day, if I do say so myself.


Note: The exhibition wasn't our idea, although we did provide the gallery space for it. The organisers were a group of Bangladeshi students who had taken it upon themselves to fight for Tibet's freedom. I'll save that chapter of the story for another time.

So, I've finally realised that the colour setting for Photoshop don't match Mozilla -- something about plugins that I don't quite get -- and I'm too tired to do research online now to fix this. This is just a convoluted way of me explaining why the reds and greens may look washed out.

I may have neglected to mention that both my camera and lens has miraculously been brought back to life after two weeks in the dehumidifier room. This was not a case of Jess freaking out, assuming the worse case scenario, and then demanding sympathy. My camera was, for a brief period of time, a water receptacle -- my doomsday rants were only to be expected.

I know I'm not the most regular photographer these days, but during those two weeks when I believed myself to be camera-less, I felt an unexpected sense of loss. Not in the financial or material sense, but something akin to losing an opportunity or a chance.

On to the photos.

A rest stop en route to Chittagong, just before Comilla. They told me around a hundred buses full of hungry passengers stop here a night -- that's a lot of rice and parathas.



Early morning in Bandarban. The dogs there are a lot healthier than the ones in Dhaka.



A makeshift workshop where a group of young boys made paper lanterns for the upcoming Purnima festival.



I can't remember her name, but we called her Didi -- the local term for "sister". She runs a small shop at the top of the hill in Nilachol, selling snacks and cigarettes to the constant stream of tourists who come to ooh and aah at the scenery. I spent many, many joyfully drunk hours here, with my legs curled under me on the bamboo platform.



Moonlight.






I had to scramble down an impossibly steep, muddy slope to get to where she was. By the time I reached the bottom, she was done with her chores and waiting for me to get out of the way so that she could go up.

Anyone who thinks I may have inherited my mother's fitness gene should see me on my hands and knees, struggling to keep up with this girl floated up the slope while carrying two bottles of water. Gravity and friction. I had too much of the first, and none of the latter.

Something died in here

You know your work week is off to a bad start when you step into office and realise that you're going to have to spend most of your day finding out WHAT died and WHERE it died.

On a happier note, winter is on its way. I know this because I woke up four times last night to scratch at mosquito bites. I'm not too sure why bugs come out during winter, but my house is now home to an assortment of grasshoppers, moths and little green (fuckers) bugs that bite.

I found out last night what smells worse than a dead body. As a person who has been to a 3-day old mass grave to see bodies getting dug out, I don't make this assertion lightly.

Came back from work at 11.30 pm last night, exhausted but very, very hungry. I decided to not skip dinner, as I usually would when I'm tired, and gathered up all the energy I had left to whip up something nice. Cabbage? Chopped! Garlic? Smashed! Noodles? Ready to go! Prawns? Sauteed!

Everything was going great. I don't suck at making fried noodles.

I always leave the eggs to the last, right after adding all sauces and letting it simmer for a bit. I fished around the fridge -- great, two eggs left. I'll have to buy more tomorrow.

Ladies and gents, you should've been there to see my face when I broke open the second egg over my almost-ready noodles. Black goo where yellow should have been, seeping into the noodles and making it impossible to rescue what I had been looking forward to eating.

And oh, that smell.

A stench so overpoweringly nauseating that I had to leave the kitchen immediately. Like a mass graves, topped up with a mountain of feces collected from the diarrhea hospital, distilled into a concentrate.

I'm sure if Guiqing had been there we would have managed to laugh at the tragedy of the situation rather than to wallow in it.

Ah well. Thank god for instant noodles. But I'm not sure I want to have eggs again anytime soon.

Sufia

During dinner with Tanzim tonight, I revisited the topic of Sufia - the only "story" that I had successfully completed here in Bangladesh, way back in 2005.

I explained to him that since my return two years ago, I had been avoiding seeing her again. There was a lot of miscommunication after my return to Singapore, and I feared that she no longer thought kindly of me.

Before I left, I had given her 6,000 takas - the most that I could afford at that time. I had somehow given her the impression that more money was headed her way, and I had been told by my friends in Dhaka that she was upset I had not followed up on my promise - a promise I may have made accidentally by nodding to a sentence I did not understand. Throughout my six months there, she never asked for money.

So I have been back for two years, and I never went to see her. I did see both her and Yasmine, from a rickshaw or a CNG as I passed by the same stretch of road, but never had the guts to visit. But it was important for me to see that she was still there.

While I spoke about her, it was clear to me that this was something that I needed to do. On a whim, I dragged Tanzim along with me as a translator.

When she saw me, her eyes did not widen with surprise, as I had expected. Neither did she did fly in a rage, as I had feared. She got up and came towards me, as if I had been there to see her the day before.

"Yasmine is dead," she said. Tanzim had to translate those words for me, and, momentarily confused, I could not believe what she said.

Yasmine was killed two months ago by a hit-and-run at 5am in the morning along the street she called home. She was brought to the Dhaka Medical Hospital, but it was too late. She is now buried in the same Azimpur graveyard as her brother.

Sazzad, the grandson, is now seven years old and attends a free school down the road. He claims to remember me, but I somehow doubt it.

They brought out the photo album I had given to them before I left.

"You print a new photo of Yasmine for me. And frame it."

It would be the least I could do.

I went back and dug out all I had written about Sufia in 2005. Sufia's story was something my instinct told me to continue, but my head needed to justify it first. I am now so judgmental of photographers who do nothing for their subjects, that I simply could not continue with the work until I figured out what the hell it meant.

And then I realised, that there really wasn't more to it. I want to photograph Sufia not because I have some great moral lesson to share with society, not because I want to raise awareness about her plight or to show how the homeless live. I don't know who will see the pictures, or what I will do with them.

I want to photograph Sufia because I don't want her to disappear. In a city where the homeless are not seen, where you could be here one day and gone the next, I want to make sure that she is immortalised.

I re-read the post I wrote about her in 2005, and came across an anonymous comment I do not remember reading:

But, again, just because you're working in a 'third world' country, which by many has been defined as 'poor' or 'lacking access to resources,' does it always mean people there are discontent and unhappy?

I'm sorry to be harsh, but that is a really stupid question.

When the NTU team came last month, one student had asked me a similar series of questions, all of which were egging me to tell him that he had just arrived in a country where the people are "poor but happy".

What is with this obsession to find a silver lining in the lives of the poor? Is it guilt? Do we feel better about ourselves if we could at least believe that they were happy?

I had told Sufia something similar in 2005. Sure you're poor, but I spent so much time with you and there is so much happiness here. Those rich people passing you on the streets? They don't seem to have as much joy as you do.

Sufia cocked her head to one side with a pitying gaze, and asked me a question I will never forget.

"Who wants to be poor?"

Sazzad is even more adorable now.

Wrapped up

in work.

Today we had to search for picture request -- haors in Sumanganj, the highest peak of Bangladesh, caves in Bandarban, pretty landscape photos to do with climate change, the six seasons of Bangladesh... the list goes on. Calendar season is clearly here.

I like the work if only because it gives me a chance to explore the archives -- something I would have preferred to do at a leisurely pace, but for an organisation that can put together a 50-photo exhibition in one week, time is not something we're used to.

The news photo agency which had previously existed outside of the organisation structure is now being (suddenly) incorporated into my department. Which means I now effectively run both a photo agency that does news, stock and editorial. In over my head? You don't say. But Joo once said, "Better me than anyone else." -- this applies in this situation because, well, there really isn't anyone else.

I had really enjoyed Brenda Ann Kenneally's photo essay on the Lens Blog, if only because this was one photographer who gave as much as she took. I have grown extremely uncomfortable with photography that does nothing for the subject, other than to put their faces on the walls of galleries and on the covers of pretty brochures and in heavy coffee table books.

Special Branch came today to check up on me for my visa extension application. I had not anticipated how angry it would make me to have to be nice and cordial to a man that was not only rude and arrogant, but corrupt. The sudden visits are thinly-disguised trips to collect bribe money, without which the application process is made very painful (ie having to submit the same letter over and over) till we wise up to the idea that he isn't going away without a little sumthing sumthing in his pocket.

THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE TO BUCK UP OCTOBER I MEAN IT

Dear October,

I'm afraid I have to be blunt. You have been a spectacular pain-in-the-ass so far, and god help you if you don't change your ways soon. I know shit happens, but the broken air-conditioner today was the last straw. I mean, how much more of this can we take?

I'll play fair. I won't mention the earthquakes and typhoons if you lower the targeted accident-count. So far we've had to put up with crap such as high fever, a bad arm, one twisted ankle, five stitches, a bad tumble down a hill, jaundice, a motorbike crash, and, oh, you just had to play dirty and throw in diarrhea for good measure, didn't you?

But you know what hurts the most? My water-logged, water-filled, water-everything camera. I can only hope you will one day find out how it feels to see water pouring out of your camera - your two-year-old, bought-with-hard-earned-money camera. You fucking bastard.

It seems I aimed a little too low in wishing for a pair of steel pants.

Random things

Pardon the radio silence, all 4 of you. It has been difficult getting out of the post-Eid slumber, especially when the streets of Dhaka are still (wonderfully) empty and the half the staff is away on leave.

Random links:

• Stuff Journalists Like
• Overheard in the Newsroom

The second has been the source of great joy for me, so imagine my unbridled glee when I found out that the official website has more quotes than the Facebook site!

275

“I’m going to jam this pen in your peehole if this happens again.”
- Editor to male cadet reporter after failing to spell check.


283

“It was very traumatizing, and that’s how it should be.”
- Editor-in-chief talking about punishments for writers

Very apt given my recent battle in the office with the only text editor who thinks that Wikipedia is the bible and that a space before a fullstop is fine as long as you do it consistently.

I tried taking in the new issue of lensculture, and nearly gave myself a heartattack. How do others keep up with all these things? Nevertheless, it was very interesting to compare-and-contrast Photoquai and Noordelicht. I vote for the former.

A bit in love with this photo by Gohar Dashti.

Post-lunch Meme

Stolen off Noelle's FB post. Because I'm still recovering from post-Eid slumber.

1.What was the last thing you put in your mouth?
Coffee.

2.Where was your profile picture taken?
Outside Rifles Square waiting for the something to happen during the BDR mutiny.

3.Can you play Guitar Hero?
God no.

4.Name someone who made you laugh today?
There are 9 more hours to go till this day ends. I'm hopeful.

5.How late did you stay up last night and why?
2 am. Because I'm a dumbass.

6.If you could move somewhere else, would you?
Dude.

7. Ever been kissed under fireworks?
Not that I remember.

8. Which of your friends lives closest to you?
Too sad a question to answer.

9. Do you believe ex's can be friends?
Evidently.

11. When was the last time you cried really hard?
A river of tears flows through me.

12. Who took your profile picture?
Munir!

13. Who was the last person you took a picture of?
A boy in a coffeeshop.

14. Was yesterday better than today?
HAHAHA.

15. Can you live a day without TV?
Evidently so.

16. Are you upset about anything?
No but I'm really bitter about most things.

17. Do you think relationships are ever really worth it?
This quiz is getting boring.

18. Are you a bad influence?
On myself, yes.

19. Night out or night in?
In - by lack of choice.

20. What items could you not go without during the day?
I think my Mom reads this blog.

21. Who was the last person you visited in the hospital?
A colleague.

22. What does the last text message in your inbox say?
One of my colleagues telling me she'll only be able to come back to work tomorrow.

23. How do you feel about your life right now?
Not quite real.

24. Do you hate anyone?
I'll never admit it without qualifying it with a whole host of excuses.

25. If we were to look in your facebook inbox, what would we find?
Unanswered emails.

26. Say you were given a drug test right now, would you pass?
Dude.

27. Has anyone ever called you perfect before?
I've been called a perfect moron. Does it count?

28. What song is stuck in your head?
None right now.

29. Someone knocks on your window at 2:00 a.m, who do you want it to be?
God. Maybe she needs a place to crash.

30.Wanna have grandkids by the time you're 50?
Odds are slim my friend.

31. Name something you have to do tomorrow?
Wake up.

32. Do you think too much or too little?
Too much.

33. Do you smile a lot?
I do when I've something to smile about.

FU 2

Why is rage funny? I don't know. But I do know I spent way too much time giggling over Fuck You, Penguin yesterday.

Damn you Jenatsch for giving me this link! As if I needed another avenue for procrastination.

Behold:

I just want you people to drink in this world-class douchebag known as the Tibetan Fox. Have you ever seen such a holier-than-thou fucking look on a non-dolphin before? I'm not one for slapping foxes, as I generally think they know what they've done, but this one really has that look, like the asshole boyfriend of the girl the main guy wants in an 80s movie. Unsurprisingly, he is extremely rare. That's probably because he thinks if he has too many babies, some of them will turn out to be commoners and he wouldn't be able to show his square face at the country club anymore.

How's your ivory tower, Tibetan Fox? I'm sure it must be terribly stressful to stand in judgment of the rest of us little people, so why don't you just retire to your cabin and play lacrosse? You know what, on second thought, WHY DON'T YOU WANDER THE DESERT LOOKING FOR RODENTS. Some of us have to work for a living, Tibetan Fox. We don't get everything handed to us by a lifetime of hunting and scavenging, you stuck-up snob.

20 Years of Drik

Also the reason why I've been incommunicado.

20 Years of Drik

Twenty years.

How does one articulate a history spanning two decades in a few lines? The truth is, you can’t. Which is why we are sharing with you some of our proudest moments in the best way we know how - with images.

Far Eastern Economic Review

Time Magazine

Care International Annual Report

OXFAM Annual Report

This exhibition is not about the number of years that have passed, but the milestones achieved and the battles won. It is about the new paths we have forged from the unlikely location of Dhaka, the capital city of Bangladesh.

While we try to show cherished snippets of our past, there are others that we have to keep in our memory. The people who have helped us, the mistakes we made, the things we had to believe in with all our heart - these things are more challenging to visualise, but just as important.

Drik was set up to be a platform for voices from the majority world, and on this special occasion, we are proud to introduce the first in the Golam Kasem Daddy Lecture Series.

Twenty years.

For some, it could seem like an eternity. For us, this is just the beginning.

Jeev and I were up too late writing this, and I think we became a bit delirious after having to find synonyms for "celebrate" "proud" "milestone" and "achievements" at 2am in the morning.

Also exciting: Raghu Rai arrives at 4pm!

Not so exciting: The 'W' key fell off my keyboard.

Sequence of Unfortunate Events

- Cold -
- Blocked Nose -
- Blowing Nose -
- Occasional Vertigo -
- Blowing Nose With Gusto -
- Blocked Inner Ear Canal -
- Constant Sensation of Either Being Half Deaf or Living Inside an Echo Chamber -
- Deteriorating Sense of Balance -
- Blocked Ear & Blocked Nose -
- Cold -

It is amazing how a blocked inner ear canal can render my brain totally inoperational.

Mini Milestone #28394

Latest in the series of Meaningless Milestones: Today I blew my nose too aggressively and achieved vertigo.

Like!

Used to get irritated at Starbucks when I would order a small and be told "Sorry we don't have small, do you mean tall?" Which would then require me to clarify if, by 'tall', you mean the smallest size you have? Oh it does? I'll have a small then.

Should just make an effort to memorise pretentious Italian and save us all some grief.

Looked out for Ponyo, but doubt I'll find it here anytime soon. Its likely we'll get the Hollywood version, but I don't know if that will offer the original Japanese audio track.

I remember someone buying me the Totoro DVD as a gift (evoking great happiness) but then I played it and it turned out to be the dubbed Hollywood version (evoking great sadness). There is just something very wrong in watching a Miyazaki film in English.

Happiness Equation

Big Lightbox + Hundreds of Slides + Time

My uncle himself told me about how he once awoke to a crushing sensation on his chest, and it was only by reciting prayers that he managed to drive the evil spirit away.

I'd heard variations of the same story from different people of different religions, about this evil weight that would sometimes seem almost suffocating, but always terrifying.

Turns out, they'd all been experiencing "a piece of REM sleep."

Freaky Sleep Paralysis: Being Awake in Your Nightmares

By Alexis Madrigal [August 7, 2009]

In sleep paralysis, two of the key REM sleep components are present, but you’re not unconscious.

Narcolepsy, which can be linked with sleep paralysis, has a similar pathology. For narcoleptics, some of the elements of rapid eye movement can “come out of nowhere,” he McCarty said.

Sleep paralysis was first identified within the scientific community by psychologist Weir Mitchell in 1876. He laid down this syntactically old-school, but accurate description of how it works. “The subject awakes to consciousness of his environment but is incapable of moving a muscle; lying to all appearance still asleep. He is really engaged in a struggle for movement fraught with acute mental distress; could he but manage to stir, the spell would vanish instantly.”

But the condition lived in folklore long before anyone tried to subject it to even semi-rigorous study. The various responses have fascinated some researchers and they were cataloged in the 2007 book, Tall Tales About the Mind and Brain. In Japan, the problem was termed kanashibar. In Newfoundland, people called it “the old hag.” In China, “ghost oppression” was the preferred nomenclature.

A study released earlier this year found that more than 90 percent of Mexican adolescents know the phrase “a dead body climbed on top of me” to describe the disorder. More than 25 percent of them had experienced it themselves.

Give it a couple more years, we'll soon figure out the scientific rational for the orang minyak.

Update

Pause. Stop. Play.

Off 2 war. Brb.

For real.

NEW DELHI, Aug 5 (bdnews24.com/Reuters Life!) - Mahabharata, the ancient epic about princes, demigods and a cataclysmic war is getting a makeover on Twitter -- 140 characters at a time.

Chindu Sreedharan, a U.K.-based lecturer, is retelling the Mahabharata using the micro-blogging service, hoping to lure readers with creative snippets posted in chronological order.

A sample tweet [twitter.com/epicretold]:

I didn’t understand many things. Yudhistira said. I was slow and stupid. But if father was a king, why were we living in a forest lodge?

3:19 PM Jul 28th from web

I want Pride and Prejudice tweeted.
"Darcy looked hawt 2day."

Right back at ya

Continuing from previous post and many thanks to Tym, who sent me this lovely report:

"This study shows that in egalitarian countries there is less social stigma attached to men doing what was traditionally women's work," she said in a statement.

"This leads to men in egalitarian societies taking on more of a domestic role so the likelihood of forming a harmonious household becomes greater, resulting in a higher proportion of couples setting up households in these countries."

Duh.

But while women seemed to prefer a man who would put out the bins and do the washing up, men were not so keen on women seeking a partner who wanted to split the chores, preferring a woman they could rely on to do all the housework and childcare.

"While egalitarian men seem to be viewed as a better bet by women, egalitarian women are seen as a less safe bet by men," she said.

So I look forward to our PM's speech at the next gathering of male leaders, during which he will tell these successful men about how they their success shouldn't come at the "unintended" price of an ageing population.