From his childhood neighborhood in Beirut at the height of the civil war, to the  streets of Fallujah during the war in Iraq, French-Lebanese photojournalist Patrick Baz has covered conflict since age 18. Now, at 46, Baz is AFP’s regional Photo Manager for the Middle East. His experiences on the frontline  have been captured in Don’t take my picture. Iraqis don’t cry. The project, published by Tamyras, is more than just a collection of images; it is a touching recount enmeshed with excerpts from Baz’s diary, conveying his thoughts and emotions during his coverage in Iraq, from 2003 to 2005, through both the lens of his camera and the notes from his pen.

On the occasion of his book signing at Beirut’s Salon du Livre Francophone, NOW sat down with Baz to talk about the drive behind his work.
 
Can you tell us how you got into the field, and how your Franco-Lebanese background might have influenced you?
Patrick Baz: I was 12 when the war started in Lebanon. I grew up on the demarcation line—among snipers. I was always attracted to snipers. They fascinated me. I had a love-hate relationship with guns and war…. Of course, there is no way I could take a gun and shoot at someone. So I used a camera, and shot… Then when my parents pulled me out of Lebanon, for which I am eternally grateful to them, I really decided in Paris, that I wanted to do this job.
 
I remember sitting in on a lecture about media coverage during the Israeli invasion. Sitting, wondering: what am I doing here? …So I packed my stuff and moved to Lebanon.

From 18-26, I wasn’t officially working for a specific agency, but managing, making money without understanding exactly why. I thought it was because I was good, but actually, it was because I was one of the few people out there, one of the few polyglots, locals, remaining on the field, and taking pictures amidst such violence. Most foreigners had fled. But it was tough, especially when I realized Christians were killing each other… I sold my first print when I was 18. I grew and flourished in Lebanon. I learned the hard way. It was tough covering war in my own country.

After a while, Lebanon was no longer as interesting to international media. After struggling a bit, AFP officially hired me at 26, and I was appointed Chief Photographer in Jerusalem. I covered the Intifada, then Bosnia, Somalia….it’s not a job you can do if you don’t like it of course. It’s not your classic 9-5. It’s 99% of your time. My dream would be to have a camera in my eye…I see pictures everywhere. The time it takes to get your camera out, the instant is gone. 
 
Can you tell me about Iraq and the book, about the personal diary aspect of the book?
Baz: 1998 was my first trip to Iraq. These pictures are obviously not made for the book. They were put in the media, in news all over the world by AFP. The diary was kind of like therapy for me… because I frequently found myself in a situation where there was no one to communicate with.
 
Have you always written?
Baz: No no. only when I needed to exorciser la peur –exorcise fear… get things out. When I’m in a comfortable situation, I rarely write.

The first time I wrote was in Jerusalem, when I had no one to talk to and needed to express my feelings. Sarajevo was another example. Those were the times I had the strongest fears. It was much worse than expected, not a single source of comfort. Another harsh time was right after the Black Hawk Down incident, when I had to replace a colleague of mine who survived lynching by the crowds. I volunteered to replace him, twenty-four hours after Black Hawk Down.
 
And in these moments of intense danger, and fear? Do you never feel like you’ve had enough, and you want to stop?
Baz: I guess I’m an adrenaline junkie. 
 
You actually enjoy the situation?
Baz: Not that I enjoy the situation. “Enjoy” is not the right word…it’s more about “feeling well.” You can’t enjoy it. I always thought, as they say in French—j’ai pris la guerre à contre-pieds as many Lebanese do. They are in total denial. I embraced war and kept trying to understand why. I wanted to show the horror. I don’t take part. I go there to show you the horror…

I struggle a lot with the Lebanese here. They don’t understand. I was sitting at ABC once, looking at two people having coffee…and I had a flashback, just thinking in a few days, or weeks, they might be killing each other. They need a big slap in the face. Of course, I want to raise consciousness with my work, show the world. I freeze moments. I don’t have the pretention of taking history. I live it à ma façon. I hope the message gets through.
 
Would you say then, you see photography as a medium for social change?
Baz: The visual aspect of photojournalism has more effect on the population, and reaction is more powerful than to written journalism, because the message is stronger when you see a picture. You will remember a photograph. One that struck you. Of course it’s also related to your cultural background and environment. People have different perceptions of the image. This is why visual journalism should be used on a wider scale.

But that’s not the drive behind my being out there. Sometimes you take risks and it’s worth it. But really, it all depends on the experience. Don’t take risks as much as I… because, a picture is not worth a life, I tell my colleagues. If you die, you will not show anything. So stay alive and show more.
 
But you still go off into these high-risk situations?
Baz: I tell you, I’m still more scared driving from Faraya to Beirut on a Sunday afternoon than running on the streets of Fallujah. Because war has rules, and if you respect the rules, know where to hide, where to walk, you minimize the risks. In Lebanon, the more you respect the rules, the more you’re at risk.
 
I noticed several references to your daughter in the book. I also noticed you dedicated it to her. Can you tell us about that?
Baz: The original title of the book was “I lied to my daughter; I told her I would never go back to Iraq.”
I remember it was sometime in 2004, and we were driving in a car, she was 9.The radio was on, and we heard the news about the war in Iraq. And at the end, she looked at me and said “I don’t want you to go there anymore, I don’t want you to get killed.” And you don’t realize that kids listen to the news, watch TV, they get that you’re there. Now 13, she laughs about it, and when she saw the book too, she said : “Ok, fine, you’re done now.” She also asked me why all I did was take all these pictures of dead people… I tried to explain to her, told her she’d understand someday.
 
Because I was there, in the war in Iraq, she hates war. And I love the fact that she hates war.
 
What about the dilemma between taking pictures of people in their day by day struggles and making them the object of your work?
Baz: You mean self-censorship? Getting tired of violating people’s privacy? No I don’t self-censor... I do remember this incident. I had spent the entire day with these two men, in Iraq, who had been blindfolded, and handcuffed. I could feel them. They were there with bags on their faces. After spending the entire day by their side, the bags were removed, and I could see them, just sitting there. I was tired, exhausted, then a colleague of mine said to me “come on, the lighting is good right now!” And I was just sick of it. I couldn’t.
 
In that moment, that day, it was as if you had just had it? Had enough of it?
Baz: No it’s never that day. It’s always, it’s every day. It’s moments, where it hits. You’re tired, you’re exhausted. I could see their faces, their eyes.  When you’re tired, and drained, all these factors come together. You know, us photojournalists, have a tendency to be “mythified,” people think we’re all so tough, like Indiana Jones. We are human like anyone else. It’s only that we do something different.
 
Why did you choose Iraq for your book?
Baz: Well that does not mean I won’t do something for Lebanon…Lebanon would be more personal –or detached. I don’t know. It’s a love hate relationship with Lebanon, like many Lebanese. But it was probably Iraq because this was the time when Yasmeen [my daughter] was there.  I wanted to tell her where I was all these years. What I did. And when you start with a project like this…things come up. I also realized that my pictures were published on the newspapers that were used to roll man’akeesh. When I started, my girlfriend at the time had offered me a book on Tim Page’s photojournalism in Vietnam. I realized there were plenty of books on Vietnam but very few on the Vietnam of the 21st century –Iraq. It was also a book on war in a neighboring country.
 
Can you tell us a bit about the “Hotel Palestine” incident and your feelings during the moment? The impact on your political opinion?
Baz: It was the eve of the fall of Baghdad, when two American tanks fired at our hotel and killed 3 journalists. I carried my injured colleagues…Of course there’s an impact, of course your views change. I can’t think of a concrete example. But yes, the way you look at things becomes different. During my embedded experience…I tried to understand …that does not necessarily mean I would sympathize or empathize. It’s just trying to understand. So when you understand, either you confirm or change your prior opinion. 
 
During Iraq, did you change your opinion?
Baz: It’s not easy to say, not black or white. For Iraq—yes, we toppled a dictatorship. No, we never found weapons of mass destruction. So why did we go?

I also discovered America when I went to Baghdad. I discovered America is neither LA, nor New York, it was the boys I spent time with…boys from Utah, North Dakota, Wisconsin. This is America. That’s when I realized; the US is not L.A. just like Achrafieh, or Verdun is not Lebanon.
 
Several moments in your book, you refer to instants when the soldiers thought you were a translator- to which you responded “no, embedded photographer.” What does “embedded” mean?
Baz: The term “embedded” was created during the liberation of Kuwait, to embark journalists with American army units, to give reporters an official, administrative position within the military. In Iraq I was official, I was embedded… as opposed to when I was in Kurdistan, for example where I was solo, hitchhiking, etc.
 
Do you have any advice for future photojournalists?
Baz: Just go there. Go out there. Covering wars is very important, but it’s only 5% of the job. You don’t become a photojournalist by doing war coverage. Documenting a life—that is real photojournalism: Anything and everything, daily life. War photographers are much more rare of course, and they are romanticized, mythified. It sounds sexy. 
 
What’s next?
Baz: I’m not sure. I’m asking to go to Afghanistan. But they tell me: “Baz, leave some wars for the others.”