Ami Vitale
Great storytelling takes time and patience, yet every moment matters for this photographer – and our natural world.
From war zones to wildlife
Hope is a difficult thing to hang onto, especially in the life of a photojournalist. Two decades into her career, Ami Vitale has witnessed many forms of human and animal suffering, but she still believes photography has the power to help change the world. Since being present at the death of Sudan, the world’s last Northern white rhino, her work has focused on wildlife, conservation and human-wildlife conflict. A contract photographer for National
Geographic, Vitale’s commitment, often working on stories over long periods, has led to her winning five World Press Photo awards, including First Prize for her 2018 story on the community-run Reteti Elephant Sanctuary in Kenya. After dodging explosions, sleeping in mud huts, contracting malaria and wading through floods, her recent series Panda Love had her wearing a panda suit, scented with panda urine and faeces. No pain, no gain…
Does photography for you always need to have a purpose?
Absolutely. In the beginning, I was attracted to the idea of exploration, a passport to see the world, making beautiful images. After a while, I realised that’s not what motivates me. I believe the power of great photography is to amplify other people’s voices; to inspire people, to wake people up, to make us care about one another and all living creatures. It has this ability to transcend language and make people feel something. The power of the camera is like a superhero power.
Also, it feels a little exploitative if I’m just doing this to make pretty pictures. I want it to have impact and, ultimately, to give back to the people who open up their lives to me.
You spend long periods with people for your stories. How important is that time for understanding a subject?
We often go out with a story already written in our head, before we set foot in a place. I think that’s dangerous. It’s important to research and learn as much as you can, but also to leave yourself open, and let the people whose story you’re telling dictate what the story should be from their perspective, not what you think the story is.
You’ve spent a lot of time at the communityrun Reteti Elephant Sanctuary in Kenya. Why were you so interested in that story?
When I first got engaged in northern Kenya, it was really to tell the story
of poaching and human wildlife conflict. But I realised the news was always told from the perspective of poaching – “How do we stop poaching?” – mostly focused on arming people, fighting this war. The terminology was like it’s a war zone. I don’t want to diminish that, but we’re always leaving out a really important part of the story: the indigenous people. There are all these stories that are not put out in the media.
It must also be satisfying to tell the stories of local African people. Many articles and TV shows focus on outsiders, usually white, to tell African stories.
It’s so interesting to me. Whenever I pitch stories like that to Western media, the first question is: “Is someone from America there?” I’m like, “Well, no.” It’s a harder sell because, especially for TV, they claim the audience want to see people like themselves.
We need to get beyond that now – we’re a deeply interconnected world – and not give them images of people who are just like them. That narrative is very colonial in a lot of ways. It’s up to us as storytellers to demand
“T hat image had power. You’d have to be a robot not to be touched. It went across cultures, across religions, across boundaries, countries, communities”
more, to ask for more, and to find charismatic, well-spoken individuals who are indigenous and from the communities.
You were present at the death of Sudan, the world’s last male Northern white rhino. What impact did that have on you?
That was very upsetting, being there for that moment – but I also have to say that it’s not over yet. There’s still hope that we can save the last rhinos and all the other species. It was a great motivator and a great wake-up call. I was surprised by the impact. That one image of Joseph Wachira saying goodbye to Sudan went around the world.
I happened to do a street photography shoot in China right after that happened, and I’d printed a whole bunch of images to introduce myself to people on the street. One of my images was Sudan and Joseph, and everybody recognised that picture. People would tear up sometimes. That image had power. You’d have to be a robot not to be touched. It went across cultures, across religions, across boundaries, countries, communities.
It also speaks to the courage of the community at Ol Pejeta Conservancy.
At first, they said, “Maybe you shouldn’t photograph this, Ami. It’s a devastating moment. Everybody’s crying. We don’t really want to show this.” And I said, “Why don’t we just photograph it and make that decision after?” As photographers, it’s important at times to push and to earn that trust to get into those moments.
How do you weigh up those kinds of ethical questions about when it’s OK to take photos?
I spend so much time on every story that I know the people involved. Over the last two decades, people have actually called me if something dramatic or difficult is happening, because they know I’m going to do it with sensitivity. There are always ethical implications, but that’s what happens when you spend time in a community.
After I stopped going to Kashmir, I got letters for years after, asking me to come back and tell their story. When something horrific happened, they’d ask me to come over, which is remarkable.
Some people think of photography and journalism as intrusive. What I’ve learned is that people often really want to tell their stories. Many people feel ignored.
Hundred per cent. That’s why I really choose stories where there are not lots of journalists there already. Now all the journalists want to go to these stories I’ve told. They should find other stories. They’re all around us. Photography can be exploitative, but it can also be empowering, if you take the time.
For your photo assignment on China’s pandas and your book Panda Love, you had to wear a panda costume. Is it hard to rock a panda suit?
It is hard to rock a panda suit, especially when you look like a bank robber,
and particularly when it’s scented with panda urine and sometimes panda faeces. Pandas go by smell, not sight, so it was a stinky endeavour, but one I’d do again if asked.
It was one of the most rewarding assignments, and also like being in a Wes Anderson film: I’d wake up and get inside a panda costume, and everyone else I was working with was also wearing panda suits, sometimes missing an ear or a tail.
Pandas are ubiquitous; we’ve almost turned them into cartoon animals. What I learned about pandas surprised me. That’s what happens when you go deep into any story.
What did you learn about the ‘secret lives’ of pandas?
The first thing that surprised me is that they’ve been on the planet for eight million years. If you look at ancient Chinese art, you’ll never see a representation of a panda bear. You’ll see every other animal in the forest, but never a panda, because they were hidden from humanity for so long. They were little legends, like Bigfoot.
“Overnight, I went from an amateur to a war photographer. I don’t recommend doing that”
The first one captured alive was in 1936, which is shocking. It’s not that long ago. They tried to breed them in captivity because they understood they were highly endangered and they wanted to create a population of 300 in captivity. They couldn’t figure out how to breed them. They were doing everything, even showing ‘panda porn’ to the males and giving them Viagra.
Then they figured out that pandas can only get pregnant for 24-72 hours in a year, which is not a big window, and that they need to give the female panda a little more diversity in their choice of males.
How difficult do you find life on the road?
It can be exhausting. Most of the time I’m in East Africa and then home in Montana when I get a chance. We take a lot of stuff for granted because we’re in a state of movement and chaos. It’s always kind of abrasive when I come back and my friends have family and children, and everything’s so regimented. They must look at people like us like we’re totally insane, which we probably are.
Was the conflict in Kosovo your first experience of war photography?
Yes. I was living in the Czech Republic at the time, and I started to hear stories of a war brewing in our backyard. I couldn’t get the stories out of my mind of children fleeing the conflict with the clothes they were wearing, climbing mountains in the middle of winter. Something inside of me knew I had to go.
I quit my job. Overnight, I went from an amateur photographer to a war photographer. I don’t recommend doing that, because of the safety of other people around you, not yourself.
What did it take to be a war photographer?
A lot of empathy. Also, figuring things out really quickly, before you even go; having people on the ground who can guide you a little bit. I worked with local journalists. They showed me where I needed to be, and how to do this.
What I learned really quickly is that I didn’t need to be on the frontlines. Showing the horrors of war is important. But I felt that showing the stories of resilience and people not on the frontline is
also very important. That’s what I ended up doing: telling the stories of women and what it’s like for the people caught in the middle of this ‘greater game’.
Why did you shift away over the years towards wildlife and conservation issues?
It was for deep ideological reasons. My work now is just as risky. People see the cute animal pictures, but human tensions and conflicts are always there.
After I’d covered conflict after conflict, I started to see that each one was connected to the environment and nature. People look at my pictures now, but they don’t understand they’re not really pictures about wildlife and animals. They’re stories about humanity. We need to understand that we’re part of the landscape, and we’re destroying it. If we don’t understand our intricate connection, that we
need to start paying attention and creating protections for these last wild places, we’re in deep trouble.
That UN report [IPBES Global Assessment Report on Biodiversity and Ecosystem Services
Summary, May 2019] came out; we’re going to be witnessing a million species going extinct, and it’s purely human-driven. When we start taking keystone species and destroying our environment, human beings are going to be impacted. It has this massive ripple effect.
Right now is the moment to act, and not enough people are actively engaged in the future. I see the future unfolding in front of us in slow motion and I think to myself, if all of us don’t start using our voices and taking simple actions, we’re condemning future generations, and even our generation, to eternal poverty. It doesn’t have to be that way. It doesn’t have to involve all this suffering. That’s the reality.
“T hey’re not really pictures about wildlife and animals. They’re stories about humanity”