Susan Meiselas
Crossing fronts and dodging death squads isn’t for the faint-hearted. Susan Meiselas has spent over 30 years on an ongoing project in Nicaragua
The photographer who’s fought the long fight for freedom
You started out as a film editor, so why did you switch to stills photography – especially as the 1970s was something of a golden age for US cinema and documentary-making?
I wasn’t sure which direction to go, but of course photography then was simpler to manage solo. Now it would be a harder decision because the technology makes it possible to do both simultaneously.
It's quite a jump from shooting carnival strippers to the Nicaraguan insurrection. When did you decide to cover Nicaragua?
I have given many interviews about my encounter with an article in the New York Times about the assassination of Pedro Joaquín Chamorro, an opposition newspaper editor in early January 1978. That led to my curiosity about what was happening there. Five months later, I left and stayed there, documenting the popular insurrection that evolved quickly over the following year.
Was going over there quite a shock for somebody raised in ‘apple pie’ Maryland – it must have been pretty scary at times?
Actually, I was only born in Maryland. Most of my life was spent living outside of New York City, but there was certainly apple pie there too! The insurrection was progressive and of course surprising, and at times scary to be in the midst of.
Some of your images from the Nicaraguan conflict, namely the vertebrae strewn on the hillside at the notorious Cuesta Del Plomo assassination spot, are shocking as they are so direct. Did you have to steel yourself to take this kind of image?
This was one of the first pictures I ever took of such a violent act. I had heard about the “disappeared”, mostly from the news about Argentina and Chile; but seeing is different than reading, of course. I recognised the value of the evidence of this abuse under the Somoza regime in Nicaragua. It was at the beginning of the human rights movement, and I was compelled to make images that were as direct as possible.
When covering the insurrection in Nicaragua, did you find it tough keeping your composure in the middle of firefights and concentrating on the photography?
A lot depends on whether you are the target or just observing the dynamic, and how
“I listen and hear those who are disillusioned, and others who continue their support for the ideals not yet realised. That’s how I see my role”
protected your position is. You can easily find yourself in the middle of a firefight and make no photographs at all, and certainly wonder why you are even there!
How do you feel about one of your most famous images, ‘Molotov Man’, now? Do you feel you have become a bit typecast by it?
I'm not sure that I have been “typecast”. I think it’s fundamental to my practice to think about how pictures travel and live over time. ‘Molotov Man’ is merely one image which has had its own dramatic narrative, to make this process especially visible.
There was a lot of idealism about the Sandinista Revolution in the 1980s. Did you feel disillusioned with Daniel Ortega and the regime after he took power?
There have been many stages in the post-Revolution period. Nicaraguans have not gained all that they hoped for at the time of the triumph of 1979. I listen and hear those who are disillusioned, and others who continue their support for the ideals not yet realised. That’s how I see my role.
What was the most dangerous situation you were in during the revolution?
There were certainly some close moments while moving throughout Nicaragua, crossing fronts between the army and Sandinistas, and even more so in El Salvador, where the death squads operated freely. There were times that I can reflect back on and feel the good fortune that a hiding place protected me. I was extremely lucky when I chose to travel down a road in a car, clearly marked as ‘TV/Prensa’, which was attacked with a detonated Claymore mine. The TV cameraman who was driving, Ian Mates, was killed by the shrapnel, and while bits of metal entered my head, they did not cut my eye. I had concussion, and the photographer in the back seat had cuts on his hands.
Do you think you could have got a similar level of access if you were a young photojournalist covering a major insurrection today?
It’s extremely difficult to shift across active fronts now, as we could do in Central America and Vietnam. Access in the field is only one dimension of the challenge today. More importantly, there is so little production support for those who want to stay long enough to build the necessary relationships and understand the complexity of these evolving situations.
How do people respond to your images in Nicaragua today? Are you still welcome over there by the government?
I was in Nicaragua a few weeks ago, showing
the film Voyages, from 1984, which I partnered on with Marc Karlin, a British filmmaker. People are still fascinated to think about the period of the revolution and discuss what the consequences of different policies, alliances and events were on the government today, including the US aggression and the collapse of the Cold War.
When will you draw the Nicaragua project to an end, and do you have any other big projects in the pipeline?
I don’t think about when projects end, as they evolve and sometimes hold me, or they naturally wane. There are several that sustain me going forward, to revisit and re-engage with. I am mostly involved with building the Magnum Foundation at this time, so my own personal photography is not at the centre of my life as it certainly has been for the last four decades.