The optic nerve to document

I am not a historian. But I will attempt to recall where we were on September 26th, 2008. In a small room with family watching the premiere of the History Channel’s docuseries, “Gangland.” The episode is titled “The Devil’s Playground,” and it portrays my neighbors and our 2.5-square-mile Chicago neighborhood, Pilsen, as “a place where they feel forgotten” — which says everything. We have the volume turned all the way up, and a snack readymade for our 44 minutes of fame. Crime scene photos flash across the screen — displaying people with bullet wounds. The show broadcasted us subjects and a voice introduces us to history with a disclaimer: This program contains graphic material, including offensive language. Viewer discretion is advised.

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In my first few months as a John S. Knight Journalism Fellow at Stanford, it was impossible to ignore the videos of federal agents descending in Chicago during Operation Midway Blitz. My phone became a gallery of excessive force. Federal agents killed Silverio Villegas-Gonzalez, a 38-year-old father, during a traffic stop; shot Marimar Martinez 5 times; and used chemical weapons on people at least 49 times. 4,500 people were arrested during the operation. Nationwide, 60,000 people are held in contracted detention centers across the country. Tens of thousands have no choice but to labor in the government’s so-called “Voluntary Work Program” for $1 a day. The whiplash made me question: what kind of society are these images reflecting?

Terror is the feature of The Department of Homeland Security’s enforcement policy, not a symptom. To understand what role photography plays in it, it helps to pay attention to who is holding the camera. Law enforcement has always had an interest in photography, often using cameras as a means of surveillance and crowd control. For example, the U.S. Army Field Manual 3–19.15 explains:

“2–85. Taking still pictures or videotaping the faces of individuals within a crowd may prevent or reduce unlawful and violent acts. This could lessen their sense of anonymity. If needed, photographs or video tapes can be used as evidence for prosecution. To be effective, crowd members must see their presence being recorded. The photographer or cameraman should be in uniform to let the crowd know who he or she is. Recorders must be close enough to the crowd to be seen easily, but not close enough to be endangered.”

In the last decade, we have witnessed a profound shift in the documentation of state crimes. What was once the task of investigators to piece the puzzle together-collecting videos, analyzing and conducting interviews-has now shifted to people recording in real time. The most atrocious recordings are crimes by governments. Once an open-secret, now on full display.

This isn’t new. Just in the last six years, the role of photography has changed dramatically. Its pioneers are working everyday people, amateur photographers, and anyone with a camera in a place and time.

Darnella Frazier'sr recording of George Floyd became a pivotal piece of evidence contradicting a Minneapolis Police press release describing the murder as a “medical incident.”

A year later Frazier said in a Facebook statement: “I was only 17 at the time, just a normal day for me walking my 9-year-old cousin to the corner store, not even prepared for what I was about to see, not even knowing my life was going to change on this exact day in those exact moments… it did. It changed me. It changed how I viewed life. It made me realize how dangerous it is to be Black in America. We shouldn’t have to walk on eggshells around police officers, the same people that are supposed to protect and serve. We are looked at as thugs, animals, and criminals, all because of the color of our skin. Why are Black people the only ones viewed this way when every race has some type of wrongdoing? None of us are to judge. We are all human.”

In the eighteen months of Israel’s genocidal war on Gaza, 51,000 Palestinians, mostly women and children, were killed. In Al Jazeera’s documentary, GAZA, Palestinian novelist Susan Abulhawa put it straight, “we live in an era of technology, and this has been described as the first livestreamed genocide in history.”

The adoption of photography in our everyday lives, to document the roll back of civil liberties has slowed time down. Unlike police body worn cameras, the shift in perspective asks us to disrupt the insistence of a single point of view. Especially ones laced with a falsity that policing is the only solution to a range of social-economical problems.

This has changed photography into data. It seems like a good idea to record everything until confronted with dilemmas. Mass surveillance, AI generated images, and overdocumentation could create potential privacy concerns and sway decisions faster than court procedures can catch up too, writes Alexa Koenig: “When competing stories enter the public record, or when prosecutors are unaware of the full scope of data they possess [they] struggle to meet disclosure obligations.”

The speed in which images travel should concern everyone. Cameras follow what people do. But experience guides what we see and can influence decision-making and action. What is missing are safeguards. And enough room for expression, details, and the vision of the future between humans, animals, and inanimate life.

In an era of extraction rooted in a visual regime, those that live well within the extraction zones are most qualified documentarians. Sometimes, this role comes with great expense. But it doesn’t need to be an unequal responsibility. That’s why the best collaborators are those asking how we might usher in a new era of self-determination (and self-regulation) with our daily consumption with potential evidence.

In February, I took on a story assignment for WIRED Magazine and met a family who felt they had no choice but to hide to avoid being abducted by federal agents. Ava and Sam (not their real names) and their two children are one of many families who are hiding in Chicago. Documenting the family was particularly tricky, but common, for some obvious reasons and some less obvious ones too. Documenting a family’s life in a way that honors their desire to be seen while protecting them from the predatory eyes of the state requires navigating the tension between visibility and safety.

Sam leaves the house only to go to work, while Ava only leaves to go to the grocery store, if absolutely necessary. The children struggled with anxieties that one day the masked men would come for them. They pass the time by playing video games, watching TV, and avoid playing outside.

To gain the family’s trust, it helped to be familiar with their home town in Mexico. We spent the time talking and checking in on each other. At one point during our conversations, someone knocked at the door. No one moved. Sam went to go check, slowly opening the door to see it was just their neighbor handing over some leftovers. At that moment, I realized tension was always at the front door. What the photos show might help us identify potential solutions. Take a look — that’s the point.

Sixteen years after we watched ourselves broadcast as subjects on “Gangland,” I sat in the living room with Sam, Ava, and their two children, documenting a familiar scene. I understood the camera had changed hands. While documentation alone is not enough to dismantle a visual regime, it is a practice worth doing. All photography is simply to notice — just remember to tuck in the elbows.