This is the first photo I took in December 2024, a dozen long years since I last shot anything professionally. The last time I pressed a shutter button was in February 2013—before I swore off Photojournalism and photography for good.
Back then, And on the exact same day as today, the 11th of February 2013, I was on the streets of Cairo, covering what will be known as the 30th of June coup/revolution against the Islamic rule in Egypt. I thought I had seen it all—until the night I almost didn’t make it home, for I have been shot in the face.
The closest time I have been to death happened less than a month earlier.
January 22, 2013. The city was a powder keg. A police bullet had taken an innocent life, and in response, the neighborhood rose in fury. residnce took to arms and open fire at the police station and suddenly, I found myself arriving to the scene in the middle of it all—camera in hand, but unable to do much else.
Two shots. 9mm rounds. Fired in my direction. I froze. The door behind me caught them instead—two neat holes punched into the metal. That photo still exists here on my Flickr, buried somewhere in my archives. I turned around and ran, straight into the mob—bullets flying in both directions. I ducked behind a car, watching as two young men fell. They had fired back, but the police were quicker. Blood pooled around them. I should’ve been shooting with my camera, but I couldn’t. I ran.
That night, I didn’t go home. I went straight to my go-to bar and drank until I blacked out. A week passed before I could even touch my camera again.
Then came February 11, 2013—today, 12 years ago. Another protest. Another confrontation. And this time, three cartridge bullets—hunting rounds—ripped into my face.
I was lucky. No vital organs hit. No permanent damage, aside from the scars. But in that moment, as I lay on a hospital bed, baring seeing my brother in the peripheral vision, everything was clear—I was done.
I left photojournalism that day. I switched to office journalism, then to producing, then to business, leaving politics for good.
My cameras sat untouched, gathering dust, for many years, unable to touch it.
And then, one night in December, over Hanukkah and Christmas, someone dear to me suggested I play LIS.
And just like that, something stirred. I remembered how much I used to love this. How photography was once second nature, how I used to walk into chaos, camera-first, afraid of nothing.
I hesitated. I could almost taste the iron in my mouth just thinking about picking up my 550D again—this cursed camera that had witnessed more grief than joy, more blood than rain, more bullets than dust. Yet, in the weight of all it had seen, I found a reason to lift it once more. And I did.
And this—this dimly lit photo of a simple salt lamp—was the first thing I shot.
And then, I couldn’t stop.
Fragments - 01
