The sun was beating down on my hand as I thumbed the “on/off” switch on my camera. Around me, swarms of people crowded around the reflecting pool. I spotted a woman taking a selfie of herself and her friend. They held up two peace signs, their faces pulling a funny expression. I watched her fingers dig into the grooves of a victim’s last name. Her nails disappeared into the gaps as she tilted her head and fixed her hair. Beside her, a man had a foot-long lens attached to the latest Canon 5D Mark IV. Impressive, I thought to myself. He took a shot of a woman praying across the cascade of water. I heard his shutter go off two, three, four, five times. The clicks kept coming.
I raised my camera to take a clip of an American flag blowing in the wind. It was stuck in the punched out letter of a name without a face. Tourists darted in and out of my shot as they chattered amongst themselves in hurried Japanese, French and Spanish. The only constant in my shot was the right arm of a man who had been standing very still. I watched him adjust his glasses and unfold his crossed arms. His fingers fell on letters, tracing them over and over again. I stopped recording. He noted the lowering of my camera with a slight glance to the side. Facing forward again, he kept his eyes level, not looking at anything in particular. I watched his fingers continue to trace the letters.
I attempted to raise my camera again as I saw a man with an enormous flag draped over his shoulder. I stopped when my eyes caught more tracing. Over, and over again. His fingers anticipated every turn and every corner of the letters. I couldn’t do it. A strange sense of guilt and embarrassment washed over me. I felt as if I had entered without knocking, spoke without listening, decided without thinking. Beside him, another group of tourists released a cacophony of shrill laughter. Their arms stuck out and angled their phones against the afternoon sun.
The man patted the name gently, an almost indiscernible motion caught only by my prying eyes. With a quick pivot, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and walked away. I watched him as he went.
I looked back at the reflecting pool and down at my camera. I wondered if there was any way to capture and document with respect. At what point was it duty and at what point was it a violation. I thought about the tourists and their selfies and their selfie sticks and their GoPros. I thought about the man with the foot-long lens and I thought about the camera I held in my hands. Then, I thought about the man who traced the name and his stillness.
My dilemma was met by a thick feeling of sadness, something that started to stir beneath my chest. I held my camera tighter and flicked the switch to “off.” Soon, it became easy to spot the constants in the crowd, their bodies stayed unmoving in the heat of it all.Loading video...
