Camera Down

I couldn't do it.

The last time I photographed the aftermath of a tragedy, I felt as though I really had no business doing it. Sure, I'm a journalism graduate, have worked at local newspapers, and this blog sometimes shares news or this city—and the world—with my viewpoints.

But that doesn't give me the authority to impose myself into an unfolding story to which I am not a part. Though my home isn't that far from the path of one tornado and my office isn't that far from the path of the other, I had no right to go to the scenes, to capture images of the destruction.

On Saturday, DW and I visited her father, as we do every weekend. It was there where we learned that the tornado that touched down in Arlington Woods and left a path of devastation in Craig Henry, and the Merivale power station, also hit the Colonnade Road business park, which was only a few hundred metres from her dad's retirement facility.

His residence has a backup generator, which maintained power, and he and most of the other residents had no idea that a tornado had come so close to their sanctuary.

After our visit, because I was carrying my camera, I took photos of fallen trees along Colonnade Road. We saw the damage to the mini-golf park, the twisted signs, broken and falling poles.

I couldn't do it.

I couldn't photograph the mini-putt business. That was someone's livelihood that took a hit.

I stayed away from the broken houses in the neighbouring communities, primarily to stay out of the way of the tireless electricity workers and emergency responders, but also because I didn't belong there.

Yesterday, I ventured to work, knowing that my route passes the Mont Bleu area that saw disaster. I didn't stop. On my way home, I made a detour to visit one of my cousins, and I drove along Cité des Jeunes, which intersects with the opposite end of Mont Bleu Boulevard. I passed the strip of apartment buildings that looked like they had received artillery fire: broken windows, holes in siding, missing rooftops. Crews were on what part of roofing remained, working to patch the holes.

Though my camera was in the passenger seat, I didn't stop. Didn't capture the damage.

Once I reached my cousin's house, she told me of the farm, a couple of kilometres north of her home, which had been leveled. She told me I should take a look, capture some images.

While I did follow her directions, did find the barn, I kept driving for about a kilometre past it before turning around, to make the return trip. Across the street from the barn looked like what had once been a two-story house, but the top level was gone. Toward the back of the first floor looked like it had been crushed, most likely by the second floor, which must have been peeled away before the ceiling of the back half of the first floor could no longer sustain the weight, and the entire second floor had flattened the rest of the house.

Outside, I could see people cleaning up debris, taking in the magnitude of the destruction.

How could I photograph that? Their tragedy was still ongoing. I realized that I had no business being there, and drove straight home.

I think I did have a need to see the damage from the tornadoes first-hand, but I didn't need to photograph it. I didn't need to keep images for myself—there had been plenty of coverage by the media, with more graphic images and aerial video than I would ever capture. I could keep my camera down. These weren't my stories to tell.

My darkened neighbourhood: that's the story I can share. The blackened street of my house, and the darkened homes along it, were the reminder that I could have of the storm with which I can share.

I'll do so tomorrow, for Wordless Wednesday.