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Cutcliff: Photograph says all in language of war

Column photo

By Betsy Cutcliff

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

When University alumna Julie Jacobson embedded as a photographer in Afghanistan, death was written in the contract’s fine print. On Aug. 14, Jacobson’s unit was ambushed, and while crouching under fire, she captured with her long-distance lens the fatal injuring of Lance Cpl. Josh Bernard, producing a photo that would spark harsh criticism of its publication.

Jacobson’s image is hazy, obscured and unreal. The scene is painted in a washed-out palette of dusty brown and dull gray; a scraggly patch of grass leans limply toward a narrow gully of muddy water. Two blurred Marines in dirty desert fatigues crouch beside Bernard while applying preliminary first aid. In the center of the photograph, starkly contrasting with the grimy background, is a chilling, vibrant splotch of deep crimson where Bernard’s leg has been blown off by a rocket-propelled grenade. The injured Marine still clutches his rifle.

The 21-year-old’s face is inescapable, his mouth gaping open in a frozen expression of pain and shock. As I looked at the picture for the first time, I wondered if he heard his buddies yelling forceful reassurances, and if he could, whether he believed them. I wondered if images of his childhood flickered across his vision like old-fashioned home movies on a projector screen as he lay there, and if he knew his hourglass was shattered, the sand fluidly gushing through the broken shards as time ran out.

From a journalistic perspective, society needs images like these; the color, the quality, the raw emotion blurred by distance and chaos — the kind of image that sears itself in your memory. It speaks the convoluted language of war, screaming all at once millions of words and feelings and split-second stories that a 1,000-page book could never begin to tell.

Julie Jacobson, in a statement about the photo, said, “Death is a part of life and most certainly a part of war. Isn’t that why we’re here? To document for now and for history the events of this war?”

Whether this particular image should have been released is a moot argument. It was released, and now the question is what to take away from it.

Valuing images of death in war isn’t obligatory only to remember the fallen; it’s crucial for us to remember those who survived: the two Marines who knew Bernard’s death was imminent but never stopped in their efforts to save him, make him comfortable, safe, and most importantly, make sure he knew he was not alone.

When I look at the photograph of the beginning of Bernard’s final hours, I not only think of the young lives cut short by war, but also the men and women who were forced to push on, continue the mission and stifle the grief for the sake of each other. I think of the families gathering at Arlington National Cemetery, and the veterans sitting alone, fingering black or silver KIA cuffs and remembering the friends they lost. And I think of my husband, a thrice-over combat veteran, and if my views would be different if the dying Marine had been him.

I wonder, if this portrait of war had been of someone else, what Josh Bernard would have thought of.

— Betsy Cutcliff is a Lenexa senior in journalism and international studies. She has been a columnist for The University Daily Kansan in the past and is currently a copy editor.

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