By Bryan Doan, Oct. 1, 2024
To document or to be involved.
Photojournalism has always struck me as one of the most powerful and challenging forms of reporting. It requires a certain grit to stand on the frontlines, to capture the truth behind social issues and conflicts. But there’s a question I never fully realized until I found myself at the pro-Palestine encampments at UCLA: Where do you draw the line between documenting an event and becoming part of it?
It’s always been something I’ve wanted to immerse myself in, covering high-emotion protests and conflicts. My colleagues invited me to cover the pro-Palestine encampments at UCLA. The opportunity seemed perfect, a chance to test my skills and explore photojournalism firsthand.
But on the morning of our trip, we received news that counter-protesters in support of Israel were expected to show up. Chills ran down my spine. The thought of potential clashes troubled me, and my pessimistic mind jumped to the worst-case scenario. I was nervous, but my group reassured me, reminding me we were there to document as photojournalists, not to actively participate in the protests.
When we arrived on campus, the air was thick with tension, as if there was something waiting to happen. Something I can’t really put into words till now. From morning to noon, we just walked around, documenting what we could and observed from a distance. The protest itself was pretty calm at first; protesters were in heated but controlled debates and various groups quietly held signs.
We were fortunate to meet another photographer, Danaya Wattanapan, who was there supporting the pro-Palestinian students. She quickly became part of our group, helping us navigate the campus and pointing out where the most significant confrontations were happening. Thanks to her, we were eventually granted access to the encampment later on in the day, allowing us to better document the protests and encampment.
When we were near Royce Hall and Powell Library, we stumbled upon an unusual scene: The counter-protesters had set up what can only be described as a festival. It felt almost too strange to comprehend, having an event filled with loud house music, dancing and celebration, while just yards away, students were locked in emotional confrontation with other counter-protestors.
Things escalated quickly. Barricades surrounding the stage were broken down, and a clash between the two groups was bound to happen. The whole mood of the campus shifted, heated arguments flared up and tensions snapped into outright hostility. We moved closer to document the confrontations, but the mood had already changed. We weren’t just observers anymore. The counter-protesters began focusing on us.
From what I experienced, we were accused of siding with the student protesters. We were questioned with very graphic comments, such as, “Why are you killing our kids?” while their phone pointed toward me to record.
I found myself stumbling over the words, trying to distance myself from the conflict.
“I am just a photojournalist,” I replied. “I’m just here to document what is happening here,” I replied.
But that line between documenting and participating started to blur.
The worst moment came when a woman and her son began hurling insults at our group, mainly toward Wattanapan. Shorter than most, she became an easy target. My colleagues and I noticed this and tried to intervene, urging them to leave her alone, but the tension only grew. As we tried to walk back toward the pro-Palestinian side, Wattanapan, still holding her camera, snapped a picture of the woman. Her son, angered by that, grabbed her camera.
Another photographer reacted instantly, defending Danaya by pushing the boy’s arm away.
The woman yelled out loud in response: “That’s my son! He’s a minor! I’m a lawyer, and I’ll take you to court!”
Her yelling drew the attention of more counter-protesters and suddenly we found ourselves surrounded.
The yelling drew attention from many of the pro-Israeli protesters. I got split from the group, as we all ran away after a group chased us.
Thankfully, our group eventually came together and received help from pro-Palestinian protesters after they stepped in to de-escalate the situation, pulling us to safety and guiding us into the encampment for protection. Inside, we found a break from all the chaos outside.
Filled with adrenaline in an ethical dilemma, I couldn’t help but look back on what just happened.
As a photojournalist, one of the core principles in the Society of Professional Journalists (SPJ) Code of Ethics is to act independently, avoid involvement and not to influence in the events we’re documenting. Our role is to remain objective, focusing on telling the truth without becoming part of the story.
I struggled with the idea of my role during that whole confrontation. Rather than de-escalating the situation, I felt I fed into it. Seeing my colleagues and a newly found friend put in situations like that made me feel something similar to survivor’s guilt.
This is where the double-edged sword of photojournalism cuts the deepest. On the one hand, you are there to witness history, to provide a record of the truth. But on the other hand, you’re never truly detached from the events unfolding around you.
As the photojournalist, Mstyslav Chernov says in his documentary 20 Days in Mariupol,
“This is painful. This is painful to watch. But it must be painful to watch.”
That pain is part of the reality of capturing these moments, a reminder for anyone documenting the truth often means confronting the harsh realities of conflict.
Looking back on that day at UCLA, I understand photojournalism is not about detachment. It’s about being fully present, in the messy, uncomfortable and dangerous realities of the world. The emotional and physical risks are there, which is why resources like the Dart Center for Journalism and Trauma exist; to help journalists cope with the psychological toll of witnessing violence and suffering.
Being present for the truth often comes at a personal cost.
Recently, Danaya and I caught up, reflecting on both that confrontation and the broader conflicts in Gaza, Israel and Lebanon. She shared something that has stayed with me on her experience of the confrontation:
“It made me mad because I am so aware that I got the tiniest taste of what people who are actually in their line-of-sight experience,” she said. “I felt a fraction of the hatred that’s projected toward that group. I’m not even part of the targeted community, yet they still came at me with so much violence, ignorance and aggression. I can’t even begin to imagine how they behave toward Palestinians.”
Reflecting on what I had witnessed, the aggression, ignorance and violence directed at us gave me a small look into the much-larger struggle faced by the Palestinian community.
While I initially came to document the conflict as a neutral observer, what I saw made me question my own beliefs. The hatred and violence I witnessed made it impossible for me to remain neutral.
We became part of the story, caught in the hatred and violence of the conflict. Sometimes, the act of documenting isn’t enough, what we witness makes us take a stand. In the face of injustice, I realized neutrality is often a privilege we can no longer afford.
Graphic by Ruthie Johns | Photos by Bryan Doan and Christian Magdeleno
