In May 2025, two major global news outlets contacted me to see if I was available for a photojournalism assignment in my beloved Damascus, Syria. It marked a new and exciting turn in my career as a female photographer mainly concerned with Damascene domestic life, but I had a serious commitment I could not get out of: my university exams, all the way in London.
My UK visa is contingent on academic attendance. I had worked really hard all year and wanted to finish strong, and I had left Syria only a week prior and would be returning in less than a month. All of these factors brought me to ultimately not take the job(s). Regardless, I was grateful and excited — my work was being noticed, indeed, but more importantly, Syria was going to get favorable media coverage from some of the biggest journalism outposts in the world. And better yet, they were contacting Syrians for the job, which hasn’t really been the norm.
I excitedly responded to both inquiries promptly, informing them that I was regrettably unavailable, but more than happy to provide both outlets with a comprehensive list of phenomenal Syrian photographers (about half of whom I know personally) who would be in Damascus at the time of the job, and who I trusted to do amazing work. One of the magazines was looking only for female photographers — this, too, was no problem. I created two lists and sent them over.
I was saddened when, in the following weeks, both articles were published with accompanying photography from non-Syrian photographers. When I checked in with the photographers I had recommended, they told me they were never contacted by the outlets. I learned that both of these outlets hired their respective photographers to fly to Syria for the week, both from Europe. In both cases, neither photographer was an Arabic speaker.
The day rates for both — one in USD and one in EUR — made my heart sink. That sort of money would be able to feed a Syrian family for more than a month. I stewed on the subject for many days.
Their decision to go with a non-Syrian photographer was not for lack of talent within the country: I had provided each outlet with more than ten professionals, all with extensive experience and unique styles. It was not for lack of ability to contact the artists: I double checked the list I created, and made sure I included everyone’s correct email, Instagram profile , and WhatsApp number . And, it wasn’t for lack of communication skills or English-language capabilities: while Arabic is the native language of all of these artists, all of them also have professional working proficiency in English, as the articles were set to be in English.
These outlets thought it would be easier to pay for a plane ticket, visa, accommodation, the photographer’s day rate, and a translator than to foster a meaningful connection with a Syrian artist and pay them for their work, knowing that the option they pursued is logistically– and ethically– far more complicated.
It is obvious that Syria is at an awkward (but hopeful) junction between a post-dictatorship society, a totally dilapidated economy, and a hyper-inflated currency — this is precisely the reason I argue that now is the time to uplift and support Syrian artists. Syrians deserve a better and brighter future, and a small but important part of that is supporting and stimulating the artists in the country. That means investing in the artists who speak the language, know the ins and outs of the country, and understand the material conditions of Syria’s new and unfolding reality—the people who have personal, intimate relationships with most of the subjects these journalists wish to cover. It means choosing not to hire the Western photojournalists who move with a mobility that Syrians have not experienced in more than a decade of war and suffocating sanctions. It means paying Syrians that same day rate as Westerners for their time and labor. Indeed, it may also mean that the photo editors of these prestigious outlets will be required to amass a new rolodex of Syrian artists to reach out to for Syrian-related assignments henceforth.
Forgive my frankness, but that’s their job.
And while this argument is entirely in favor of choosing to hire Syrians for the benefit of the Syrian economy, artistic community, and Syrian agency over the narrative, it is also conveniently to the benefit of these massive outlets, because there is true, sincere talent in Syria. It is a unique Western laziness and colonial instinct to assume that a foreigner could somehow document Syria better than a Syrian (a non-Arabic speaker at that!)
For the better part of my life, Syria has often been spoken about as if it is a geopolitically ripe but empty landmass existing solely for the interests of the US, Iran, Israel, Russia, or Turkey. I have not often felt like the rights, dreams, or wellbeing of Syrians are considered much outside of Syria. And I have rarely felt like the Syrian perspective on Syria actually matters. While I feel the needle is finally moving in the right direction, as Syrians assert themselves amidst a changing reality, I believe these conversations are necessary. For the Syrian perspective, I implore you to look no farther than Syrians themselves. Syrians are talkative, curious, inquisitive, hospitable, and open people. It is true that you might ask 100 different Syrians a single question and receive 100 different answers — that’s the beauty of our big, complicated, and diverse country — but it is always worth asking them.
Hannah Arafeh
Hannah Arafeh is a photographer and archivist concerned with Syrian domestic life, childhood, and steadfastness in the face of 10 years of war. Arafeh is also curious about documenting creative resistance to the crippling sanctions Syria faced for more than a decade (recently lifted). As Syria navigates a post-Assad reality, Arafeh is passionate about film photography and development in the country, and works with Damascene youth to develop their own analogue photography practice. Arafeh is also scanning and archiving previously unscanned Syrian photography from myriad personal collections of generous donors.
