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I went to Ukraine to work on HIV issues because, at the time, it was experiencing the fastest acceleration of HIV infection in the world. I had very little time on this trip, it’s an expensive place to work and I was covering the worst elements of the HIV crisis in a 14-day sprint across the country. After a whirlwind tour across half Ukraine, a horror show of disease, ignorance and neglect, I came eventually to Donetsk, a bleak industrial ruin of a town.

Industry has collapsed since the fall of communism and the majority of the population live in the abject poverty of prolonged unemployment, men and women living each day under a cloud of impotent fatalism. There is very little possibility of improved circumstances and people know that. They looked at me with a mixture of resignation and contempt, as well as a rare opportunity for cash made manifest.

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I have been documenting the AIDS pandemic in Sub-Sahara Africa for about five years. Nearly 9,000 Africans die from the disease everyday, leaving millions of children orphaned. By the time you have finished watching the short, yet powerful film below, around 30 people will have died from AIDS.

You can’t escape AIDS in Africa - you are either infected or affected.

 

 Tom Stoddart video [4:49m]: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download

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Kabul, Afghanistan: I came to the Malalai hospital to shoot a story on surviving childbirth. The maternity facility delivers an average of 60-100 babies a day. In Afghanistan, one in nine Afghan women die during or shortly after pregnancy, which remains one of the highest mortality rates in the world for maternal mortality. In many cases, Afghan conservative cultural sensibilities put the health of the Afghan mother at risk.

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Ziajan, 35, was waiting on the operation table; she was almost full term and had a ruptured placenta along with heavy vaginal bleeding - every minute counted. The problem was her husband was not there to sign the consent form so the nurses just waited and started on another emergency case. In the mean time, Ziajan was in extreme pain. She was getting some blood to stabilize her until the cesarean operation could begin.

Ziajan’s case was truly heart breaking, the baby inside her womb was dead. He was to be her first son after having nine girls. Out of the nine, two had already died. In Afghan culture, having a male is extremely important and many women don’t have the choice but to keep trying until they are finally successful. Given Ziajan’s age and her health condition, this would have to be her last try. Knowing the Afghan culture like I do, I now understand why her husband was absent.

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About 45 minutes went by until the nurses could get going, I was told they got a signature from her brother. They started the c-section, the incision was made into her belly to bring out the fetus as I continued to photograph. All of a sudden the power went out and the room went dark. A few minutes passed but it seemed like ages. It was the second day of the big EID holiday, just after the end of the holy month of Ramadan so who knew how long it would take for someone to turn on the generator.

The surgeon was getting anxious and I knew this case was critical. I said to one nurse in Dari that I would be right back. I made the quick decision to go and grab a small key light I had in my photo bag. It was only a tiny light that I used to find things at night but it was all I had. I scrambled to find it in the dark but finally managed. I ran back and held the light over the pregnant woman’s belly. Immediately the operation team started up again using only my light. It was hard to keep it on since it was just one of those purse size ones that was made for short-time usage, once or twice it went off and the nurses started to please with me to try harder to keep it on.

Photographing was over for certain as I watched them bring out the lifeless baby boy. Finally the generator was cranked up and the lights came back on. Ziajan’s condition was still serious but the surgeon smiled a bit and turned to me saying, “tasha kor.” This means thank you in Dari.

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Iraq, many people might be surprised to learn, has a functioning court system. Well, “functioning” might be too strong of a word, but it does have an array of non-religious criminal courts run by the Iraqi government. A few days ago I had chance to see a small one operate, up close.

The chance came up suddenly. I was on the ground at an Iraqi-run jail, photographing the conditions there, when one of the Iraqi guards called out a series of names. One by one prisoners hopped up from their spots on the floor to assemble in the courtyard outside. An Iraqi translator working with the US Army was with me; he keeps his real name secret, like all the Iraqis working for the Americans, though his nickname was emblazoned on his US-style fatigues: Slim. I asked Slim what was going on.

“They are calling them to appear in court,” he said.

“Well, I better go with them and see what it’s all about,” I said, after a pause.

“Why not?” Slim said.

The ten or so prisoners all seemed to know what to do: they grabbed orange jumpsuits and blindfolds from a pile in the corner, and started to don them over their clothes. Then they silently lined up for the trip. They were surprisingly docile, with the vacant stare of prisoners resigned to their lot.

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The prisoners were loaded onto the back of a truck to head to the court building nearby. They removed their blindfolds themselves long enough to scramble down from the truck when they arrived, then put them back on. Each prisoner laid a hand on the one in front and they were led in a long file into the court building.

Chris Hondros/Getty Images

Chris Hondros/Getty Images

This court building clearly wasn’t designed as such; it was a just simple small structure, the size of a small house.

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The prisoners were brought into a room in the back, and then one by one brought into a makeshift courtroom. Two judges, balding men in ties, sat behind small desks, with a stack of prisoner dossiers by their elbows. A middle-aged woman in black sat intermittently in a chair across from them; she, it turns out, was an Iraqi lawyer and acted as a sort of public defender. A TV was on in the corner, quietly playing Lebanese music videos.

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A prisoner was brought in before the judges; I asked Slim to translate what was going on.

“The judge is telling him that he is accused of being in a kidnapping ring,” he said.

“What is the prisoner saying?” The young man in orange was rambling in Arabic and gesturing wildly.

“He says, ‘No, I am not.’”

“That’s all he’s saying? Look, he’s still talking.”

Slim cocked his head toward the prisoner.

“Okay, he’s saying: ‘No, I don’t know any kidnappers, I am innocent, I just own a simple shop in Ameriyah,’ things like that.”

The judge nodded, took a few notes, and then sent the prisoner off. Once he left I talked to the judge.

“So the guy says he’s innocent?” I asked.

“Yes, he says he is not a kidnapper,” the judge said, still writing. “Maybe yes, maybe no.”

“How many people admit to guilt here? Does anyone come here and say ‘Yes, I did what you say?’ “

The judge thought a few seconds. “It happens sometimes. Maybe five percent of the time.”

“What’s going to happen to this guy?”

“He will go back to jail, until he has a trial.”

“When will that be?”

The judge smiled. “Oh, I don’t know. Sometime.”

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Each of the prisoners was seen in this way, most of them accused of either kidnapping-related crimes or of insurgent activity. One was allegedly found with a bomb in his trunk; he was the most quiet. Most of the others animatedly engaged the judges; some of the prisoners seemed relaxed and smiled a lot, like they were giving a sales pitch.

By lunchtime all the hearings were finished, and I headed back to the US portion of the base, which was so close I walked there. I wasn’t sure if what I’d just seen was an example of justice, or a perversion of it. I’m still not sure. Like any photographer I strive to get to the center of what’s happening, but sometimes even when you get there it’s difficult to ascertain the truth behind what you see. Especially in Iraq.