Human Rights Watch published a multimedia piece on a backlog of sexual assault exam kits in L.A. They included a few of my images from working with the Harborview S.A.N.E. nurses, which felt great because I’ve long admired the work of Human Rights Watch. One “technical” note; they termed a forensic sexual assault exam kit a “rape kit.” It’s something I picked up from working closely with nurses, detectives, and prosecutors but rape kits are what rapists use to rape someone. Although, I also learned prosecutors love the term because it’s more shocking for the jury.

Says the website:
“Women who report being raped are asked to undergo a lengthy, extensive examination to collect DNA and other physical evidence that might identify their attacker, corroborate testimony about the assault, or connect their case to other rape crime scene evidence. The resulting collection - called a rape kit - is then booked into police evidence.

“Human Rights Watch analyzed data from the Los Angeles Police Department, the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department, and Los Angeles County’s 47 independent police departments, and found that as of March 1, 2009, there were at least 12,669 untested rape kits sitting in storage facilities.”

Click the image below to watch the Human Rights Watch Video:

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One of the “benefits” of having done a lot of reading of articles, journals, and reports, plus doing a little bit of field work, means I’ve got some understanding of they dynamics of human trafficking. Combine this with nearly ten years of documenting how sexual violence affects individuals and communities, then stir in a heavy helping of multimedia and, viola! You’ve got someone who can speak with professionals about messaging, social change, and communication associated with sexual violence and human trafficking.

As these things happen, by knowing someone who knows someone, I ended up consulting for the World Affairs Council and the US State Department’s Foreign Visitor program. The way this works is a group of people–in my case, government and non-government leaders or the up-and-coming–do a tour of the U.S. on the State Department’s dime learning how the we are coping with certain issues. It’s a goodwill gesture and, in my opinion, a means of helping spread the “American Way.” The World Affairs Council helps connect the visitors with local experts, whose ranks I’ve joined.

This spring I’ve spoken with teams from Malaysia and Hungary, presenting them with some of my multimedia work and discussing how these tools could be employed in their work. When we wrap up, there is always an invitation; come visit, come work with us. Considering that some of these people are on the front line of the anti-human trafficking fight, I wish I could. But neither of us has the funding.

(Below: Hungarians watch “Cambodia: Victim to Survivor” and the S.A.N.E. video for the FEAR Project)

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When I moved into my Phinney apartment, I was thinking it might only be for six months. Four or so years later, I was thinking about sticking all of my stuff into storage–including the climbing gear–and taking some time for travel, reporting on stories, and all things not continental U.S. (at right: iPhone photo of the packing mess in my apartment)

Didn’t happen. Not because of inertia, but because of a girl. I have been surrounded by people, even while traveling, but I know it’s easy to find one’s self alone. With Lu, there is still the travel and adventure–we have already been to New York, Thailand, and Guatemala, but it’s much less…alone. And so, one month after returning to Seattle together, we decided to move in. It’s not that it cost us any less, it’s not that we have more space, it just seemed…right. That, and we’d already tired of packing overnight bags, having a drawer or two in the other’s dresser, and that second toothbrush thing…

My place was pretty nice; old hardwoods, arched doorways, picture rails, radiators, great location on a ridge crest and next to a park…but there wasn’t space for little T. So over the month of February we went looking and found a great place where we can walk to everything we need. We have a view, we have hardwoods, T gets his own room, I get a corner for an ‘office,’ and we got a smoking deal on rent. (at left: the newly vacated and cleaned Phinney apartment)

Lu no longer needs to deal with her downstairs neighbor, the psycho girl who plays techno at 1 a.m., pounds on the ceiling if T runs from one room to the next (c’mon, he’s a kid!), or smokes so much pot you can smell it coming through the floorboards.

Our home has a newness befitting Lu’s style more; none of that musty old timber smell, permanently stained linoleum, quirky faucets, etc. For me, while I’ve lived in some classic Seattle hovels, I’m enjoying my first dishwasher in 18 years, a front loading washing machine, and Lu’s taste in furniture. It’s much better than my mish-mash of free, cheap, and donated; she buys furniture to last decades. I think the only furniture I kept is a desk, which has already lasted decades, a couple of office chairs, filing cabinets (much to her chagrin) and…a small book case. Though I did fill up two closets…I had to stash the skis, boots, climbing boots, ice tools, ropes, packs, cameras, lenses, hard drives, tool box…Granted, while I disposed of furniture, Lu had to discard some dresses and, yes, even two pairs of shoes. We were both emotional. (at right: Lu giving little T equal say in the decision for the new apartment)

Squeezing our lives together has proven challenging, but at the same time cleansing. Learning each other has had its grim moments, for she is a fiery Latina born in the year of the dragon and I am a recovering passive-aggressive northwesterner who is of Japanese descent. Seeking conflict avoidance, I talk “around” things and she, well, she’s much more direct. But the laughter, love, and adventure we share is proving exciting and fulfilling.

Lu likes flowers (duh!) and is extremely tidy. I like flowers too, but what I really like is beer in the fridge and coffee in the morning. I tend to cook, she tends to clean. T, when he’s not with his biological father, now prefers my story time to hers. And he likes his Leche Doce the way I make it. But she still is the best at pacifying him and meeting his needs, and I’m still learning simple things. Like if kids aren’t in bed by 8.30, even if they can stay up until 11.00, they are going to be hell the next morning. (at left: Lu deciding which shoes to keep)

Somewhere in there I’m finding time to work, a little time to climb, but mostly to go for long-ish runs. Though Lu might argue otherwise, the bachelor life is leaving me, much like the boxes of books, clothing, supplies, bedding, and furniture I gave away or recycled. It’s an adventure in and of itself.

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If you’re a photographer, you’ve probably already seen these for as I post this, it is June. Never mind the publishing date–I’m catching up on blogs while trying to maintain chronology.

World Press sent me a book of this year’s winning images; Lu was flipping through it and commented on the amount of violence and suffering. There is a lot, maybe more so than heroic Olympic moments or lighthearted glimpses of daily life, yet I would hope it doesn’t deter you from looking.

Take yourself beyond awareness as you think of the circumstance in the creation of each photo. Does the earthquake in China spark ideas for emergency relief? Do you think about health care and anti-tobacco measures as children mimic their mother’s smoking habit? Or equal rights, as a man adjusts his tie? He is preparing to wed his male partner in Spain–because it’s not legal where they’re from in California.

To quote from Roger Cremer’s piece on Auschwitz:
“The aim is not just to increase awareness, but to awaken responsibility, so that learning about history has an impact on current thought and behavior.”

These three contests I’m listing, for U.S. photojournalists in particular, are the three to watch. Names are made, reputations established, work is seen…and maybe change is made. For those of you already doing your part to create change, I–and many others–say thanks.

World Press Photo
Pictures of the Year, International
NPPA 2009 Best of Photojournalism

World Press inspires me the most and, for a little more insight into the winning photo, read about Anthony Suau at PDN.

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I remember in university having an email account I could access using a dial-up modem from my PC at home. While I remember hating the class, I was glad my mom forced me to take a semester of typing in the 8th grade (in high school I opted for another typing course…an easy A). At the time, we used electric typewriters.

Later, when I joined the university’s daily newspaper, I began to use email more; I think the program we used was Pine or Telnet or something of the sort. We’d get these emails from Daemon@…and I thought that was some guy’s name. The web started to get graphics, but one of my favorite jokes was “I read it on the internet” because, of what little information there was online, it was pretty useless. We still used the yellow pages. I loved having Lexis/Nexis on campus, and a wealth of journals and books we had to *walk* to the library to search for.

When I started at the paper we were shooting, processing, and printing black and white then creating a half tone and pasting it onto pages with wax. When I left, the lab was for processing only, as we were scanning film and working up the paper in Quark. When interactive CD ROMS came out I did a final project for a class, I think it was “digital media,” using Macromedia Director. They were bought by Adobe. The final project had pictures, music and clickable on-screen buttons; it fit onto a one gigabyte hard drive the size of a hardcover novel and it had a SCSI port.

Although ten years earlier, this video reminds me of how things were changing quickly in the early 90’s.

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This Catholic wedding in Guatemala could be considered a “destination wedding” but really, it was photographed as a gift (Tita, the bride, is Lu’s friend). It is also the first time I’ve photographed a wedding having never met the couple or key people, not knowing what they wanted, and not knowing the sequence of events. I was just another guest, except I had some extra cameras and a couple small strobes. I’m getting quite adept and turning people into human light stands. Lu made a Blurb book for Tita. She loved it.

20090124_Guatemala_Wedding - Images by Tim Matsui

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Traveling in Guatemala was the first real time I spent with “T,” Lu’s five year-old son (If you comment, please respect the use of his first initial only).

For T, he was expecting attention from Lu and myself. I was there to be with Lu and to get to know T better. For Lu, she wanted to see how he took to me. Needless to say, the trip was loaded and there were challenging moments, but I think it worked out quite well. After our man-to-man talk, T and I got along well. I just had to realize, I was the adult and I had to suck it up to make things better.

I call this clip “Instant Parenthood” because that’s what I’m learning about. In September of 2008, I thought I’d focus exclusively on my work. I was even considering putting my possessions in storage. But a not-so-chance meeting has taken me down a somewhat different path. With Lu comes T…and we’ve had some bad-ass Nerf gun fights and the best story times you can imagine. As long as he wins and gets a bonus chapter.

The Instant Parent from timmatsui.com on Vimeo.

Find the music on iTunes:
Goining Down, Allen Toussaint
Burnt Offering, Blue Scholars
Nobody Knows Me at All, The Weepies
Reconstruction Site, The Weakerthans
Stars, The Weepies

Captured with Canon: 5D Mark II, G10

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The black hatchback with tinted windows slowed in front of us on the boulevard. We were in the left lane and came upon it fast, breaking suddenly. Lu pulled around it to the right and as we came even, the car accelerated. We could hear it revving up as it past us and crossed three lanes to slow down on the right, allowing us to pass it again, this time on the left. It was 1 a.m. in Guatemala City, and tired as we were, Lu and I were completely alert.

I would be puzzled and annoyed in Seattle, but in Guatemala City, from what I understand, violence is right at the surface. People don’t just mess with you on the road, they kill you.

Coming almost directly from Cambodia, a place where “it’s safe until it isn’t,” to quote a fellow journalist working there, my impression–and this is purely my impression–is that Guatemala City isn’t safe. Especially when it isn’t.

It’s not that I’ve really seen anything; I mean, there are guards at the supermarket and the bank who carry handguns and shotguns. A lot of other stores do too. Middle and upper class neighborhoods, bound in razor wire and 15 foot walls, have the same; guys with body armor and shotguns, the short-barreled, pistol grip variety. I’ve also seen some with assault rifles standing around on street corners. Just watching.

The police too, in their extended cab pickups, have a variety of armament. AK-47’s, shotguns, pistols, body armor. In Cambodia it was rare to see a cop with a side arm. Last night I saw an unmarked heavy truck pass us on the highway. In the back, in the tarpaulin-covered cattle bed, stood a bunch of soldiers packed so tight it looked like they would fall out. It made me think of the civil war here in Guatemala and the counter-insurgency work the army did, something which amounted to political oppression and genocide.

But I haven’t really seen much here, and it’s not really that which bothers me. It’s Lu and Geno (pronounced haano). They grew up here in the ’80s and while Lu visits rarely, Geno comes back every year. She’s Guatemalan. It’s their paranoia and their stories which have me checking the side view mirrors, the pedestrians, and watching all the motorbikes.

Driving back from Antigua, 30-40 minutes away, Lu was telling me stories about her youthful party weekends in college; how they’d stay in whatever cheap motel they stumbled into after hours of drinking and flirting with guys. We were winding up the mountain pass–she told me she knew the turns almost by heart–and at one turn, rather off-hand, she mentioned how one of her friends was kidnapped on the road. The cars blocked her friend’s car and men with guns got out and took her. I asked how they knew the story; the girl’s passenger was left behind to tell. They never found the girl.

We went out the other night to meet some college friends of hers in an upscale strip mall, not unlike what you find in the States. It was packed with polished cars and as we looked for parking, one of the shotgun toting guards let us know where a free spot was. I can’t remember the last time I had a parking attendant adjusted his weapon as he waved me over. Later that night Lu mentioned the sister of one of the people I just met. She was killed.

“How do you say that gun,” she questioned, for English is her third language. “You know, it goes dat-dat-dat.”

“You mean an automatic assault rifle?” I responded.

“Yes, they filled her car with bullets,” Lu said. “They made a mistake because her car looked like a mafia’s car. It was a little over a year ago.”

The night I arrived at the airport, we approached a stoplight and Lu told me she’d lost her edge. She’d forgotten how to live in Guatemala City; Geno had already yelled at her for allowing a pedestrian to get too close to the car while pulling up to a light. If they get close, she said, it’s better to hit them and drive on in case they’re trying to carjack you. Sometimes, she said, they’ll come through traffic on a motorbike, one man armed with a gun, and they steal your money or your car.

The other night, after a wedding, we drove by an old military fort in the middle of the city. “So-and-so’s brother was killed here,” Lu and Geno said. It was after curfew and the soldiers shot him in his car.

In high school they never had snow days–it’s too warm there. But there was a war on and they had curfews. Sometimes the school bus driver would turn around mid-route as the other drivers radioed that the city was under lock down again. As a teen it was fun, but when she came back as an adult, and it happened again, she understood the gravity.

In college Lu never repeated the same route to school two days in a row. She also learned never to help someone on the side of the road; it was a regular car jacking scam. One night we came back to the neighborhood and a car was behind us. She pulled up to the steel gate and hit the opener, then quickly chastised herself. With a car behind you, the rule is to just drive by lest they catch you in a vulnerable moment.

Lu won’t go into the hills, a place I look towards longingly, and while in Antigua she struggled over whether to hike up to the cross overlooking town. Two foreign girls had been beaten, raped, and killed up there. Robberies were common. Even the guidebook advises against hiking alone and to ask tour operators about the security situation.

I didn’t personally see anything violent, beyond the excess of firearms, but maybe that’s just it. Everything looks normal until it’s not, and that is what has Lu on edge. We were talking about that after she told me one of her stories; it’s not that you read about it in the paper–well, you do–but it’s that violence happens to people you know. It’s immediate and seemingly random.

That night on the boulevard, as we passed the hatchback again, I looked at the driver’s window. It was up, so I relaxed a little–no one was going to shoot at us as we drove by. Lu needed to turn left but we continued a few more streets before swinging through the median and back up the boulevard to Geno’s neighborhood. I looked back; the car was now reversing in one-way traffic. Lu killed the lights and down shifted to make a turn. That way her brake lights wouldn’t show. And then, we were clear.

“I think I’m ready to go back to Seattle,” she sighed.

When we got to the house, Geno was late. Immediately Lu and Geno’s brother began dialing Geno’s friend. It was uncharacteristic of either Lu or Geno not to check in with each other, but as soon as the number was punched, we heard the steel gate and Geno’s unmistakeable laugh. She stumbled in, drunk, with a dripping keg cup still in her hand. She laughed.

Guatemala City is a rough town, from what I hear, but it seems people get by just fine. At least, maybe, better than during the civil war.

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Visiting Toro’s friend, whom he hadn’t seen in years, a fisherman whom he knew in the ’80’s while in the army. Times were so bad then, that the two made a pact: if one had food and the other didn’t, they would share. It helped the two of them survive.

Christopher and I went with Toro after figuring out the timing was off for us to continue working on undocumented migration and human trafficking between Cambodia and Thailand without risking Toro’s arrest, stepping on a landmine, or functioning in Thailand with no contacts or translator.

All I have to say is: Check out the windblown hairdoo.

Cambodia: Relaxing in Koh Kong from timmatsui.com on Vimeo.

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Wedding photographer Kim Reed, who photographed my sister’s wedding, was going to Cambodia at the same time I was. I wrote about her in this blog on volunteers. It was great to get to know her better and, though our aims were a bit different, it was fun working with her. She also gave me some excellent tips on running a successful wedding photography business–tips I may employ to build a multimedia wedding segment to my business.

What she also did was take some photographs of me at work. Wow, photographs from a different perspective than the neck-craning-at-arm’s-length-wide-angle-shot.

Thanks Kim!

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