Death Is A Job
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I’m running across and intersection to avoid the bullet of a sniper from the hill when I walk straight into some photographers: they’re doing their job, in deep cover. If a bullet hit me they’d get a shot worth so much more than my life that I’m not even sure whom to hate: the Chetnik sniper or these monkeys with Nikons. For the Chetniks I’m just a simple target but those others confirm my utter helplessness and even want to take advantage of it. In Sarajevo, death is a job for all of them. Life has been narrowed down completely, reduced to gestures…a man covering his head with a newspaper as he runs across the same street, scared of a sniper’s bullet.
I’m running across and intersection to avoid the bullet of a sniper from the hill when I walk straight into some photographers: they’re doing their job, in deep cover. If a bullet hit me they’d get a shot worth so much more than my life that I’m not even sure whom to hate: the Chetnik sniper or these monkeys with Nikons. For the Chetniks I’m just a simple target but those others confirm my utter helplessness and even want to take advantage of it. In Sarajevo, death is a job for all of them. Life has been narrowed down completely, reduced to gestures…a man covering his head with a newspaper as he runs across the same street, scared of a sniper’s bullet.