Rangefinder Magazine
December 2005

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Deanne Fitzmaurice Judith Bell
Pulitzer Prize Winner 2005, Feature Photography

The Pulitzer

Since the early 1900s when newspaper publishing magnate and journalism pioneer Joseph Pulitzer made provision in his will for the establishment of the Pulitzer Prizes as an incentive to achievement in journalism, letters and drama, the Pulitzer has become synonymous with professional excellence. More than 2000 entries are submitted each year in the Pulitzer Prize competitions, with 21 awards normally made, one of which is for photography.

This year, the Pulitzer Prize in Feature Photography was awarded to Deanne Fitzmaurice of the San Francisco Chronicle for her sensitive feature photo essay on an Oakland hospital’s effort to mend Saleh Khalaf, a 9-year-old Iraqi boy nearly killed by a random explosion. The explosion had ripped open Saleh’s abdomen, torn off his right hand and most of the fingers on his left hand, blown out his left eye and killed his older brother.

While Saleh was recovering, he and his father lived at the Children’s Hospital Family House. During the next 10 months, Saleh would undergo 32 surgeries.

Fitzmaurice’s photographs chart not only Saleh’s difficult journey, but also record the indomitable spirit that earned him the nickname “Lion Heart.”

About Deanne Fitzmaurice

A graduate of the Academy of Art College in San Francisco, where she earned a BFA in photography, Fitzmaurice is an awardwinning photographer who has worked at the San Francisco Chronicle for 16 years. She has been published in Time, Newsweek, U.S. News & World Report, Sports Illustrated, ESPN the Magazine and People. She also has participated in “Day in the Life” book projects. Her numerous awards include honors from the Society of Professional Journalists, National Press Photographers Association and the California Press Photographers Association. The Bay Area Press Photographers Association named her Photographer of the Year in 2002.

Top left: While Saleh was recovering, he and his father, Raheem, lived at the Children’s Hospital Family House, where Raheem spread out his rug for the daily prayers required of Muslims. Bay Area well-wishers sent Saleh toys and stuffed animals. Top right: In the 10 months after the explosion, Saleh would undergo 32 surgeries. Here he awaits an operation to repair his left eyelid so he can accommodate a prosthetic eye. In addition to the operations, Saleh would need months of rehabilitation and emotional therapy. Center left: Raheem started most nights in bed with Saleh and then slipped off to a chair when Saleh fell asleep. He was still grieving the death of his oldest son, Dia, killed when Saleh was maimed. Two months after the incident, Raheem had not told Saleh his brother was dead. Center right: Though usually upbeat, Saleh was sensitive about his appearance. One afternoon, when he saw other children staring at him, Saleh became angry and upset. Nurses sought to soothe him by taping a felt tip pen to his arm so he could draw pictures. Saleh drew an airplane dropping bombs. Bottom left: Saleh’s recovery went better than anyone expected. One night at Children’s Hospital, he and a custodian, Khaled Abdorabihe, played soccer in the hallway until a nurse caught them and sent Saleh back to bed. Bottom right: Months into Saleh’s recovery, hospital officials reluctantly told Raheem that they would need the Family House for other patients. A Bay Area couple, Leslie and Daniel Troutner, came to the rescue, finding a place for Saleh and Raheem in Oakland. Saleh jumped for joy as Daniel assembled his new bed.

Judith Bell: How did the assignment on Saleh Khalaf come to you?

Deanne Fitzmaurice: I’m a general-assignment photographer, shooting for all sections of the paper, everything from sports and news to entertainment. This story began in November 2003 as an ordinary daily assignment. I was sitting in the photo lab at the Chronicle, and an editor came back and asked me to go photograph an Iraqi boy who’d been brought to Children’s Hospital in Oakland. When I walked in that hospital room with staff writer Meredith May, we were just beside ourselves.

JB: How do you handle a situation like this? Were you prepared for it?

DF: When I’m photographing, it’s easier. I’m removed because I know I have to make the photo. I put up a protective shield and go forward. I shot this photo of this unconscious little boy. He looked so frail; they didn’t know if he would survive. It was difficult because of the language barrier with Raheem, his father. He put his hand to his heart to show his gratitude to us. The picture ran on the first page the next day. We went to our respective editors saying we wanted to continue following the story.

JB: How did you envision the coverage?

DF: We thought Saleh would be taken care of and sent back to Iraq in six weeks or so. Our idea was to follow him as long as he was here. We had to work at gaining the trust of the hospital with all its privacy issues, and with Raheem. It’s always a challenge, but more so with language barriers.

JB: How do you establish the rapport that allows you to shoot these revealing vulnerable moments?

DF: I communicated with Saleh through photography early on, about the third visit. I was working digitally, so I would show him an image when I thought it would make him laugh or smile. He began to want to shoot himself. It was difficult for him to manage with the stump on his right arm, but he could fire the shutter. No one tells this child he can’t do something, he has such an amazing spirit and will that he shares with his father. I think that’s what saved his life. After four weeks, he wanted to walk around the hospital and take photographs.

JB: What was happening in the Chronicle? How was the ongoing coverage featured?

DF: After a month, when it looked like the family would stay, the paper made a long-term commitment to the story. There’s the problem with what the competition does with the story, but no one followed it with our level of depth.

JB: Were there major moments when you had to react?

DF: Yes, the day Saleh left the hospital, right before Christmas, the hospital issued a news release. There was TV coverage, competing newspapers, the wires. We did a one-picture short story about his release. We just stayed the course, continuing on with the in-depth story.

JB: What sort of schedule did you set up for shooting? How do you stay on top of someone’s life?

DF: We were there one day a week, trying to be present for the big events—such as moving into an apartment and Saleh’s first day at school. We communicated with him through his cell phone—he quickly picked up basic English.

Top left: As he ventured more often outside the hospital, Saleh took to wearing sunglasses to hide his scars. On this trip to the grocery store, he forgot them and drew the stares of other customers. Top right: Upset by the stares of strangers, Saleh ran from the store. Raheem chased him down and tried to console him, but it was too much for Saleh. In front of their apartment building, he fell to the ground sobbing as Raheem stood helplessly above him. Bottom left: His major surgeries behind him, Saleh started taking classes at Park Day School. When it was his turn in the storyteller’s chair, Saleh riveted the other children with tales of his life in Iraq. He talked about catching fish in the river near his house and how wild animals roamed the neighborhood. Bottom right: Saleh quickly made friends at Park, where he strolled though the hallway arm-in-arm with Owen Clark and Austin Bisharat. Saleh was especially close to Austin, who is a Palestinian-American.

JB: On these days, how long were you with them?

DF: It varied. Saleh’s mood was a factor. Some days he was frustrated, and we could see it. Other times he would be up, and we’d pile in the car and go to the beach, whatever he wanted to do, with us just following along.

JB: As subjects become more comfortable with you, do they forget you’re there?

DF: We became part of their scene. It’s a delicate line with documentary work. You want to not influence, not be part of what’s going on. But you can’t withdraw and only observe, or your subjects become uncomfortable with you.

Top left: Now that he was living on his own, Raheem needed a job to support himself and Saleh. He found work as a custodian at the hospital that helped save his son’s life. Raheem started his workday at 4 a.m. Top right: Nearly a year after arriving in the United States, Saleh and Raheem were granted asylum, as were the other members of their family—mother Hadia, daughters Marwa and Zahra and new baby Ali. Hadia’s brother-in-law, Kareem, helped them make the perilous journey out of Iraq. Here they are about to enter Jordan. Middle left: Relieved after crossing the border into the safety of Jordan, Hadia relaxed as Marwa slept in the front seat of a van. Now all that remained was to wait for visas and begin the journey to America, where Hadia and the children would be reunited with Saleh and Raheem. Middle right: In Amman, Jordan, Hadia took her family to a portrait studio to get their passport photos. Ali, the baby boy whom Raheem and Saleh would soon meet, was bounced on an assistant’s knee in order to keep him awake for the picture. Bottom left: Saleh and Raheem caught sight of Hadia and the children at San Francisco International Airport for the first time in more than a year. “There she is!” Saleh squealed as he and his father raced toward the long-awaited reunion. In his hand, Saleh held tight to a ring he’d bought at Wal-Mart as a present for his mother. Bottom center: Saleh rushed to hug his mother and his new baby brother, Ali, at San Francisco International Airport. Hadia dropped to her knees and embraced the son she had last seen thinking he was dying. Behind, Raheem opened his arms to his daughters, Marwa and Zahra. Bottom right: The apartment Raheem, Hadia and their children would share in Oakland was a far cry from the crumbling home with spotty electricity that they had shared in their small Iraqi village. On the evening of their arrival, Raheem and Saleh were so happy to have their family back that they danced for joy.

JB: Do you do a lot of immersion stories like this?

DF: Over the years I have gravitated toward them. It’s much more fulfilling to tell a story in this way. The daily work feels superficial by comparison. This has been my focus over the last few years. The paper is very supportive. If I find the story, they will let me do it.

JB: How do you keep your momentum up over the long term for this kind of story?

DF: It does get hard. There are days you don’t want to go back. My editors were supportive. They nudged me along.

JB: How many images would you shoot on an average day?

DF: Probably comparable to three or four rolls of 36. Overall, I was shooting quite a bit. But there were days Saleh would say “no pictures.” Then he’d do something amazing, and we’d go through some negotiation.

JB: How do you decide the best moment to run the story?

DF: We decided to hold the story until a large readership would be around. The big three-part series began in September 2004 and ran three consecutive days. Meredith and I knew the story so well, the editors let us direct the layout. The stories started on page one with four pages inside. We decided to run fewer bigger photos.

JB: You’ve been shooting for news publications since the beginning your career. Is that what you wanted to do?

DF: I learned how to shoot a little of everything. But photojournalism was it for me. I loved the adventure, interacting with people, the unpredictability of it. I liked being on the pulse and having to figure out a situation.

JB: You also went to Iraq to record Saleh’s mother and siblings’ journey to the States. After spending time with him and his father, what was it like to go into their world?

DF: Saleh had already opened that window. He brought the war and his world home to me in such a personal way—I wanted the story to do that for the readers too. And judging from the hundreds of emails and incredible financial support for the family, the photographs communicated all that and more. That is what my work is about.

As they settled into their apartment in Oakland, Hadia prepared meals for the family. Raheem, with daughter Marwa in her rightful place at the center of daddy’s universe, gave Hadia a playful nudge when she said he looked funny without his mustache.