Ed Kashi's Reflections on His Photos, in Diaries and Letters Ed Kashi's new book "Witness Number 8: Photojournalisms" (Nazraeli Press 2012) is a collection of images, diary entries and letters to his wife, Julie Winokur. Mr. Kashi spoke about the book with James Estrin this month at the National Press Photographers Association's Northern Short Course in Fairfax, Va. Their conversation has been edited. What is your book about? Why are you doing it? I have been with Julie Winokur for 20 years and married almost 18 of them. From the very beginning of our relationship - and even before - I've written journals. Beyond the "I love you, I miss you, I'm depressed" and other pathetic entries - which there are way too many of - there are also really substantive passages describing my reactions to something I witnessed that day, or my political thoughts about what I am observing. There's also heartfelt longings of home, expressing confusion, depression and all these emotions, feelings and thoughts. The premise of the book was to put 20 to 30 journal entries and match them with images that were taken on the day of the journal entry or on the same trip. It brings out who you are - the relationship of your personal life to your professional life. My home life weighs on me more than ever. After doing it for so many years, you might think I would become inured. But in fact, I am even more sensitive and troubled by it. My kids are 14 and 17, and they are at the age when I am just realizing I have missed half their lives. It's not yet goodbye. But they are in their own lives, and they don't need me as much. They miss you a little less than they did 10 years earlier. It is absolutely true. This is all they have known. I have literally missed half of their lives. In the last two years, I have been gone eight months each year. You can't get these things back. Thank goodness our family is based on sincere and perceived love. While things are not perfect, in the grand scheme of things, we are very fortunate. They know they are loved and cared for. They know that I miss them. I spent more than half my life in hotel rooms alone. There is a loneliness with that, but when I come home, I sometimes feel even more lonely. Even though I am in their physical midst, it becomes so clear how I feel neglected. They are not asking any questions, it's just like: "Oh, Dad's home. Bye, I gotta go. I got a date," or "I am gonna hang with friends," or "I have a soccer game or a baseball game." I guess that it's healthy, but I wish felt good about it. After the first day you are home, it must feel like you are a visitor. There is a lot of overcompensation on my part. As soon as I get home, I'm up at 6 a.m. the next morning, making their breakfast and lunch, running errands. Trying to pitch in and compensate. Also, I love doing it. It's a labor of love. So it is about the longing for home and about your relationship with Julie. It is very much a fear of ending up alone. And mortality. There are times where I have actually broken down, even last summer, in front of my son, sobbing, saying I am so scared of being left alone. I am so afraid that you have grown up not having to care about me in this way, and you will go off, as your should, and have your life, and then I will have even less importance and meaning in your life. As much as you love what you do, at the end of the day, when you look back, you appreciate the life you were able to have and the work you were able to do. Your regret won't be that you didn't take one extra trip. The regret is that you took one too many trips. Exactly. Or that I missed something. There are now all these ways to be in touch. I can text from virtually anywhere on the planet. My son is a very big baseball player, he is getting recruited to college - baseball season started 30 minutes ago. This is typical, that I could be in Afghanistan, and I am thinking, "It is 1:30 in Montclair, N.J., and Eli's game just started." When you started out traveling you couldn't do that. I couldn't. The first journals were in these sweet little books. I would write in them, put things in them and draw, although I am not much of an artist. The journals began as paper journals and notebooks, and now they are e-mails. In 1992, I would go for two months straight writing these journals, and then I had to wait until I got home to show them to her. Does this ability to be closer make the longing more or less? I think it makes the longing more, because is it more present. Instead of being out of sight, out of mind - something in the moment, like a song or a smell, reminds me of Julie. Now it is constant. What does going over this material and publishing it mean to you? From a professional and intellectual point of view, I wanted to show people - that photographers are thinking, sensitive, engaged human beings. Not cowboys - or at least, I am not a cowboy looking for thrills. I am not a thrill-seeker. I am doing these things because I genuinely care. And because I am engaged. And because I want to make some difference. And also I am impacted. This needed to be just personal enough. I am not Rimbaud. The "look at me" part needs to be handled in a way that is sensitive. You see that I am struggling, but it is not gross or narcissistic. At the same time, the guts of it is to show how I dealt with being arrested in Nigeria. Or this is how I felt to deal with the Ministry of Information in Syria. Or this is what it was like to witness this death in West Virginia where they welcomed me into their home. What is the relationship between the author and the work? You can argue either that the work stands on its own, or two - you need to understand the author and the back story. In general, in our discipline of photojournalism, we disappear. I am not trying to be a Nan Goldin; I don't want to be a navel-gazer. I want to be a mirror of what I see. But with the aging work, which segued into taking care of my father-in-law and making two films, the idea of self-introspection began to take hold with me. I was doing the journal writings because I needed to do it. I had no idea I would have a book published. It was a form of self-expression. A form of connecting. I am someone who needs to be connected. I like to be close to people. I like to touch people. The people I am close to, my family, I really want to be connect with them. It grounds me. It makes me feel that I am not alone. Below are edited excerpts from Mr. Kashi's letters and journal entries over the years. The dates and place names correspond to the writing. Danube Delta, Romania. I just came back from photographing a funeral in a little delta village. The man who died was 61. He was walking his herd of cows by the river, collapsed from a heart attack and fell into the surf. He wasn't found for two days. The funeral was very moving for me. Once again, I was heaving with tears and emotions. The scene was so beautiful, with his body in an open casket, candles lighted around the periphery of the box, with his family and many members of this small fishing village around.... It all made me think how hard we humans try to recognize and respect the possibility of a spiritual world, and even if we are deluding ourselves and a human death is really no different than a dead seagull's un-witnessed passing in the lonely shores of some far-off island, we at least try to create a memory and belief that these acts will make sense and give meaning to it all. Da Nang, Vietnam. July 9, 2010. Had a good morning of shooting with Ly, the little girl we've covered so far. She went to the hospital for a checkup. Her chest is concave. She'll need surgery, but she's too thin and weak. The doctors told her mom she needs to eat more. Easy for them to say. The spirit of Ly and the love and support of her family were quite lovely to witness. She is a special little girl and will hopefully pull through. Wish I had something more profound to say, but my reserves are empty. Zululand, South Africa. Sept. I am once again facing the demons of a tough fixer, the loneliness of the road and less-than-perfect conditions. But all my current problems pale when I think about our new baby on the way. I know it was a shock for me when I first got the news that you were pregnant again, but now that we're settled into this new reality, I am jumping out of my skin with excitement. Who knows what we'll have? I know you want a girl this time. I just want a healthy baby. Today, we went out at dusk to photograph the cane fields being burned. It was exciting, and I had a near miss. The hot embers were flying everywhere, and Zulu field workers were armed with big sticks to bat the embers down as they tried to fly from the burning field to an adjacent field that was not ready for burning. The consequences of that would be devastating for the farmers. I was on the fire break road that separates the two fields, trying to photograph the Zulu worker swinging at burning embers, when a bunch of them fell down on me. They burned holes in my clothes and caught my forearm and left a small burn mark. It was harrowing for a moment, but I also think I made a compelling image of the scene. Every night, I go to sleep wondering how you're feeling, thinking about your swollen belly and all the magic that's inside. I can't wait to meet our new child. Only a few more months left. I love you so dearly and deeply. Abu Ghraib, Iraq. Apirl 8, 2004. I had quite a day, but I'm thankfully home and safe. I went through two fierce firefights on highways today. One in Abu Ghraib necessitated us barreling out of the car and jumping into ditches while gunfire, and R.P.G. rounds were exchanged between insurgents and American convoy... and then a few hours later driving back from Sadr City on one of the highways in Baghdad. Man... not fun or pretty, but thankfully, we were unscathed. My driver and fixer quit on me today... They'd had enough. Bataween District, Baghdad. April 5, 2004. I just spent the morning trying to find and speak to some Jews. Salam took me to a new neighborhood, close to Aged Al-Nassara, where my father is from. It's right by the Tigris, and in its day, must have been quite beautiful. The architecture in some places is stunningly rich in detail and a sort of colonial style with wrought iron terraces. Now, it's all encrusted with dirt, falling apart and surrounded with trash and the detritus of war. I am livid at the use of politics that stir ethnic hatreds to destroy the goodness that people can find amongst each other. It's so hard to get a straight answer about the Jews here. I'm very frustrated, and then once we find someone, they don't want to talk or be photographed. It's also been too long since my family left to find anyone who will remember my parents. Some locals remember the Kashi name and say the last one left in 1991 to London. That jives with what I heard in 1991 when I came here for NG [National Geographic] and visited my mom's area. Shuiluo River, China. 9:20 p.m. Today was one of the most humbling days of my life both physically and mentally. I fell out of the boat on a tough rapid, a grade 5, through tight sheer-faced canyon walls. I lost one of the Nikon cameras and a roll of film almost at the end with possibly good images. That film will be preserved forever at the bottom of a deep river canyon, sealed in a waterproof camera. I am O.K. My right hand hurts. Today was very scary, and not just for me. Two other boats flipped, people are sore and tired. The last two hours were through continuous rapids in tight canyons. About five miles back, a tributary merged with the main water, so now the river is almost twice as big. At the moment, we are camped on the edge of rapids with very loud water not more than 15 feet away from the jagged and uneven river walls I will be sleeping on. If I may set the scene, we are 15 miles into a 65-mile stretch of river nobody has ever rafted down. Every bend is a surprise. A waterfall would possibly end the trip and force us to hike out, leaving everything we can't carry. There are no towns nearby, only small clusters of Tibetan structures scattered above the river on the cliffs and mountains. If anyone gets hurt, we are in big trouble. Help is possibly days away. I'm fighting to keep my spirits up and fear down. I want to survive to see you and Eli again. I've never experienced anything like this before. These people, for their own reasons enjoy this or need to do something on the edge. I have nothing to prove. The photography work is also very tough, and I'm constantly having to re-evaluate my methods to be safe but effective. I hope tomorrow is smoother. My body is aching, reminding me of the tough day just passed. I love you and want to see you again. This desire will help me overcome my mounting fears and remind me of what I must survive this for. The rocks are swaying, like on the raft through the rapids. Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. March 9, 1994. 4:57 p.m. I talked to two classes at one of the local universities. They probably did not understand three-fourths of what I said, but it was worthwhile nonetheless. It was unavoidable to express some guilt over America's criminal actions in their country, and it was hard to not express concerns about the imminent invasion of big business and multinationals. I don't mean to be naïve, but it's sickening to me what our country did here. It was truly a dark period of American foreign policy and immoral behavior. It's interesting, but Vietnam is one of the few places where the slight generation gap between you and me exists... or at least shows itself. Conyers, Ga. 8:45 a.m. I'm lying in bed in my disinfected room. It's very hot out today. I tried to sleep late, but it's not something I know how to do real well. Wondering what you are doing at the moment. And how's little Eli? Dead cockroaches on the walls, no fresh food in the area, my head aches. Is it the disinfectant or the wine from last night? There are no windows in this place. I need fresh air. I miss you already. I love both of you. Deeply. Arbil, Iraq. April 18, 2005. The young recruits were much better outfitted and armed (thanks to the Americans) than when I photographed a similar situation in 1991. They were crisp, attentive and confident. I am trying to get out on patrols and photograph them on duty, at checkpoints, etc. Training shots at this point leave a lot to be desired for me. In general, I am dealing with image and experience fatigue. I've seen and photographed too much at this point in my life and seem to constantly be facing situations I've been in before. It's the visual challenge, but moreover and more importantly, it's the challenge of making it meaningful and being able to find a purpose to the work I'm doing beyond completing an assignment. I am just not the same person I was and am not satisfied as easily. I ended the day in frustration and just went to sleep in the car. Then as we were driving, I opened my eyes to see two tour buses of schoolboys piling out to a monument on a hill of two Iraqi tanks that commemorate a battle that the pesh merga won in 1991. I jumped out of the car and hopefully made a cool and meaningful image. I'm going to sleep now, but my heart is heavy with your dad on my mind and your upcoming challenges. Get ready for a new cycle of nonwork activities to hit hard. But it's all important stuff that is about improving both our lives and your dad's. Please write me when you can. I love hearing details from you. Okoroma, Nembe, Nigeria. 3:30 p.m. We have been arrested at gunpoint by a Nigerian Joint Task Force protecting this flow station. We were photographing from the river without permission. I already have nice images of this exact place from two years ago. We are in Okoroma, Nembe, in the creeks. We have been detained, harshly questioned for two hours, they have asked us to sign an "accused" statement and only verbally bullied us, particularly me, so far. Elias [my fixer] and I were stopped along with a boat driver, boatman, local guide and a brother and sister from a nearby tiny village who were hitching a free ride to town. We warned them they would be delayed while I did my work, but we never imagined this. Poor souls. Now the authorities have let everyone else go except Elias and me. It's 6:30 p.m., so I have a feeling we will be spending the night since it's too dangerous to go on the rivers during darkness. They have treated us well so far. Elias and I are now locked up in one of the rooms for the soldiers, sharing a single mattress. At least there is air conditioning, and they are feeding us and giving us water. But they have taken our phones and all my equipment. Elias is now asleep and beyond the walls are the voices of the military men watching a World Cup match. It's time to chill and wait it out. I'm not yet worried, but it could escalate if they become aggressive. I will rest now. Simferopol, Crimea, Ukraine. June 1, 1993. We have just had an incredibly long day. It was amazing, sad, emotional, productive and in the end, frustrating and destructive... Ready!?! We started at 4:45 a.m. in a Tatar village a half-hour outside of Simferopol. Today was Kurban Bayrami, a Muslim holiday of sacrifice. I photographed a bull being slaughtered in detail, a feast that followed... and then... I was able to document a Muslim funeral... in detail. These events of ritual slaughter and burial were so raw, and the death scene really hit me. Seeing the dead body up close (only my third) and the fact that he was 61 reminded me of my dad. Watching the older daughter wailing and yelling out his name repeatedly made me think of how I didn't have a chance to say goodbye to Dad. When we got to the cemetery, I finished shooting once the body was buried. I decided to just sit with the 30 to 40 men that accompanied the body there. I wanted to show respect to them for having let me into such intimate situations. I really miss you and am getting excited about coming home and seeing you.... Much love. Ed Kashi has spent the last 30 years documenting social and political issues. He is a frequent contributor to National Geographic and an owning member VII Photo Agency. His books include "Curse of Black Gold: 50 Years of Oil in the Niger Delta" (Powerhouse Books, 2008) and "Aging in America: The Years Ahead" (Powerhouse Books, 2003). With his wife, Ms. Winokur, Mr. Kashi has made several films including "Aging in America: The Years Ahead" and "The Sandwich Generation." He is working on an app and multimedia piece for "Witness Number 8: Photojournalisms." Follow @nytimesphoto, @edkashi and @JamesEstrin on Twitter.