PARIS, FRANCE — My photos are my memory. Whenever I forget something, I rely on visual cues to bring it back, and behind each image, my mind tries to reconstruct everything beyond the frame.
Recently, while working in my archives on conflict zones 2016–2017, I stumbled across a photo that did exactly that — my hand holding a bullet, a military vehicle blurred in the background. It pulled me back nine years, to a moment that has stayed with me ever since.
I was photographing a soldier when my assistant gave him a look he didn’t like. The soldier turned to me. “To me, he’s worth a bullet.” No shouting. No anger. Just a flat, measured voice.
I didn’t ask what he meant. I didn’t need to. Where I come from, that sentence is not a figure of speech. It is a decision. I held his gaze for a second that felt longer than it was. His eyes were dark, steady — not emotional, not impulsive. Certain.
I nodded once. Then I took my assistant aside and told him to leave. Not later. Now. I would finish the shoot and join him. The air had changed. It was heavier. Quieter.
He hadn’t threatened loudly. He hadn’t raised a weapon. He had simply stated a fact, and I knew he meant it. In that moment, I understood what it meant to be “worth a bullet.”
That sentence has returned to me now because of the photograph, and because it represents a key turning point in my career. Working in conflict zones sharpens awareness, and the brain stores emotionally intense moments vividly. Tribal and cultural codes of violence linger in memory.
The moment captures the thin line between life and death, the energy in the room, and the quiet rehearsals of the subconscious. It is tied to identity formation — to who I am in conflict.
Not all bullets are fired from guns. Some are fired from mouths. The first strikes the body. The second can strike far beyond.
The phrase “worth a bullet” is not just metaphorical in some places. In Yemen’s tribal zones, words can carry the weight of action. I spoke with Sheikh Amin Al-Shuaibi, Director of Tribal Cohesion in the city of Ibb, who explained that a sentence like this is a formal declaration, a measure of honor, and sometimes a precursor to violence.
In that moment with the soldier, I didn’t need to know the formal rules — I could feel the weight of choice, the quiet authority of someone who understood life and death differently than I ever had. That understanding would follow me, returning in other conflicts, and eventually lead me to confront the phrase in its full cultural context: ديتك رصاصة — “you are worth a bullet.”
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