The next three photos are by Paolo Pellegrin, a Roman photojournalist, long-time member of the Magnum agency, and winner of 11 World Press Photo awards.
The first photograph shows an elderly couple in Konstantynivka (Donetsk Oblast) selling off their belongings: on tablecloths or cardboard are jugs, containers, a box, perhaps containing puzzles? Nothing of value. Although this probably doesn't matter anyway: besides these two frozen figures, there's no other person in the photo.
The second photograph is saturated with emotion. A woman and a man lean towards each other. She holds his head, and he reaches for her other hand. A lyrical, quiet scene – one that could only evoke tender emotion if not for the caption, which states that the man is a soldier and that the couple is in a secret location in the Kharkiv Oblast.
Finally, the third photograph by Pellegrin – a kneeling woman in a black outfit, throwing flowers onto the road. This is a custom that has been present in many villages and towns in Ukraine since the beginning of the war: when a funeral procession with a fallen soldier arrives in their hometown, the residents greet them in this very way.
The exhibition's title refers to the term 'collateral damage,' which dates back to the Cold War era and refers to civilian losses (referring to both material objects and people) accidentally caused by warfare in international law. The exhibition's curators argue that the destroyed cities, traumatized children, and the poverty that befalls residents are not 'collateral damage”. Co-curator Irene Lombardo of Magnum Photos emphasizes that the photographs documenting everyday life 'refute the notion that the fate of civilians is a sideline. They show us that what is often described as collateral lies at the heart of a subject we must never forget.'
The exhibition also features photographs by Polish photojournalist Rafał Milach. He is the author of those shocking portraits of young women who demonstrated their support for the Azovites with their own faces. However, another of his photographs is most impressive: a colorful corner in a shelter, a plastic donkey, a red foam mat, and a rope ladder. A place where children can play during air raids. I'm glad they're not in the photo – and that I don't have to look at them right now.
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Children, however, appear in the last three photographs of Non-Collateral… – older ones and not from Ukraine, but from the countries of the former Yugoslavia. In one of the shots by Abbas, an Iranian-French photographer, a young boy runs across the Latin Bridge – then called the Bridge of Death in Sarajevo because of the shelling. The caption under the photo states that the boy is so small that he doesn't have to bend down like adults – he's invisible behind the containers that protect passersby from Serbian snipers' bullets.
Another shot: a group of laughing children slides down the middle of the street on sleds. At any moment, Serbian mortar shells could rain down on the road, but the photo shows no fear: for now, the only thing that has fallen is snow – and that's the most important thing right now.
Together with Abbas' fourth painting, from 1999, depicting a market in ruins in the Kosovo town of Peć, the photos from the 1990s form a bridge between Non-Collateral… and the second exhibition currently underway at HMH: Warsaw Reborn which presents reportage photographs from 1945–1949 from the archives of the Polish Press Agency. Both exhibitions – the wartime Ukrainian-Bosnian-Kosovan one and the post-war Warsaw one – clash on the one hand, but on the other, they intertwine; one flows seamlessly into the other.