남아메리카의 젊은이들이 무작정 미국으로 밀입국하기 위하여 죽음을 무릎쓰고
온갖 고생을 하는 것을 찍은 Los Angeles 의 Don Barletti가 수상하였다.
In the vast migration that is changing the US, a Honduran boy rides a freight through Mexico. Each year thousands of undocumented Central Americans stow away for 1,500 miles on the tops and sides of trains. Some are parents desperate to escape poverty. Many are children in search of a parent who left them behind long ago. Only the brave and the lucky reach their goal. ( Don Bartletti / Los Angeles Times )
Buzzards and children compete for scraps at the Tegucigalpa, Honduras, landfill. Boys scavenge for anything they can eat or sell. Northbound freight trains through Mexico are crowded with Hondurans fleeing poverty and in search of work or a relative in the U.S.
Elio Trujillo Martinez, 13, works for tips in an outdoor market in Tegucigalpa, hauling goods in a handmade wheelbarrow. Independence comes at an early age in impoverished Honduras. Each year the country loses thousands of children who flee to the United States in search of parents who left them behind.
Richard Alberto Funez waves a toy pistol and acts like a tough guy, to the amusement of his buddy, Alexis Joel Sanchez. In Richard's other hand is a soda can full of glue. Both ten-year-old orphans are addicted to the fumes. They roam Tegucigalpa to scavenge food and beg for money. Local outreach volunteers say many street urchins were left behind by a parent who went to the U.S.
Teenage boys peer out of a jail cell crowded with stowaways captured in Chiapas, Mexico. Next stop, deportation to the Guatemala border. Many undocumented Central Americans make numerous attempts to reach the U.S. border aboard freight trains. ( Don Bartletti / Los Angeles Times )
Some migrants cross the Suchiate River on the Guatemala-Mexico border on crude rafts like this one being hauled out on the Mexican side. Here in the state of Chiapas, undocumented Cental American migrants are hunted by authorities and gangsters with equal ferocity. ( Don Bartletti / Los Angeles Times )
Undocumented Central Americans crowd the tops of freight train cars in Mexico. They will be treated as lawbreaking foreigners if caught, but cargo rail lines have become a major passageway north to the U.S. border.
Even pauses on the trek are filled with risk as a twelve-year-old makes a daredevil leap from one freight care to another. He hopes to eventually reach San Diego, where his mother is working.( Don Bartletti / Los Angeles Times )
Clinging to the top of a speeding freight train migrants duck under dangerously close tree branches. Honduran stowaways call the migration route through Mexico "the beast" for its life-threatening hazards. ( Don Bartletti / Los Angeles Times )
Clinging on to the end of a speeding boxcar, Santo Antonio Gamay, 25, shows the fatigue of 15 hours riding a freight train. He's minutes from leaping off and in an attempt to outrun Mexican immigration authorities at the Tonala, Chiapas checkpoint. The Honduran has been arrested 3 times there and deported to the Guatemala border. He wants to go to Toronto, Canada.
Groupo Beta undercover police agents grab a youth near an immigration checkpoint in Chiapas, Mexico. Along the rail line, Beta agents pursue robbers who prey upon hapless migrants.
Twelve-year-old Dennis Ivan Contrares, two weeks out of Honduras, has only his mother's San Diego phone number to go on. After a fitful night on the northbound Mexican freight he says his dreams are always the same: "find mama, go to school, learn English and help other children. I would help the street children because I walk the streets and they die in the streets."
A Honduran teenager wearing a school backpack gets a toehold on a moving freight train in Vera Cruz, Mexico. To avoid authorities, migrants hide until the train picks up speed. The dangerous tactic increases the chance of slipping on the gravel or falling under the wheels. ( Don Bartletti / Los Angeles Times )
Carlos Roberto Diaz Osorto, 17, lies on a hospital bed in Arriaga, Mexico, with his parents at his side. Carlos slipped beneath the wheels of a tank car that severed his left leg and crushed his right foot.
In the Chiapas, Mexico countryside, a boy and girl race their horse alongside a freight train. The fleeting scene brought a few moments of joy to young Honduran stowaways who have learned to fear the worst from people along the rails.
A northbound freight glides through the verdant landscape in Vera Cruz.
The hands of Central American migrants and those of Mexicans passing them food meet as a train passes through Fortin de las Flores, Mexico. The simple generosity of the poor residents along the tracks through Vera Cruz state is legendary among train-riding stowaways.
Dawn breaks near Mexico City, and teenage travelers huddle next to burning scraps of clothing and trash. Dressed as they were when they left tropical Honduras weeks ago, they were unprepared for the cold nights in the mountains.
With hundreds of miles of rail travel behind them, Honduran migrants slumber by the Rio Grande in Nuevo Laredo, Mexico. Migrants often stall here; U.S. Border Patrol agents across the river in Texas thwart many attempts to enter the U.S. illegally.
After a trip on the rails through the length of Mexico, two Central American youths slip quietly into the Rio Grande. Seventy-five yards across the murky river is their long-sought dream: the United States. ( Don Bartletti / Los Angeles Times )
Reunited after seven years, Enrique and his mother embrace in North Carolina. "This is my son," she says. "It's a miracle he's here." Enrique survived three months on the rails to reach her. Experts estimate that 48,000 children from Central America and Mexico enter the U.S. each year illegally and without either of their parents. ( Don Bartletti / Los Angeles Times )
리베리아의 내전이 심화되는 과정에서 선량한 시민이 전쟁의 참화에 휘말리고 있는
상황을 알린 Los Angeles Times의 Carolyn Cole이 수상함.
January 16, 2008: Protesters flee as Kenyan police use tear gas and fire live rounds to disperse a rally in the capital, Nairobi. Thousands of Raila Odinga's supporters clashed with police in several cities, defying a ban on protests. (Carolyn Cole / Los Angeles Times)
January 16, 2008: Armed with machetes and rocks, supporters of Raila Odinga face off with their opponents before being chased way by the army. (Carolyn Cole / Los Angeles Times)
January 6, 2008: Hundreds of people followed Red Cross food distribution trucks through the Mathare slum of Nairobi. Riot police were called in to control the situation.
January 16, 2008: On the second day of a nation wide protest rally in opposition to President Kibaki's re-election, violence broke out in the slums of Nairobi and in the downtown business district. Riot police used tear gas and fired live rounds to disperse people in Kibera slum.(Carolyn Cole / Los Angeles Times)
January 18, 2008: Residents in the Kibera slum mourn over a woman and man killed when police opened fire on protesters. (Carolyn Cole / Los Angeles Times)
January 13, 2008: Residents of Katata, site of a tiny coffee farm in Kenya's western Rift Valley, patrol their village after a recent attack that left one person dead and 32 homes destroyed.
January 5, 2008: Parishioners pray in a partly burned Lutheran church in Kibera, another of Nairobi's slums, where severe food shortages have fueled instability.
2005년 Deanne Fitzmaurice, San Francisco chronicle
폭발로 죽을 뻔 했던 소년을 살리는 노력을 한 오크랜드 병원의 노력에 대한 이야기
The mission to save Saleh brought him and his father to Children's Hospital Oakland, leaving his pregnant mother and two younger sisters behind in Iraq. The explosion had ripped open Saleh's abdomen, torn off his right hand and most fingers on his left, blown out his left eye and killed his older brother.
In the 10 months after the explosion, Saleh would undergo 32 surgeries. Here he awaits an operation to repair his left eyelid so that he can accommodate a prosthetic eye. In addition to the operations, Saleh would need months of rehabilitation and emotional therapy.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Saleh quickly made friends at Park, where he strolled through the hallway arm-in-arm with Owen Clark (right) and Austin Bisharat. Saleh was especially close to Austin, who is a Palestinian-American.
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.
이락에서 관으로 귀국한 콜로라도 출신 해병의 장례식
Marine Major Steve Beck prepares for the final inspection of 2nd Lt. James J. Cathey's body, only days after notifying Cathey's wife of the Marine's death in Iraq. The knock at the door begins a ritual steeped in tradition more than two centuries old; a tradition based on the same tenet: "Never leave a Marine behind." When the wars began in Afghanistan and Iraq, Maj. Steve Beck expected to find himself overseas, in the heat of battle. He never thought he would be the one arranging funerals for his fallen comrades.
At the first sight of her husband's flag-draped casket, Katherine Cathey broke into uncontrollable sobs, finding suport in the arms of Major Steve Beck. When Beck first knocked on her door in Brighton, Colo., to notify her of her husband's death, she glared at him, cursed him, and refused to speak to him for more than an hour. Over the next several days, he helped guide her through the grief. By the time they reached the tarmac, she wouldn't let go.
When 2nd Lt. James Cathey's body arrived at the Reno Airport, Marines climbed into the cargo hold of the plane and draped the flag over his casket as passengers watched the family gather on the tarmac. During the arrival of another Marine's casket last year at Denver International Airport, Major Steve Beck described the scene as one of the most powerful in the process. "See the people in the windows? They sit right there in the plane, watching those Marines. You gotta wonder what's going through their minds, knowing that they're on the plane that brought him home," he said. "They're going to remember being on that plane for the rest of their lives. And they should."
Minutes after her husband's casket arrived at the Reno airport, Katherine Cathey fell onto the flag. When 2nd Lt. James Cathey left for Iraq, he wrote a letter to Katherine that read, in part, "there are no words to describe how much I love you, and will miss you. I will also promise you one thing: I will be home. I have a wife and a new baby to take care of, and you guys are my world."
Jo Burns cries as she and her husband Bob opened the boxes containing their son's uniforms from Iraq -- boxes delivered by Maj. Steve Beck. "For me, having all this back is a good thing," she said a few minutes later. "I want to remember. I don't ever want to forget, or to stop feeling." Bob Burns then took her hand. "I don't want to forget either," he said. "I just don't want to hurt."
Marine Sgt. Jeremy Kocher stands watch near the body of Lance Cpl. Evenor Herrera in Eagle, as children and adults from the area poured in to pay their respects. Like many of the Marines stationed at Buckley Air Force Base in Aurora, Kocher says the funeral detail is the most difficult mission he's ever done. "I actually start thinking about it the moment I wake up. It's such an important job that I just don't want to mess it up," he said. "I just want it to be perfect."
Marines lift the flag off the casket of Lance Cpl. Evenor Herrera, preparing to fold it for the last time and present it to Herrera's parents, Blanca and David Stibbs, center. After watching so many scenes of grief, the Marines involved say the cries of the family never leave their mind. "It's almost enough to wish that you could take his place, so these people wouldn't hurt so much," said Sgt. Kevin Thomas.
After learning that a family had received their son's posthumous medals in the mail, Major Steve Beck planned an event he called "Remembering the Brave," during which he personally presented medals to families he has watched over. "When you think about what these guys did, it's not easy to look at these medals," he said. "What's the trade-off? How do you say 'This is for your son?'"
Since James Cathey was killed in a massive explosion, his body was delicately wrapped in a shroud by military morticians, then his Marine uniform was laid atop his body. Since Katherine Cathey decided not to view her husband's body, Maj. Steve Beck took her hand, and pressed it down on the uniform. "He's here," he said quietly. "Feel right here."
The night before the burial of her husband's body, Katherine Cathey refused to leave the casket, asking to sleep next to his body for the last time. The Marines made a bed for her, tucking in the sheets below the flag. Before she fell asleep, she opened her laptop computer and played songs that reminded her of "Cat," and one of the Marines asked if she wanted them to continue standing watch as she slept. "I think it would be kind of nice if you kept doing it," she said. "I think that's what he would have wanted."
As his son's funeral neared, Jeff Cathey's tears rarely stopped. He often found comfort in the men who shared his son's uniform. "Someone asked me what I learned from my son," he said. "He taught me you need more than one friend."
독신 엄마와 암과 힘겨운 싸움을 하고 있는 아들에 대한 자상한 자화상
Cyndie French, embraces her son, Derek Madsen, 10, on July 25, 2005, after learning Derek needs surgery to remove a cancerous tumor in his abdomen. The emotional impact is taking its toll on her. "How can anyone maintain a nine-to-five job and do this?" she begins to wonder.
Derek playfully taunts his mother as Cyndie tries to coax him down from a wall outside the UC Davis Medical Center in Sacramento. They are there to admit Derek for cancer surgery the following day. Cyndia, who understands Derek's emotional meltdown before procedures, spends hours getting him in the door of the hospital.
Shortly after his 11th birthday and Cyndie's 40th, Derek is comforted by his brother Micah Moffe, 17, left, and mom Cyndie, right, as he gets a tattoo in preparation for radiation therapy on November 30, 2005. Micah often accompanies Derek to treatments even though his schoolwork suffers.
Derek is tearful as Cyndie tries to reason with him at the UC Davis Cancer Center on Feb. 14, 2006. She and Dr. William Hall argue that Derek should have a series of radiation treatments to shrink tumors spreading throughout his body and alleviate his pain. "Derek, you might not make it if you don't do this," Cyndie tells her son. Derek fires back: "I don't care! Take me home. I'm done, Mom. Are you listening to me? I'm done."
After placing a flower beside her son's head, a sobbing Cyndie drops to the floor on April 25, as her best friend, Kelly Whysong, left, and another friend, Nick Rocha, comfort her. Derek is too weak to acknowledge his mother's presence as she keeps a 24-hour vigil by his bed.
Derek has a final burst of energy after days of Cyndie keeping vigil at his bedside. She helps her anguished son walk on April 26. A cancerous tumor has distended Derek's stomach so far that his pants no longer fit. Another tumor in his brain impairs his eyesight making navigation difficult inside their rental home.
Cyndie holds Derek on May 8. He is on medication that hinders his speech and keeps him awake at night. Except for a few minutes while hospice nurses are with him, Cyndie spends nearly every moment of the day at his side. "I was exhausted beyond belief but I had to do this. He would call my name and always expects me to be there," Cyndie said.
Cyndie rocks her dying son as the song, "Because We Believe," plays on a cd. She sings along with Andrea Bocelli in a whispery voice. "Once in every life/There comes a time/We walk out all alone/And into the light..." From left, family friends Ashley Berger, Amy Morgan and Kelly Whysong offer comfort as Cyndie tells Derek, "It's OK, baby. I love you, little man. I love you, brave boy. I love you. I love you." Derek died soon after in his mother's arms on May 10, 2006.
Cyndie leads Derek's casket to burial with assistance from her sons Anthony Moffe, foreground, Micah Moffe, opposite him, and Vincent Morris, who is not visible, as well as several friends. "I will forever carry your memory in my heart and remind others to give of their time, energy and support to other families like ours," Cyndie says at the funeral. Derek was buried in Mount Vernon Memorial Park in Fair Oaks, California, on May 19, 2006.
2008: Preston Gannaway , The Concord Monitor
부모의 시한부 죽음을 앞 둔 가족의 애철한 사랑 이야기
Rich takes a moment to rest beside Carolynne at Concord Hospital. She was admitted in early January because of an infection in her salivary gland.
Carolynne St. Pierre pauses to compose herself while recording a video for her children. Her sister Sara Matters and cousin Anna Stoessinger comfort her. Doctors had just told Carolynne she would only survive for a number of weeks or months.
At Waters Funeral Home, Richard Jacques shows Rich the selection of caskets. Rich started to make funeral arrangements shortly before Christmas when doctors predicted Carolynne might not make it to the end of the year.
During a birthday party for a family friend two weeks before she died, Carolynne's mother, Kathryn Siegle, comforts her. Carolynne said she felt depressed and just wanted to get better.
Melissa braids her hair while getting ready for her state gymnastics meet as family members sit with Carolynne. As her mother got sicker, Melissa spent less time at home. Fearing that Carolynne would die that day, Rich debated but decided to let Melissa continue with her plans.
Rich kisses Carolynne the moment she passes away. Her family comforted her and held her during her final moments, as she hoped for.
Carolynne's family places roses on her casket after the funeral. Friends and family dressed in pink, her favorite color.
On the first day of school, the family walks EJ to Beaver Meadow Elementary School. One of Carolynne's goals was to live long enough to see EJ start kindergarten. Because she wasn't there, family members came to support him. With EJ from left to right is Carolynne's mother Kathryn Seigle, Melissa, Carolynne's sister Laura and her daughter Sofia, family friend Charity Ross, Rich, and Rich's brother Joe St. Pierre.
Sitting on a swing outside his new boarding school in South Carolina, Brian cries while saying goodbye to Rich. Brian told Rich he didn't want him to leave. Rich tried to assure him that a year in therapeutic boarding school would make him stronger and help him deal with grief.
버락 오바마 대통령 선거 유세에 대한 많은 장면들을 찍어 모은 것 중 하나가 상을 받게 되었다.
이락의 반정부 폭력이 한참일 때 미군에 입대한 십대 병사가 열심히 일에 대한 의미와 남성의 존재에
대한 해답을 찾는 이야기
Between his high school graduation and the bus ride that would begin his journey to basic training, Ian Fisher reveled once more in the civilian life that was defined by his buddies, his girlfriend and his family. But the long good-bye slowly segued into the reality of his enlistment and the difficult road ahead. June 1, 2007. 2:03 p.m. Ian returns a phone call to Sgt. 1st Class Gavino Barron, the commander at Ian's Army recruiting office. Barron was making sure Ian was on track for enlistment. When he was 17, Ian had joined the Army's Future Soldier Training Program, which prepares recruits for the enlistment process. Barron recalls his initial impression of Ian: "He wasn't in it for the money. He was only in it for God and country. That's the reason most infantrymen join."
June 17, 2007. 8:27 p.m. Ian embraces 'Buddha', left, and Shane as he prepare to leave home with Army recruiter Sgt. 1st Class Nancy Alessandri, who speaks with his dad in the driveway. Alessandri took Ian to a hotel where he would spend the night before being bused to the Denver Military Entrance Processing Station.
June 18, 2007. 6:24 a.m. Waiting for a more thorough examination by medical staff, Ian, right, sits with, from left, Ricky Temple, Levi McDonald, Jeff Holden and Jason Mimiaga. Ian and Ricky would soon become friends.
June 20, 2007. 12:41 p.m. "I want to go home. It makes me feel like I have an excuse. I've been thinking about everyone," Ian says. He waits to speak with Sgt. 1st Class Robert Russell, the recruiting command liaison, to outline his injury and make a new claim: A drill sergeant mistreated him for not seeking permission when he got an X-ray the night before.
June 22, 2007. 11:11 a.m. It's been three days of endless lines, little rest, second thoughts and, basically, life turned upside down. Now comes the hard part. For the next 14 weeks, Ian and fellow members of 2nd Platoon, Echo Company of the 330th Regiment will be broken from the regimen of their civilian lives through the grueling labor, discipline and harassment of basic training. Ian, who has put his initial reluctance during the days of processing behind him, is introduced to his place in the military chain by drill sergeant David Vance. "We see who's going to quit in that first hour," says drill sergeant John Eldridge.
'June 23, 2007. 6:08 p.m. From left, Rob-drick Robinson, Ian and Christopher Wegner talk with Ian's bunk-mate about his behavior. Faust had been consistently causing problems, and the rest of the platoon was paying the price. The trio offer Faust their help, but he was gone from basic training by the halfway point.
Aug. 15, 2007. As his team prepares to clear and secure a room during a training drill, Ian is the first man in a four-man stack. The team includes, from left, Patrick Adams of Philadelphia, Richard Stotts of Newark, Ohio, Shadraq McBride of Florence, Ala., and Ian.
Sept. 15, 2007. 3:22 p.m. Following a long day - on top of a long week - and suffering from heat rash, Ian finds himself back at his tent, bowing his head in prayer. He explains later: "I've been praying that God takes this stuff off my back."
Sept. 17, 2007. 12:50 a.m. Ian braces for the pain of receiving his Cross Rifles pin. Eldridge holds the pin in place and secures it with a fist to the chest. "My mind was blown away," Ian says. "I felt like I was part of an elite group - a brotherhood. I do feel changed, honestly."
Dec. 15, 2007. 2:12 p.m. Kayla is excited as she talks about her engagement ring, but Ian is nervous as he awaits the fate of his store credit application. The ring - a princess-cut diamond set in white gold - took about five minutes to pick out; the financing took about 20.
March 8, 2008. 2:22 p.m. While at his dad's new home near Morrison, Ian sits at the table with his essentials: cellphone, energy drink, cigarettes and a vial of Vicodin. In addition to his foot injury, Ian recently strained his back while weightlifting and is now taking muscle relaxants. Eric Fisher expresses concern about the drugs, but Ian dismisses it: "At least it's not coke, Ecstasy, weed. I've got like six, seven different medications now. They give it to you for a reason. I'm not going to just let them sit there."
July 13, 2008. 9:59 a.m. The Rev. John H. Bell Jr. lays his hand on Ian during a baptism at Wellshire Presbyterian Church in Denver. Ian's mom said the greatest gift she could ask for on her birthday was to see her son baptized before he deploys to Iraq. Ian was surrounded by well-wishers offering their thanks for his service
July 24, 2008. 2:12 p.m. Ian shows his frustration during a counseling session with Sgt. 1st Class Weisensel, left, and Sgt. Donoso. In addition to admitting his drug use, Ian returned late from the weekend again and lied about his reasons, putting him at severe risk of getting kicked out of the Army.
Sept. 1, 2008. 3:36 p.m. Ian and his dad share some time at the PX at Fort Carson. "Basically I said two things to him," Eric Fisher says. "No. 1, I said, 'I want you to be careful all the time and trust your instincts.' No. 2, I said, 'If you're going down, give 'em hell. Fire till your last breath.' At that point he squeezed me, like, 'I understand,' you know? And we didn't say anything else."
Nov. 28, 2008. 7 p.m. Squad leader Sgt. Lonnie Buthmann of San Diego wrestles Robinson outside the troops' housing as Ian smokes. Now that their turn on the Quick Reaction Force is over, they look forward to more down time to do laundry, eat meals at a more leisurely pace and work out in the gym.
Dec. 7, 2008. 10:01 a.m. Confident of his preparation for his promotion test later in the day, Ian calls Ashley Gillen back in Colorado, still playing with the 9mm handgun he had just disassembled and reassembled as practice for the test.
Dec. 10, 2008. 8:20 p.m. Ian, center, and Buthmann pull security detail for a meeting between a psychological operations team and some local residents who were near the site of a rocket attack two nights earlier. The meeting is over quickly; the team doesn't find what it is looking for.
March 14, 2009. 1:29 p.m. Ian and Devin watch as "Buddha" gets a tattoo of brass knuckles. Ian gets a matching one. "It represents all the trouble we have gotten into together," Ian says
Aug. 24, 2009. 10:14 a.m. Three days after his return from Iraq, it's a big day for Ian and Devin. At the Jefferson County clerk's office in Golden, the couple swear to the accuracy of their marriage-license application. They were eager to get married immediately, but they do plan to follow up with a larger ceremony for family in the future.
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