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Middle East Print Sale

Photographs really should be printed and hung on walls; I say this as someone who loves photography not as a photographer.

As I work towards launching a new website dedicated to print sales I am offering a generous discount to raise the necessary funds, buying a print will go a long way to supporting my work as well as the opportunity to own a beautifully crafted image.

The prints are made at a London lab that pride themselves in producing the highest quality Giclee prints using the latest Epson professional Ultrachrome inks on beautiful archival rag paper.

Only $75 for a 30cm x 40 cm print (+ postage) other sizes are of course available.

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The images on this post are just a sample; please do search my website and Facebook page for alternatives.

(Please note a few images are not available due to lost hard-drives when I fled my house in Syria)

Have a browse and drop me a line and I will forward a detailed price list.

My Website

Facebook

johnwreford@hotmail.com

Thank you for your continued support.

Faith and Fear in Istanbul-Turkey’s Alevi Minority

JON_2423It was one of those grey Istanbul days that gives the Bosporus a melancholic look and sets you in a thoughtful mood, the Bosporus though was nowhere in sight, I was though in thoughtful mood, mostly thinking about what the hell I was doing standing on the side of a busy highway directly opposite a high security prison, my camera neatly tucked away in my bag, trucks thundering by sending dust from the construction site behind me into my eyes, trying not to stare too much at the prison I looked out onto the barren wasteland beyond, I was early, Omar though was late.
I was meeting journalist Omar Waraich who has credits with Time magazine and the New Yorker among many other illustrious publications, our plan the previous evening was to meet here and take a leisurely stroll through the suburbs to the Gazi neighborhood where we were investigating a story on Turkey’s Alevi community but clearly Google had mislead us and we were missing the suburbs, as Omar emerged from a cloud of exhaust fumes I could see he was also in a thoughtful mood, we studied our smart phones for a while, cursed them then set off in search of a taxi.
The reluctant taxi driver eventually deposited us outside the Haci Bektas Cemevi in Gazi, a Cemevi is am Alevi place of worship and of the handful in Istanbul this was the largest, after a brief brush with the leather jacket thug brigade who took exception to me photographing the outside of the Cemevi we headed inside.
I will let Omar take up the rest of the story about this fascinating and hugely misunderstood community via the link below or clicking on the image above.

http://roadsandkingdoms.com/2014/faith-and-fear-in-istanbul/

 

 

Istanbul Photographer

Istanbul Photographer

Istanbul Photographer is a new page on Facebook for the all things concerning my work in Istanbul, links to published work, new images and new projects, exhibitions etc.

Professional Turkish travel photography, Istanbul images, commercial and industrial photography.

Having only recently relocated from Damascus it would be great to get the word out and promote my work, please drop by the site, like the page and share with your friends.
Click the image

or this link
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Istanbul-Photographer/411205942356968

Much appreciated-thank you

John

Abandoned Amongst The Olive Groves Of Idlib Syria

Abandoned Amongst The Olive Groves Of Idlib Syria

“The scene is messy and chaotic. Water carriers and foam mattresses are being unloaded, an ambulance screams past on its way to a Turkish hospital with a newborn child. A moment of panic and everyone scuttles for cover as a Syrian warplane is spotted.” John Wreford has visited the Atmeh refugee camp.

Atmeh camp clings to the side of a hill on the edge of the Syrian-Turkish border. Colored plastic bags flap like flags trapped in the rolls of razor wire that separate the two countries. Turkish soldiers watch from a guard post on the hill above. And just to be clear, Atmeh camp is on the Syrian side of the border, part of Idlib province now under the control of the opposition.

As we enter the camp the scene is messy and chaotic. Water carriers and foam mattresses are being unloaded from a couple of small trucks, an ambulance screams past on its way to a Turkish hospital with a newborn child. A moment of panic and everyone scuttles for cover as a Syrian warplane is spotted in the distance, a truck mounted Doshka swivels and scans the sky, the danger passes and people re-emerge, a black plume of smoke rises from across the valley.
As first impressions go, Atmeh does not feel like a place of refuge. More than twenty thousand Syrians are living here, the largest camp for the internally displaced in Syria, the decision to come would not have been taken lightly, driven by fear and desperation and with nowhere else to go.

One after the other, thousands upon thousands of tents spread amongst the olive groves. The soil is rich and red and for a moment looks almost picturesque; the olive branch is a symbol of abundance, glory and peace but so far it has only provided a little shade from an unremitting sun. Drinking water is delivered by tanker, it’s not always enough, there is no electricity and the candles often cause fires and more heartache, many of the children seem to have coughs and colds.

Fetid streams of sewage run down the hill as bare footed toddlers play, women do battle with the dust that permeates every pore and try to keep the inside of their tents as clean and tidy as the living rooms they left behind, desperate but still dignified. The men though are few and far between.

It’s June and already the heat is fierce, still it will get hotter and then another winter will come and with it the rain, the red earth will turn to rivers of mud and mix with the shit that doesn’t drain away.
With its much needed wealth of experience in dealing with awful situations like this the United Nations Refugee agency and World Food Program are unable to work here without the cooperation of the Syrian government, protocol preventing humanitarian assistance. The only help being provided comes from a small group of Syrian NGO’s based inside Turkey and a handful of Syrian expat charities. I came with the Camp Zeitouna Project charged with bringing some entertainment for the children, building a playground and football pitch, helping with education and holding creative workshops, a small distraction from a life of continuous struggle in a war that doesn’t discriminate against the innocent.

The children are not backward in coming forward, swarming around us asking for photographs to be taken, posing with gap toothed smiles and victory signs, holding our hands as though lifelong friends or long-lost uncles, till now the only fun had been provided by whatever could be put to use, an old bicycle inner tube or a plastic bag tied to a piece of string, popping the caps of water bottles. They have already been labeled Syria’s lost generation and are happy to feel as though they’ve not been forgotten, but we only have the power of distraction – those with real power cannot even overcome issues of protocol.
A little girl takes my hand, I ask her name, Mariam she says with a cheeky smile, a bob of blonde hair and eyes as blue as the not too distant Mediterranean. Where are you from Mariam I ask, Haas, she tells me. Do I know Haas she asks, I tell her I don’t but wish I did, she asks me my name and I tell her, I tell her I am English and that until very recently I lived in Damascus. Does she know Damascus, I ask, she doesn’t, Hass is a long way from Damascus we both agree.

A day later driving through the Idlib countryside we pass through the small town of Haas. It’s almost deserted, bullet riddled, bombed and buckled, this is the Syria we are familiar with now, war torn and devastated. I think of Mariam and her family, in which street did they live, which house. It would have been a typical Syrian town, I imagine her and her friends heading off to school with their pink backpacks. I can’t really imagine what Mariam has already had to endure, living in a muddy field surviving on hand-outs is the best the world has to offer her just now, the crisis in Syria is complicated we are often reminded and protocol has to be followed.

Almost a quarter of Syria’s population is now internally displaced and without the political will of the power brokers to bring a satisfactory resolution of the crisis the suffering will only continue. Abandoned on the side of a hill amongst the olive groves of Idlib in a country that has seen a 100,000 die and no end in sight.

Syrians Heart and Soul Exile in Istanbul

Syrians Heart and Soul Exile in Istanbul

Sitting in an café in the Fatih district of Istanbul I file my pictures; a rare story this time of Syrians doing pretty well for themselves in exile, I enjoyed the same Syrian food I ate with my friends in Damascus, now all exiled themselves, Abo Nour was shoveling Ma’anish into the oven as fast as he could, from Shargour in the heart of the Damascus, a true Damascene anyone will tell you comes from the heart of Damascus and he was putting his heart and soul into baking the Ma’aish, the waiters were buzzing around bundling up the take away orders for the queue outside the shop, the café I am now sitting in is a reasonably upmarket patisserie and many of the customers are also Syrian, they made me smile while they stumbled with their Turkish, Syrians making an effort to look after themselves while their country is ripped apart and the world turns its back, while my pictures upload I read a new dispatch from Syria, a tale of gung ho and daring do, the world needs to learn what is happening to Syrians yet we read more and more drivel, I try to stifle my anger, two Syrian women are in fits of giggles as they order sweets from the counter beside me, mixing Arabic and Turkish to their, mine and the patient assistants amusement, I pay the bill and head out into the rain, despite the weather I decide to walk, as I pass a park I notice some huddled figures sheltering from the rain, I go closer and see several children huddled together and guess they are probably Syrian so I go over to them, an old guy stands up as I approach and eyes me with caution, I say hello and he welcomes me, his name is Hassan and he’s from Saida Zeynab in Damascus, his friend is from Aleppo, the kids look on curiously as we chat, he’s been sleeping rough on the streets of Istanbul for a couple of months but thank God everything is fine he tells me, he tells me of a problem he had in Damascus I and I tell him of a similar experience of mine and he shakes my hand furiously in acknowledgment of my understanding, I bid them all a good night and make my way home, the rain has eased and its not, thankfully, very cold, I think again of the article I read earlier and the injustice it does to Hassan and the forgotten people of Syria, I will go back and see him again tomorrow and maybe bring him some Ma’anish from Abu Nour, baked with the heart and soul of Damascus.