In Conversation with Finbarr O’Reilly
Finbarr O'Reilly has spent the last two decades as an award-winning visual journalist and author working in conflict zones and complex humanitarian emergencies. He is a Canon Ambassador, a regular contributor to The New York Times, and has produced exhibitions for the Nobel Peace Prize and the International Criminal Court. He is the author of several books and spent 15 years living in West and Central Africa, covering various wars and health crises. His focus in recent years has been on leading collaborative multi-platform projects that develop and promote a more representative range of voices and perspectives in the photojournalism industry.
HM: Finbarr, your work takes you to some of the most difficult and complex places on Earth. But before we get to that, let’s go back to the beginning. Where did you grow up?
FO’R: I first grew up in Ireland in the 1970s, but my family left because of “the Troubles”—the political and sectarian conflict. Economically and politically, it wasn’t the easiest place for young parents to raise children. We moved to Vancouver, Canada when I was nine. So my upbringing was transcontinental—European roots but a North American adolescence. After university and a few years working for Canadian newspapers, I spent about 15 years living and working overseas, mostly in West and Central Africa—Congo, Rwanda, Senegal—first as a writer and correspondent for Reuters, and later as a photographer.
HM: That’s an extraordinary journey—from a child in Ireland to a journalist-photographer in Africa. How did that transition happen?
FO’R: Moving countries as a child forces you to adapt—new food, new language rhythms, new friends. One constant in our home was the breakfast table. My parents read newspapers every morning, discussing both local and international stories. That daily ritual sparked my interest in news and storytelling.
I still remember one photograph vividly from my teenage years: a young girl pinned under water after a landslide. She was alive in the picture but died soon after. Her name was Omayra Sánchez, and that image seared itself into my mind. I didn’t yet know how to process the emotions it provoked, but it taught me the power of photographs—their ability to stop you, make you feel something, and compel you to learn more.
My father and uncle were hobbyist photographers, so cameras were always around. In high school I was an athlete, but also deeply interested in current affairs. At the University of British Columbia I studied history and political science, which exposed me to different cultures and global issues. I developed a particular curiosity about Africa, which at the time had very little visibility in Canadian media.
After graduating, I used my savings and a small inheritance from my grandmother to travel through Africa. In 1994, by sheer chance, I was in Rwanda when the genocide began, and later in South Africa during Nelson Mandela’s election. Those two extremes—the depths of human cruelty and the heights of hope—cemented my desire to witness and record history. The only sustainable way to do that seemed to be through journalism.
HM: Was it difficult to break into international reporting?
FO’R: It was a gradual process. I did a graduate degree in journalism and started with Canadian newspapers as an arts correspondent—covering music, film, celebrity interviews. But my goal was always to go overseas. I took every opportunity to freelance abroad—Haiti, Iraq, wherever I could. Eventually I left a secure job to work as a “super stringer” for Reuters in Congo. That’s where my 15-year career with Reuters began.
I remember flying to Congo just as 9/11 happened. Everyone was heading to Afghanistan and later to Iraq. I wondered if I was making a mistake. But I realized that while those conflicts would draw huge media attention, places like Congo—massive country, nine borders, huge war—were virtually uncovered. I could tell stories there that would otherwise go untold.
HM: When did photography take over from writing?
FO’R: Around 2004, in Darfur. My written stories were being condensed into short wire-service paragraphs. But my photographs from the same assignments were appearing on the front page of The New York Times, double-page spreads in magazines. That’s when it clicked—photography could engage people in ways my writing couldn’t. It allowed me to convey complexity and emotion that text often struggles to carry, especially with conflicts the world finds hard to understand.
Today I combine writing, photography, and increasingly video. Modern independent journalists have to be multi-format storytellers. But photography remains the most powerful medium to make someone pause, feel, and want to know more.
HM: And the work you submitted to our grants program—what was that about?
FO’R: The world’s largest humanitarian crisis right now: Darfur. Refugees fleeing into eastern Chad. I’ve just received permission to travel into North Darfur with Sudanese doctors to report from areas under threat by the RSF (Rapid Support Forces). Access is extremely difficult. I first went to Darfur in 2004, and now, 20 years later, I’m seeing the same places filled with displaced people again. Another genocide essentially underway—yet the coverage compared to Ukraine or Gaza is minimal.
HM: Why is that? Why does the media fail to explain what’s happening in places like Darfur?
FO’R: There are many reasons—access, safety, lack of resources—but also audience fatigue and editorial priorities. Africa’s conflicts are often framed vaguely, as if they’re all the same. But they’re not. Darfur’s roots go back to competition over land and water between nomadic herders and settled farmers, exacerbated by automatic weapons, drones, gold and oil politics. Explaining that complexity requires time and space—two things journalism increasingly lacks.
When I first went to Darfur, my photos reached millions even though my written stories were cut down. That’s why I lean on photography. It can cut through indifference, create empathy, and open the door for deeper reporting.
HM: It’s striking how little coverage Sudan receives compared to places like Ukraine or Gaza. You’ve been focusing your attention there recently. Why do you think the media has been so unable—or unwilling—to bring this story to the world?
FO’R: There are a few factors at play. The biggest one is access. Sudan is vast—one of the largest countries in Africa—and incredibly difficult to move around in. Security is poor, and journalists are restricted. We simply can’t get in easily. In Gaza, while international reporters can’t enter freely, there are Palestinian journalists who continue to report under harrowing conditions. In Sudan, there are far fewer local reporters or photographers able to cover the whole country, and their movement is limited by conflict and logistics.
So much of the information ends up coming from activist groups, NGOs, or institutions like Médecins Sans Frontières or the Red Cross. You also have forensic teams like the Yale Humanitarian Research Lab using satellite imagery and open-source analysis to document what’s happening. But that’s not the same as independent on-the-ground reporting.
The New York Times, for example, did excellent work on Sudan last year—they even won a Pulitzer—but even they haven’t managed to reach Darfur yet. I’ve recently received permission to go, hopefully before the end of the year, and it looks like some colleagues may finally get access as well.
Ultimately, though, Sudan is caught in a perfect storm: it’s logistically near-impossible, geopolitically less of a priority than the Middle East or Ukraine, and media budgets are already stretched thin. Editors have to decide: do you cover Gaza, Ukraine, Lebanon, and simultaneously try to cover Sudan? Most simply can’t. So Sudan falls by the wayside.
HM: And yet the story of Sudan—Khartoum, Darfur, its history—is immense. It’s not just today’s war, but centuries of human suffering and exploitation.
FO’R: Exactly. When people think of slavery, they often only think of the Atlantic slave trade. But centuries before Europeans arrived, there were already networks of human trafficking across Sudan, through the Arab traders on the East African coast, funneling people into Arabia and beyond. Those structures existed long before colonialism and were then exploited and expanded by European powers.
Sudan’s capital, Khartoum, was essentially established as an administrative hub for the slave trade. That legacy is rarely talked about, but it shaped the country, its conflicts, and the divisions that still exist today.
HM: You make a conscious choice to go into places of conflict and crisis. You’re not spending your time doing more traditional assignments . Why do you keep going back to these difficult places?
FO’R: There are probably several reasons. At the core of it is curiosity—I want to understand what is happening in the world, and then try, through my own experiences, to share those stories with others. There’s also a sense of duty. I believe journalists and photographers have a role in documenting history as it unfolds, in contributing to the flow of information that, collectively, helps societies make decisions and creates a record for the future.
But I’d be dishonest if I didn’t also admit that there’s ego involved. Photographers want to be there. We want to tell stories and have them published, whether in major outlets or shown in exhibitions. That recognition is inevitably part of what drives us.
At the same time, there’s the craft itself. Once you’ve learned how to work in environments that are difficult, risky, and emotionally demanding, you find a certain gratification in being able to navigate them and create something meaningful out of the chaos. It’s not a nine-to-five job, and I was never built for that kind of life. I like to be out in the world, seeing, listening, engaging.
Over time, I’ve also let go of the more naïve assumption I had early in my career—that my photographs might change policy or directly make the world a better place. I don’t believe that anymore, at least not in such a straightforward way. What I do believe is that our collective work as journalists matters. It contributes to the larger pool of knowledge, it bears witness, and it ensures that certain events, certain lives, are not erased.
Most importantly, there’s the human exchange. In so many of these places—Darfur, Chad, Ukraine—I’m struck by how open people are, how much they want their stories to be heard. They understand the power of media. They want to tell you what has happened to them. And that, for me, is where I find the greatest value in this work: in listening, in being present, in creating a respectful record of their experiences.
HM: Can you give me an example of one of those human exchanges that stayed with you?
FO’R: One that I’ll never forget happened in eastern Chad, where I was documenting the death of a young girl—she was just ten years old. I wrote about it for CNN. The piece wasn’t only about the final hours of her life, but also about the context that led her family into that tragic situation.
I stayed with them for a week. I spoke with her parents, her sisters, and the wider community. I attended the funeral and the mourning ceremony. I photographed, but I also listened—really listened. And what struck me most was the way the community rallied. This was a camp of hundreds of thousands of people displaced from Darfur, people surviving on rations from the World Food Programme. They had very little for themselves. Yet when a child died, dozens of people contributed what little they had—rice, beans, even a small amount of meat—to create a communal feast in her memory.
I contributed as well, even though journalists are usually told not to get involved. But in that moment, everyone was giving, and it felt right to add something, even if it was just a small amount of money to buy chicken for the meal. The men sat together, the women and children in separate groups, because it was a Muslim community. But the act of eating together, of sharing grief and resilience, was profound.
What I remember is not only the sorrow but also the strength and solidarity in that camp. These were people in desperate circumstances, yet they supported one another with such dignity. Sharing that moment with them, and later giving the family copies of the photographs and the published story, made me feel that my presence had meaning beyond the pictures themselves.
HM: What did you take away personally from that experience?
FO’R: It reminded me that photography is as much about listening as it is about seeing. People want to be heard. When they tell you their stories and know you’re taking them seriously, it makes them feel less alone. That human exchange is humbling and inspiring—it’s what keeps me going back.
I’ve had similar experiences in other places, like Ukraine. After a missile strike, you might spend days with a family that has lost someone. You can’t rush that. Sometimes you just sit in silence. Sometimes you’re simply there to witness and acknowledge their grief.
For me, that’s the essence of this work. The photographs matter, of course—but what matters even more is whether the people you’re documenting feel respected, not pitied or exploited. If I can convey empathy through the images, if I can pass along even a fraction of the dignity I’ve witnessed, then I feel I’ve done something worthwhile.
HM: You were commissioned in 2019 to do the Nobel Peace Prize exhibition and you discovered a star photographer; tell us about it.
FO’R: I was commissioned before the winner was announced, and when it turned out to be the Ethiopian Prime Minister, I was thrilled—I’d always wanted to go to Ethiopia. But I also felt conflicted. There are incredible Ethiopian photographers who deserved this platform. So, I reached out to Aida Muluneh who organized the Ethiopian Photo Festival, and we collaborated: I contributed as an outsider, while she curated local photographers’ perspectives. The exhibition was a success at the Nobel ceremony.
HM: Did it lead to other projects?
FO’R: Absolutely. After that, a young Congolese photographer saw our collaboration online and reached out. Her name is Arlette Bashizi and she was only 20 years old, and she had a laptop full of her images, but she hadn’t had much training. She said, “I really want to do this.” At the time, I had just received the Carmaniac Grant for a project in Eastern Congo, so I invited her to meet me for coffee. From that meeting, we decided to work together. I would mentor her and a group of local Congolese photographers over the next couple of years.
Then COVID hit, and I had to start working remotely. I began assigning projects to the photographers, and we produced a book and an exhibition showcasing their work first. She had a few strong images, and over time, her skill improved dramatically. When I returned for the second year of the grant, we worked closely together, covering major stories, like a volcano eruption. We would shoot side by side, then edit together. She learned how to look beyond the main subject, to consider foreground, background, and all the elements that tell the full story. She soaked it all in, asked insightful questions, and her progress was exponential.
HM: It sounds like a transformative experience for her.
FO’R: It really was. Alongside a few other young photographers, she formed a tight-knit team of Congolese photographers. They shared cameras, lenses, and edited each other’s work. By the end of the program, she was so skilled that I helped her get a visa to New York and introduced her to editors at The New York Times. They were impressed by her work and started giving her assignments locally, then across West Africa and elsewhere. She went on assignment to Tigray, Ethiopia for the Washington Post. She went on to win a World Press Photo award for a story on sexual violence and is now up for another major award. She’s just 23, speaks excellent English, and has a quiet, almost timid demeanor—but her work speaks volumes.
HM: That’s incredible. And what about her family—were they supportive?
FO’R: Not initially. Her parents didn’t want her to leave her $80-a-month job at a mobile phone company to pursue photography. They didn’t believe photojournalism was a real career, and they certainly didn’t think a young Congolese woman could succeed in this field. Now, she’s supporting her family, and working for major international outlets, including covering the Olympics for Reuters in Paris.
HM: That must be incredibly rewarding for you as a mentor.
FO’R: It is. Mentorship is a core part of the work I do now. I’ve been fortunate to have opportunities just because of my background and where I come from. But so many talented photographers in Africa don’t have access to these opportunities. Helping to open doors, provide training, and offer platforms for them is not just fulfilling—it’s necessary. I’ve been replicating this model in Nigeria, Congo, and Ethiopia, empowering emerging photographers to develop their own visual voices. Initially, they may emulate, but over time they develop a unique style and perspective—and that’s what’s exciting to witness.
HM: It’s inspiring to hear how you’re using your platform to lift others and reshape narratives.
FO’R: Thank you. It’s about giving back and creating space for stories that might otherwise go untold. Photography has immense power, and the next generation of African photographers is ready to wield it.
HM: You’ve worked extensively in both Africa and Ukraine. How does the experience compare?
FO’R: They’re worlds apart. In Ukraine, despite the war, infrastructure functions: you can drive to the front line, spend a few hours documenting combat, and be back in a comfortable hotel with fast internet and good food by evening. In places like Congo or Sudan, just getting to the location is 90% of the job. Roads, flights, permits, safety—all are huge obstacles. Taking the picture is the easy part.
That’s why covering Africa often requires much more patience, time, and resources. That’s partly why it receives a fraction of the attention.
HM: I know you’ve published a book. Can you tell us about it—what led to it, and what story you wanted to tell?
FO’R: Yes. The book came out in 2017, so it’s already been almost a decade, which is hard to believe. It’s a memoir that I co-wrote with a U.S. Marine whom I first met in Afghanistan. At that point in my career, I was really wrestling with what all these years of covering conflict actually meant—both to the people I was documenting and to myself. Writing the book was a way of trying to make sense of those experiences, and to explore my motivations: why I kept going back to war zones, what I hoped to achieve, and what the personal cost of that work might be.
The story begins in Helmand Province, Afghanistan, where I was embedded with a squad of ten US Marines at a tiny outpost—really just a patch of land on top of a hill, about the size of two tennis courts, completely surrounded by Taliban-controlled territory. It was an incredibly tense and hostile environment. At first, the Marines didn’t want me there. In fact, the Marine I later co-authored the book with admitted that his plan, when we first came under fire, was to shoot me in the foot just so I’d be evacuated and wouldn’t be their problem anymore. That gives you a sense of the distrust and resentment they felt toward outsiders—especially journalists.
But war has a way of forcing people together. Over time, through shared experiences—including when he was injured and I helped get him back to base—we began to form a kind of trust, even a friendship. I returned at the end of their ten-month rotation, and we kept in touch. Eventually, I wrote about him for The New York Times, and later he wrote a piece for the Times about what it felt like to be on the other side of my camera lens. That exchange opened a dialogue between us that grew into something much deeper.
From there, we decided to write a shared memoir. The book is told from both perspectives: mine as a witness and chronicler, his as a soldier and combatant. He had served in Fallujah in Iraq before Afghanistan, so he had already lived through some of the most harrowing battles of the post-9/11 wars. His story includes all of the burdens that came with that: traumatic brain injury, PTSD, the struggles of returning home, suicide attempts, the breakdown of family relationships.
At the same time, I was going through my own reckoning. I wouldn’t describe it as PTSD, but I was struggling with depression and a sense of purposelessness, a loss of meaning in the work I was doing. So the book became about more than just documenting war—it was about two very different lives shaped by the same conflict, and about the unlikely friendship that grew out of it.
In the end, it’s really a dual exploration: what it means to kill and what it means to bear witness; what war does to the combatant and what it does to the observer. And it’s about how we both tried, in our own ways, to make sense of experiences that were often senseless.
HM: How do you cope with all of that? I mean, you've been through. So much pain and suffering, how do you manage?
FO’R: Yeah, I think I wrote the book at a time where I was struggling to manage it, where I wasn't coping particularly well, and I was trying to figure out how I did all that. Now, I do have coping mechanisms in place. I'm, you know, at that time I was living in and working in Senegal. So when I was coming back, I was coming home. It was the place where I was stationed. Culturally. I loved it there, but I was removed from my closest friends and family. So now I'm based back in Europe. I've been in a stable relationship for the last 10 years with my partner, and she works for Doctors Without Borders as a medical director. She runs all of their programming in conflict zones. And we have similar values, we have similar interests, but having a stable home environment is very important. Having a good social support system with friends and family is very important. And being able to go and do your work and do your job and come back to that, and having a place that feels safe and comfortable, and then I exercise. I exercise a lot, and that's for me. It's regulated. It allows me to find, you know, maintain my balance and equilibrium, and just having that sense of home, place to come back to, a place to ground yourself. And when I go and work, I do the work with as much integrity and intention as I can. And when I come home, I try to just feel like I'm at home now. And yes, I have to edit my pictures. Yes, I have to write my stories when I'm home, but I feel like I'm in a good place when I do that. And it's about maintaining this balance between work and between life, and I feel like I've got those mechanisms in place now. I've studied psychology. I've spent years on research grants and fellowships looking at how the mind and the body are all connected, and how to balance these things and what you need to do for the kind of psychological self care that's required in order to do this job over the long period of time, because it's easy to burn out, and I think I have done at different times, and you just need to know when to ease up and when to find the right time to focus your efforts on, maybe some of the more difficult things.
HM: Looking ahead, what do you see as the future of photojournalism? Are you worried about the impact of AI and shrinking budgets?
FO’R: There are real concerns. AI will transform commercial and stock photography, but photojournalism—at least the kind I do—still requires being there. You can’t fake the documentation of real lives in real places. That said, verification is a growing issue, which is why companies like Adobe and major camera manufacturers are developing ways to digitally certify images from the moment they’re captured.
The bigger problem is money. Many talented photographers are leaving the industry because they simply can’t make a living. And when that happens, it disproportionately affects those already marginalized in the field. That’s why I’ve devoted part of my time to mentoring and training photographers in Africa, helping them connect with international outlets. Some are now working for The New York Times, National Geographic, Reuters, and others.
So while the industry is under strain, there are also opportunities: more local photographers getting global recognition, more diverse voices telling their own stories. The challenge for those of us still in the field is to adapt—using video, social media formats, whatever it takes—to keep reaching audiences while holding onto the integrity of our craft.
HM: As a closing thought, what advice would you give to young photographers who dream of following this path?
FO’R: I get a lot of messages from young photographers who want to pursue this kind of work. What I’ve noticed is that those who are successful are the ones who are truly committed—they’re willing to put in the hard work and take the time to grow.
A big part of this journey is learning from others. I was fortunate to have people from the previous generation guide me, and I think finding a mentor or someone who can be a sounding board is crucial. Someone who can give honest feedback, share advice, and open doors.
It’s also on those of us who are already established to be generous with our time. Yes, we all compete for assignments and jobs, but there’s enough opportunity for people who are talented and improving. Supporting emerging photographers benefits the whole field.
So my advice is twofold: for young photographers, seek out people you admire and trust—learn from them, ask for guidance, and let them help you grow. And for those of us in established positions, we have a responsibility to open doors, share knowledge, and nurture the next generation. That passing of experience from one generation to the next is what keeps the craft alive.
