For the last two years, Muktar, a teenager in Dharavi, has been part of an unusual experiment – an attempt to view Dharavi through the eyes of those who live there. In 2001, we gave simple ‘point and shoot’ cameras to a dozen teenagers who are part of a non-formal education programme in Dharavi, better known as Asia’s largest slum community. The cameras were given to seven girls and five boys between the ages of ten and 15. The idea behind this was simple, yet novel: to see their world through their eyes. To see Dharavi as they see it, and through this to understand their lives, realities, dreams and hopes. 
In February 2003, more than 100 colour photographs taken by these 12 teenagers were presented to the world outside for the first time at the prestigious Kala Ghoda Art Festival held in Mumbai. The public response was overwhelming. “Never realised how illuminating and profoundly beautiful simple things can be if you put the child behind the lens,” wrote one visitor. “Each and every frame depicts the sheer joy of living.”

The power of voice

These frames – or images – are, in a sense, the visual voices of these 12 teenagers. The pedagogical idea of ‘voice’ – enabling marginalised individuals and groups to speak their own truths, act out their own narratives, click their own worlds into focus, or express and represent their own realities is not new. Since the 1960s, educationists, social thinkers, and psychologists have been developing a theory of ‘voice’ – while its practice is today seen across disciplines and art forms ranging from education and oral history to theatre, video, writing and photography.
Paulo Freire, an adult educator from Brazil, was one of the first thinkers to articulate the power and potential of ‘voice’. Based on his own work in enabling the dispossessed people of urban and rural Brazil to find a voice, and on subsequent work in Latin America and the United States of America, Freire developed a theoretical framework of ‘voice’. Underlying this framework is the belief that:
Every human being is a subject who has the potential to act upon and transform his or her world – and in doing so, can move towards new possibilities of a fuller and richer life, both at the individual and collective level.
Freire argued that human possibility – the power to act as a subject – is constrained by the ‘culture of silence’, a situation in which oppressed members of society are not heard by the dominant members of society. Dominant members prescribe the words to be spoken and the images to be seen, through control of schools, media and other institutions. In this process, marginalised and oppressed people are both silenced and internalise negative images of themselves. The result is incapacity to act, to be a subject.
However, the ‘culture of silence’ can be broken or subverted through a range of actions, from dialogical encounters and sessions to raise critical consciousness – to representing one’s own reality or speaking in one’s own voice. “To have a voice is to be human,” writes American psychologist Carol Gilligan in In A Different Voice. “To have something to say is to be a person.”  

Exploring new voices

In March 2001, almost 50 children gathered in a dusty classroom at a non-formal school in Dharavi run by SHED, the Society for Human and Environmental Development. The youngest child was three, the oldest 14, and most of them had never held a camera before. When we asked them to make their own cameras, they made the most ingenious use of everyday materials: cigarette packets, twine, and shiny wrapping paper to come up with cardboard cameras that looked like real cameras in miniature! We used these to introduce the different parts of the camera and their functions.
All sorts of exercises and games were used in the early days of the Dharavi: Fantastic Land project to gauge visual aptitude, concentration, sincerity and other attributes. Once we just gave them the camera, and asked each participant to shoot two pictures. The kids were highly charged about playing with this new toy and tried out different angles, subjects and points of view. During these exercises, we looked for sensitivity towards colour and form, levels of concentration, and an aptitude for innovation – exploring new ideas, curiosity, and an interest in learning new skills.
But unlike a traditional classroom, we tried to gauge these attributes through exercises that were interactive and fun! And through a process that let the participants be who they are. “Why would students want to stay in school...when they had to leave who they were outside the classroom door?” writes student Prerna Srivastava in her paper on curricular theory[1]. Over six months, we slowly whittled the 50 participants down to 12 motivated youngsters, a mix of Muslims, Hindus and Christians, who would be given weekly photography workshops for a year.
Given their age group, the structure of our sessions had to be flexible. There was scope for ‘ice-breakers’ – simulation exercises, games, discussions, sharing of experiences, brain-storming, photo-analysis. The participants were comfortable with this ‘cafeteria’ approach. Only when they were asked to sit quietly for a minute or two with their eyes closed, did we hear some complaints. “Chup baithne se mera BP high ho jata hai,” said Irfan, 13. (If I sit quietly my blood pressure goes up).

Subverting the gaze

“To photograph is to confer importance,” wrote the American essayist Susan Sontag in her celebrated essay On Photography. The question this begs is: Who? Who decides what is important enough or worth photographing? Historically, all around the world, the visual discourse of photography has been about us photographing them, about training middle- or upper-class eyes on a wide range of subjects, including poverty.
Although documentary images of poverty have deepened our understanding of this issue, this body of work sometimes embodies a distance – the distance between the gaze of a relatively affluent photographer and the lived reality of poverty. It was this gaze we wanted to subvert; this perspective we wanted to distort; this distance we wanted to reduce.
In taking forward the idea of subverting the gaze, we were building on the legacy created by other photographers, filmmakers and artists in South Asia. The Drik Photo Gallery’s Pathshala in Bangladesh has been a pioneer in turning visual reality on its head and making visible the invisible; other notable efforts to explore marginalised points of view include photographer Wendy Ewald’s work with children in Gujarat, photographer Zana Briski’s work with children of sex workers in Kolkata, the images of the Barefoot College in Tilonia, and the well-known example of Video SEWA, where vegetable vendors and other women workers in the informal sector run their own video unit. All these initiatives, undertaken in collaboration with non-government organisations, represent experiments in empowering people, living in poor communities, to seize control of their own life stories and begin to change their circumstances of poverty, discrimination and exclusion.  

Shine kyon maarta hai?

Fastforward. March 2002. Twelve teens are painstakingly learning to look at contact sheets through a large lens. Vishal, 15, has made identity cards for the ‘kemra’ class. Hung around their necks, these identity cards give them power and confidence at home and in the community. Rohit, Gudiya and Priyanka have finally learnt how to shut one eye and keep the other open to look through the viewfinder. Vijaylaxmi, 14, has filmed her sister’s birthday party, while Muktar and Irfan have filmed their journey to a pilgrim spot.
Family. Play. Work. Friendship. Neighbourhood. Women. Hawkers. Danger. Worship. Old age. Festivals. Factories. These are some of the themes that have been given to the ‘kemra’ class, since they seem a little lost when sent out to shoot without any parameters. One recurring theme has been family portraits, particularly self-portraits, all dressed up (sometimes bare-chested too!) and posing for the camera. All of them are in their teens. The look, the appearance is of great importance in their lives. As the noted American photographer Paul Strand once said, “Your photography is a record of your living.”
Before these workshops, none of these children had ever held a camera; they had no awareness of photo-aesthetics or language. Photography was not a part of their ‘family culture’. They celebrated birthdays, weddings, and feasts, but these were seen as routine events and not as ‘momentous events’ that needed to be documented. Now, as they explore a familiar world through the unfamiliar eye of the camera, they are evolving their own theory of photography. “Camera to aaina hai,” says Afreen, 14. (The camera is like a mirror). Adds Vishal: “Camera kabhi jhooth nahi bolta.” (The camera never lies).
But a young boy or girl walking around with a camera is still an unusual sight in Dharavi.
“Chal phekh mat, jhooth hai.” (Don’t bluff, this is no real camera), the photographers were occasionally told. Or “Shine kyon maarta hai?” (Why are you showing off?)  

Creating a dialogue

The weekly workshops are pivoted around taking photos, but this is just one aspect of the workshops. Every Saturday session is also an opportunity to play, relax, release extra energy, and talk through issues or develop critical consciousness. When a train compartment was burnt in Godhra, Gujarat, we address the issue of the mosque vs. the temple in Ayodhya. Remarks Afreen, “Didi, I think they should build neither a temple nor a mosque but a big playground for children  to play!”
Each week’s session starts with a discussion of goings-on in the community, going on to the mandatory dance (Energy Release) numbers. Most of them hardly get a chance to play because they are always occupied. The girls help out with domestic work, and look after little siblings while the boys work after school to add to the family income. The highly popular dance masti only ends when they are asked to meditate for five minutes. All of them come to class from various chores and are highly distracted, so the meditation gets them to finally settle down.
The rest of the session is devoted to looking and talking. The participants talk about so many things during these sessions – things that have found place in their photographs, things that shape their external environment, things that mould their lives. This dialogue forms the basis for a critical re-evaluation of their world, and their place within it.
As our relationship deepens, they also start talking about their personal experiences, providing glimpses into their inner world. They critically reflect on life at home, the power structure within the family, what it means to work and study at the same time, and life in Dharavi. “Dharavi mein koi bhukha nahin sota” (nobody sleeps hungry in Dharavi), says one participant. “Is there any place that you know where the lights are never switched off and doors never locked?” At the same time, they speak out against the dirt and grime, Dharavi’s links with the underworld, occasional bouts of violence, and the need for interventions ranging from playgrounds, garbage bins, recreation centres, to education, career counselling, and talent enhancement programmes.
Their reflections reveal that given a chance, young people can – and do – examine life critically; they can challenge the ‘givenness’ of the world, shape their circumstances, and give their reality a future. Why aren’t their voices heard? Why do adults treat them as passive dependents rather than as active contributors? 

Expanding possibilities

March 2003. The ‘kemra’ class has become like a club where the extended family gets together every Saturday afternoon, relaxes and unwinds, celebrates festivals and birthdays, and makes field trips to nature parks and theme parks. More than 100 photos have been short-listed for the exhibit, establishing Dharavi as a place of identity, aspiration, comfort and belonging. The children are being recognised for their abilities, and local mandals are inviting them to be ‘official photographers’. 
As the little black box becomes a symbol of power in their hands, the ‘photographers’ get more self-esteem and confidence, and start to share their dreams and aspirations. Vishal wants to be an interior decorator. Rohit wants to be a photographer-teacher, “two-in-one”. Manisha wants to be an actress, Afreen a journalist, Vijaylaxmi a typist, and Niloufer a police officer. In voicing these aspirations, do they not challenge the ‘givenness’ of the world?
At the exhibition opening, the ‘photographers’ demonstrate their newfound confidence, tapping visitors on the back and dragging them off to see “my photo, my photo”. The exhibit has given them a platform, and they are heard. “I got to know for the first time how these people actually live and would like to do when they grow up, but cannot do so,” says one astonished visitor. The images have also unwittingly shattered class-based stereotypes. “I am amazed to see that little children have a lot of talent although they are poor and from backward classes,” says another visitor.
The mood has changed. These young boys and girls are far more confident of realising their dreams today, but they are sad about the ‘kemra’ class coming to an end. “Didi, we won’t meet after the exhibition?” asks Muktar. “You won’t come?” As we, the didis, are flooded with questions and suggestions, the exhibition starts to recede in our heads. Continuing our dialogue becomes a more important concern. Dialoguing them into a future. “The future isn’t something hidden in a corner,” said Paulo Friere. “The future is something we build in the present.”