Among the many unforgettable experiences at the inaugural 2012 Kochi-Muziris Biennale, one exhibition lingered in my mind long after I had left its galleries. It was "Crossfire", the haunting photographic installation by the renowned Bangladeshi photographer, educator and human rights activist Shahidul Alam.
Born in Dhaka in 1955, Alam's journey into photography was anything but conventional. Having earned a PhD in Chemistry in London, he could easily have pursued the certainty of an academic career. Instead, he returned to Bangladesh in 1984, armed not with laboratory instruments but with a camera, convinced that photography could become a language of justice. He went on to establish the pioneering Drik Picture Library, the internationally acclaimed Pathshala South Asian Media Institute, and the Chobi Mela photography festival, creating platforms that empowered photographers from what he famously called the "Majority World" rather than the "Third World."
Alam has never viewed photography as the art of merely making beautiful pictures. For him, the camera is a witness, a conscience and, when necessary, an instrument of resistance. Throughout his career he has repeatedly stood beside the powerless, often at considerable personal risk. His commitment to documenting injustice has invited censorship, intimidation and even imprisonment, yet he has remained steadfast in his belief that silence is the greatest ally of oppression.
It is this spirit that found powerful expression in Crossfire. Rather than graphically documenting violence, Alam adopted an allegorical and deeply emotional approach to the alleged extrajudicial killings attributed to Bangladesh's Rapid Action Battalion (RAB). Empty streets, abandoned spaces, grieving families and quiet metaphors replaced sensationalism. The photographs were based on meticulous research, yet they sought not merely to inform but to make the viewer feel the chilling absence left behind when justice is denied. When the exhibition first opened in Dhaka in 2010, authorities shut it down before public viewing, arguing that it would create disorder. Public protests and legal action eventually enabled it to reopen briefly, transforming the exhibition itself into a symbol of artistic freedom.
At the Kochi-Muziris Biennale, Crossfire resonated deeply with audiences. Visitors moved through the installation in near silence, many emerging visibly shaken. Its power lay in reminding us that the abuse of unchecked state power is not confined to one nation. Whether in South Asia or elsewhere, democracies remain healthy only when citizens, artists, journalists and institutions continue to ask difficult questions. Art, in this sense, becomes not an ornament of civilisation but one of its essential safeguards.
That is perhaps the enduring genius of Shahidul Alam. He demonstrates that a photograph can do more than preserve a moment. It can challenge official narratives, restore dignity to forgotten lives and compel society to look where it would rather turn away. Governments of every persuasion, however popular or powerful, require scrutiny. When independent voices fall silent, accountability weakens; when artists dare to speak, democracy breathes a little easier.
Walking away from Crossfire, I realised that some exhibitions are admired for their beauty, while others are remembered because they quietly alter the way we see the world. Shahidul Alam's remarkable work belongs firmly in the latter category.
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