PHOTOJOURNALISM: “Banned Beauty” and the Practice of Breast Ironing in Cameroon
Light, and specifically the contrast of light, plays a dominant role in the photo labeled “November 06, 2016,” from the series Banned Beauty by photographer Heba Khamis (see fig. 1). The image documents a family of women gathered together in their home—a mother with her four children. The mother assists her eldest daughter who is participating in the cultural tradition of breast ironing or flattening, in Cameroon. The girl’s younger sibling stands beside her—her chest wrapped and taped, depicting her involvement as well in the breast flattening tradition. As the viewer, our natural inclination is to read the photograph from left to right, and yet the bright white pupils of the younger daughter, whose chest is taped, immediately capture our attention and guide us back to the primary scene—as if her eyes are the starting point, offering an introduction of what we are to understand and observe. While the bright white of the young daughter’s eyes captures our attention, it is also her look of surprise or perhaps shock that truly grabs the attention of the viewer, directing our gaze back to the far left of the photograph to fully engage in the image.
Various shades of light offset the skin tone of the women, guiding us through the photo. We start at the mother’s shoulder and notice the glimmer of a small earring. The light on her shoulder steers our gaze down her arm, over to her daughter where her hand massages the right breast of her eldest daughter. From there the light guides us up to the light of the daughter’s shirt, which is pulled up to expose her chest, and we stop next at the daughter’s left breast, which is fully exposed, waiting for the next step of the ironing process—or perhaps to be massaged by her mother. The light highlights both the daughter’s young pubescent body, but also the innocence of a young girl in the stages of a cultural practice designed to keep the body protected and modest. From there, our gaze is captured by the bright white undergarments of the eldest daughter. The contrast of the light bouncing from her slip is offset by a white seam from the inside of her dress, which we realize is folded over to expose her upper body to her mother. The folding of the dress guides us down to the face of the youngest child who holds onto the armrest of a chair while gazing up at her big sister. The little child appears to look in wonderment, as the light circles around her cheeks and eyes, as she peers upward. The little child’s arm is raised as it rests on the chair, guiding our eye back to the original young daughter first mentioned, whose right arm gently touches the same armrest. Though the two young girls do not touch, the placement of their arms in proximity to one another resembles an empathetic bond between them, offering a sense of security. A stream of gentle light touches the forearm of the longest sister’s arm touching the chair, guiding us back up while we re-observe that she too has her dress pulled down to expose her stomach and chest, which leaves the observer with questions about the practice of breast ironing, and whether the taping of the younger child’s chest—or the massaging of her eldest sister’s breasts—take place before or after the ironing, or whether massaging and taping are two methods this particular family uses instead of heat or stone.
Stepping back from the photograph, we notice other elements of contrasting light. The youngest child, who peers up at her sister, wears a light-colored or white sweatshirt which keeps her in focus in the scene. Across from her, however, stands another small child—perhaps her brother or sister—whose identity is concealed both by the position of the small child’s body, which is turned away from us, as well as the sweatshirt worn by the child which conceals his or her head. The small child stands in the foreground and gently grabs onto their mother’s dress while watching, also observing. In the background hangs a curtain, highlighted by the light coming from a window which directs our view to a couch in the back of the room. Resting on the couch appears to be a small collection of stuffed animals. The dark-colored couch is offset by the light curtain behind it, as well as the collection of stuffed animals that shine behind the young girl whose chest is taped, reminding us yet again of the innocence of the children who undergo a practice designed to postpone maturity into womanhood.
Though in the context of the Vietnam War, W. Patrick Wade raises the question of images and their ability to shock, thereby affecting the public often causing outrage and in many instances, bringing to light issues of importance. Breast ironing is one of the five under-reported gender-based violent (GBV) crimes, as recognized by the United Nations, and is a relatively unknown practice to those outside Cameroon where it is most prevalent, as well as in other parts of West and Central Africa. This first image in the series of photographs, Banned Beauty, documents a family of women quietly participating in the practice. The image is not violent or shocking, but rather subdued and silent, as if we are not present in the home, but merely observing from the outside, perhaps through a small slit in the window, what the National Institute of Health does recognize as a harmful and traditional cultural practice, and is considered a form of violence against women and girls. Heba Khamis, the photographer of the image, chooses to portray this family through the realities of the practice, but without showcasing the violent and painful side. In Wade’s article, he asks the question of whether wartime imagery—in this context, of the Vietnam War—can be neither “pro-war” nor “anti-war,” instead raising the debate about how “photojournalistic representation emerged as a locus for debate and resource for public argumentation.” Whether discussing rape in war or female gentile mutilation—two gender-based violent crimes that have been at the forefront of debate in the last several years, in relation to GBV—this image captured by Khamis of breast ironing is more subdued. There is no violence shown—it does not portray a scene for shock value, yet it still provokes empathy in the viewer.
If as viewers we were unaware of breast ironing, nor had access to the description of the photograph, we might assume it is just a family tending to some medical issue or perhaps checking for breast cancer, by performing an at-home self-examination. This raises the question of the effectiveness of the photograph. Is its purpose to bring to light the debate surrounding this practice—both its sustainability, as well as ethical concerns on the treatment of women and young girls forced to undergo this practice? If referencing Wade’s article about the Vietnam War to discuss war against women through GBV practices, we must acknowledge his comment, “war photography’s impact on public audiences has been a recurring theme in photography theory and criticism. A common assumption in this literature is that images of wartime death gain their power from their capacity to shock the audience into action through graphic display of dead or wounded bodies.” Africa, as a region, has a long history of various atrocities—whether it be as the victims or the perpetrators. Countless cultural practices have remained intact even into the present day. There is no shortage of violent footage documenting war, or wartime atrocities in the region, including the effects of other issues such as famine and drought.
The larger question though is how to truly capture the effects and practice of breast ironing while offering respect to the people who perform this tradition—and is it deserved. For instance, many Western audiences are surprised to learn the practice of female genital mutilation (FGM) is generally performed by a female practitioner. In raising awareness of GBV issues, it is most often assumed that the perpetrators are male. Like FGM, the practice of breast ironing is generally performed by elder females in the family, such as the mother or grandmother. In the image labeled “November 12, 2016,” in the series from Banned Beauty (see fig. 2), Khamis captures a portrait of a woman, Cecile, with her daughter Suzanne in East Cameroon. The caption tells us that Cecile has been flattening her daughter’s breasts twice a day using hot stone. Much like the first image in the series, the photograph depicts both the victim and the perpetrator together—if we define the mother as a perpetrator, as she is the one applying this practice to her daughter. We can assume that the mother also experienced breast ironing as a child. Thus, the perpetrator is also a victim—a victim of her elders whom we can presume forced this practice on her, though perhaps we can define her as also a victim of Cameroon’s culture. This leads us to question, as the photographer, how do we capture the victims of a cultural practice widely accepted and encouraged, all the while doing justice—or lending an understanding—to those who continue to enforce breast ironing as an acceptable procedure? Do all those in the photograph deserve to be photographed with respect, or as the photographer, do we look for victims in pain to truly show the horrors of GBV, and in the case of breast ironing, the long-term effects? In Patricia Hayes's article, “Santu Mofokeng, Photographs: ‘The Violence is in The Knowing,’” she brings up those on the outside documenting the lives of black people during the apartheid in South Africa and their struggle against police repression. She discusses the need at the time to document the violent relationship and that “the most wanted photograph internationally was of white police beating black youths.” She goes on to add, “the evidence of this ‘relationship’ produced certain effects (and economies) for the anti-apartheid struggle, especially outside the country.” Yet, one photograph she references depicts police officers in Johannesburg with sjamboks, standing together almost posing for the camera. Violence in the photograph is absent, but as a viewer, we can draw the conclusion that violence is coming. As Hayes adds, “…we remain suspended, facing white people as black youths did in the 1980s. Viewers might think and feel something different, compared with the third-party perspective of the white-cop-assaulting-black-youth of more conventional anti-apartheid photography.”
In the third image from the series, labeled as “November 26, 2016” (see fig. 3) a young woman, Winnie, sits with her daughter as they hide from relatives in central Cameroon. The caption tells us that Winnie has been raped by a family member—perhaps resulting in the birth of her daughter pictured in the image—and could not breastfeed as a result of breast ironing. Much like the other portraits captured by Khamis, the photograph portrays a silent moment that is neither violent nor graphically shocking. But the caption explains the long-term effects of a practice that ultimately damages the body, especially as young girls develop into mature women, who will eventually experience childbirth and motherhood. The practice, as explained in the series, is still culturally embraced as a form of delaying maturity, thus supposedly helping to prevent rape or other sexual advances. It is considered an act of love by women to ensure their daughters do not get pregnant and thus can finish their schooling and find jobs. It is important to note that many consider it an act of love. Much like FGM, it is the women who have undergone such a practice in their youth, yet it is the women who continue to reinforce the procedure. While breast ironing is supposed to prolong the maturity of one starting puberty, it is the opposite of honoring the changes of these young girls by prolonging the natural development of their bodies. In documenting scenes of breast ironing, the photographer chooses to capture all parties participating in the practice, with equal weight and significance. We do not see the young women being violently attacked or pushing away from those doing the ironing. The light shines equally on all parties—there is no uneven distribution of light so as to give emphasis to one person over the other. We are left questioning who is truly the victim—perhaps it is all women in the region who have undergone this procedure at one time or another, regardless of whether they are the ones continuing the practice?
“Banned Beauty” and the Practice of Breast Ironing in CameroonAs an outsider, how do we shed light on a cultural practice that we deem to be inhumane, yet culturally accepted by many in the region? As in figure 1 and figure 2, we see the mother in both images as the perpetrator and the child(ren) as the victim. Yet, they are a family and breast ironing to these mothers is considered a rite of passage. By acknowledging that it is the mother performing the act, does this take away from her humanness by deeming her the perpetrator in a series that brings awareness to this practice? Or is this series simply documenting the life of several families who have chosen to embrace and continue the practice of breast ironing, common in their culture? Stereotypically speaking, of course, many Western audiences aware of GBV crimes in Africa would assume this is regional, and almost expected. Much like the assumptions of cultural differences that allowed colonialism to thrive at one point in the region, it then becomes important not to portray breast ironing as a violent crime—as perhaps one expects from a Western audience witnessing a cultural practice with which they are neither familiar nor can understand. By capturing these women in a calm, quiet manner using light to highlight the gentleness of the family together, the photographer can subtly help the audience understand and acknowledge the harm of breast ironing while honoring those in the photograph, capturing them with respect. Ward adds in his article, in reference to several images depicting violence, that they do not accomplish more than perhaps serving as “titillation or propaganda,” and therefore have very little social impact. In a larger context, the violent images do not offer a guide for “understanding, debating, or addressing the issues captured in the frame.” Even the girls who are captured with their shirts off, including in figure 1 of the older daughter whose breast is exposed, the image lacks a shock value that might otherwise be established with an image of young girls half dressed. In most photographs from the series, the women look directly at the camera and thus, directly at the audience. We acknowledge those in the photograph not with pity, as other photographers might otherwise try to capture in depicting such scenes, but by listening to the image to understand what is happening, and thus to understand both the cultural significance of breast ironing, but also its need for extinction.
Figure 1. Banned Beauty. Photograph by Heba Khamis, November 07, 2016.
Figure 2. Banned Beauty. Photograph by Heba Khamis, November 12, 2016.
Figure 3. Banned Beauty. Photograph by Heba Khamis, November 26, 2016.
Bibliography
Amahazion, Fikrejesus. “Breast Ironing: A Brief Overview of an Underreported Harmful Practice.” Journal of Global Health 11 (February 27, 2021): 1–4. https://doi.org/10.7189/jogh.11.03055.
“Breast Ironing Fact Sheet.” Africa Health Organisation, March 22, 2019. https://aho.org/fact-sheets/breast-ironing-fact-sheet/.
Hayes, Patricia. “Santu Mofokeng, Photographs: The Violence is in The Knowing.” History and Theory, Theme Issue 48 (December 2009): 34-51.
Khamis, Heba. Banned Beauty. Photograph. World Press Photo. 2018. https://www.worldpressphoto.org/collection/photo-contest/2018/heba-khamis/1.
Wade, W Patrick. “The ‘Living Room War’ in the Escalation Period: Romance, Irony, and the Narrative Ambivalence of Tragedy in Vietnam War Era Photojournalism.” Media, War & Conflict 8, no. 3 (December 2015): 312–328. http://www.jstor.org/stable/26000954.