The man, who had carried an infinite sadness

A few years ago, while working on an assignment in the Democratic Republic of Congo, I visited the island of Idjwi, near Goma. This island, which floats in Lake Kivu between the Democratic Republic of Congo and Rwanda, is more than 70 kilometers long and 10 kilometers wide. In Idjwi, there are not many healthcare centers, doctors, or rescue teams. There are also not many schools, and the ones that exist have been battling the elements for so long that it is a miracle they are still standing. This piece of land, home to nearly 300,000 people, has a relatively low life expectancy, especially for children, due to the extreme poverty in which it finds itself.

During the time I spent on this island, I dedicated myself to photographing the projects that the Italian foundation Cariello Corbino was carrying out in the area. There is a project to cultivate vegetables and another to start a chicken farm. The people seemed very cheerful and positive, especially the children, who displayed an infinite joy despite the inhumane poverty that surrounds them. They play soccer, fish, and when they are not in the small schoolrooms that are about to collapse, they spend time on the beach untangling fishing nets with their parents.

There, on the lakeshore, while photographing the fishermen's work, I felt his gaze. He was sending it to me while sitting on a log in the shade of a tree. It was a calmly sad, curious gaze, wanting to ask questions but at the same time not wanting to know. His face was wrinkled, weathered by time, sun, laughter, and tears. It was a face that told his entire life story without risking a sound from his lips. I approached and asked with a gesture if I could take his portrait. He nodded and looked directly at the lens with all the sadness in the world. When I finished, he signaled with his finger and slowly rolled up his pant leg to show me his ankle, which was covered by a dirty bandage trying to protect the gangrene eating away at his skin. It was already quite advanced; if nothing was done, the gangrene would spread above his knee. I photographed his leg and looked into his eyes again; they were as full of sadness as mine. I said goodbye and left without saying anything. What the hell could I do to help this poor man who was condemned by misery to a slow, painful, and most of all, unjust death?

Two days later, I was back in Goma with my colleagues Alberto and Lee. We were visiting a new hospital with facilities that had just been completed and were almost unused. The hospital director asked if I could photograph all the facilities for a media campaign. I said yes and started to tour all the pavilions. I took many photos. In the end, he offered to pay for the photos, and we responded that he could have them in exchange for performing surgery on the man from Idjwi. The hospital director agreed, and the next day they sent a boat to bring him to the hospital. A few days later, while I was working with some children at an orphanage in Virunga, Lee and Alberto told me the news that the man, who had carried an infinite sadness, had been given another chance to smile.