The Story That Didn’t Make the Exhibition
The stories we tell are never ours alone. We enter people’s spaces. We ask for their time. We ask for their trust. And sometimes, without even realising it, they give us more than their stories.
I still remember standing at the MCG, surrounded by my own work.
The ground floor had been transformed into a photo exhibition — images from a remote village in far eastern Indonesia, displayed as part of a Planetshakers fundraising event. People walked through, paused, looked closely. Some stood longer than others. The stories we had captured were playing throughout the space, carried through visuals, sound, and words. It took a team to bring it together. It took planning, effort, and investment.
And it worked.
People were moved. People responded. New supporters signed up.
Standing there, in front of those images — my images — I felt proud. Not in a loud way, but in a quiet, grateful way. The kind of moment where you realise that something you captured in a distant place has found meaning here.
And yet, among all those photographs on display, there was one image that wasn’t there. A photo I did take.
A moment I will never forget.
I was filming an interview in a small kitchen — a tight space, low light, everything set up carefully. I was running one man band with two cameras, managing sound, fully focused on the conversation. Like many times before, I had positioned myself against the wall to get the best angle.
Then everything changed.
The girl I was interviewing suddenly shouted in her own language. She grabbed her slipper and ran straight toward me.
It happened in seconds. I ducked instinctively.
A sharp slam hit the wall behind me. And then I saw it.
A scorpion — right where I had been leaning.
She had seen it before I did. She moved before I could react.
In a place hours away from the nearest clinic, where help was not immediate, her action mattered more than I can fully express.
It was simply care in action.
She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t calculate risk. She just stepped in — and protected me.
That moment has stayed with me more than any photograph I’ve ever taken.
Because it reminds me of something I carry into every story:
The stories we tell are never ours alone.
We enter people’s spaces. We ask for their time.We ask for their trust.
And sometimes, without even realising it, they give us more than their stories.
They give us protection. They give us care. They give us something deeply human.
Standing at the MCG, looking at those images on the wall, I couldn’t help but think:
Those photos exist because of moments like that.
Because someone chose to act. Because someone chose to care.
Storytelling is often seen as capturing moments.
But for me, it has always been about something deeper.
It’s about recognising that every story we carry has been entrusted to us — often in ways we don’t fully see at the time.
And that comes with responsibility.
To tell the story truthfully. To honour the people behind it. To remember that what we show is only part of the story.
Because behind every image is a moment that may never be seen —but should never be forgotten.
Not every story makes it to the exhibition.
But some stories shape the storyteller.
This is one of them.
If this resonates with you, I invite you to explore more stories from my journey —stories from behind the camera, beyond the frame, and often, beyond what is shown.
A few more photos from the trip — beauty on the left and right, and in the middle, the reality of the heat that drained me.
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