New Orleans, February 2010

A story about our city–and the day hell froze over.

 Books are available in the following New Orleans/Metairie stores: Octavia Books, Rose Lynn’s Hallmark (Old Metairie Road), Maple Street Book Shop, Faubourg Marigny Art & Books, Forever New Orleans (Royal St)

Photo by JT Blatty

Seafood Harvest Culture of Savannah is History in the Making

Walking along the cobblestones of River Street, even the visitors of Savannah, Georgia, are beginning to notice that something isn’t right. Something is missing: An icon of so many postcards, paintings, and calendars capturing the essence of Savannah’s landscape. Perplexed, the people finally ask, where are the shrimp boats?

I moved to Savannah in 2000–my knowledge of the city limited to anything I read in Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. That soon changed when I befriended an older group of city natives who led me to their kingdom: The coastal community of Savannah, eastward from downtown. I was captivated by the dramatic change in landscape–the coastal plains that stretched for miles, the vivid green marsh grass and the small pockets of mirrors created by the pools of water during low tide.

And the shrimp boats–the regality in their presence commanded my attention. In September of 2006, during the peak shrimping season, I noticed that the shrimp boat sightings were becoming less frequent. In 2009, even less. I had to find out why.

The new reality is harsh. A rich tradition, the same that once made Savannah a Mecca of fresh seafood dining, is nearing complete extinction. The majestic vessels were once a Captain’s pride and joy, boasting their magnificent nets to the sun as they graced through the waters like a goddess, hypnotizing all who glanced their way. Now, one by one, they are becoming carcasses in an underwater ghost town.

“We’re still around–don’t know how much longer,” Jeff Dubberly confessed. Jeff, a shrimper for 30-years, is the Captain of the Jenna Renee; a 60-ton trawler built in 1978, named after his own daughter. The Daddy’s Boy, captained by his brother Mike, and the Jenna Renee are the last of the Mohicans: Two of the remaining 60-foot shrimp boats still trawling through Savannah’s waters.

Photo by JT Blatty

Jeff and Mike work for Dubberly’s Seafood, a mom and pop business run by their own mom and pop, Jean and Frank Dubberly. For over 30-years, they’ve been selling wild Georgia shrimp right out of their front door, nationally and internationally. But since 2002, they’ve watched their business take a dramatic slide downhill, and struggle to keep their heads above water as they compete against the prices of farm-raised, imported shrimp. With the current crippled economy, the majority of consumers are increasingly opting for the poor quality and cheaper prices of imports from Thailand and China. Sadly, even a majority of Savannah’s seafood restaurants are turning to the low-priced alternative.

There’s a ten-mile stretch from downtown Savannah to Tybee Island, and two roads to travel. Most take the Islands Expressway, a direct, twenty-minute trip to Tybee’s beach pavilion and surf shops. But on Victory Boulevard, I drive a route that interlocks a chain of small, coastal

islands harboring the communities and families who have invested their sweat, blood, and lives harvesting the produce of the waters–families just like the Dubberly’s.

I drive over the first bridge, taking in the sweet scent of the salt marsh as I pass the island of Thunderbolt, the nexus of Savannah’s seafood history with roots running as deep as the downtown historic squares. For over 100-years, a bustling village of mom and pop businesses ran along the bluff, catering to a flourishing seafood market. In the 1950’s, during its heyday as the shrimping capital of Georgia, over 300 giant trawlers operated out of the marina, often fighting for dock space in between successful journeys out to sea. Now, you might see one if you’re lucky.

Charlie Teeple remembers the better days. For 50-years, he ran his seafood store next to the marina on Thunderbolt’s bluff, overlooking the Wilmington River. Charlie’s store wasn’t just a business, it was a welcome home haven for the shrimp boat crews after weeks out at sea.

“Honey . . . every time I go down there, a tear comes to my eye,” he tells me. Now 72-years old, he runs Charlie Teeple Seafood Products around the corner on Victory Boulevard, strategically located for all to remember a time that may soon be forgotten. About 10-years ago, housing units and condos butted up against the few remaining warriors on the bluff, like Charlie, who struggled to stay afloat in an industry that seems be void of hope.

Charlie’s family was there in the beginning, years before the shrimp era, capitalizing on the goldmine of oysters and crabs in the early 1900’s. He remembers his grandfather’s stories, in the early 1920s, working as a young teenager on-board the first version of a shrimp boat, called a “sail trawler.” A method influenced by Florida’s Portuguese immigrants, the crew of a 15-foot sailboat used the power of wind to drag their nets along the river’s floor. Sometimes the shrimp were so plentiful, they couldn’t lift their catch into the boat, and manually bailed out portions with a small net until the weight became bearable.

Charlie’s other grandfather was a boat builder on Thunderbolt, and in the early 1950’s, his sweat poured into the construction of the first motorized, wooden-hulled shrimp trawlers: The 40, 50, and 70-foot vessels that are now becoming an endangered species.

As I continue driving east along Victory, I reach the small bridge crossing over Turner’s Creek, leading onto Wilmington Island, my home. From the top of the bridge, I used to take a quick glance to the right towards my favorite view: The Miss Peaches, 57-foot, wooden-hulled trawler built in 1950–possibly the work of Charlie’s grandfather. Two years ago, her captain, broken by the business and without the funds to maintain his prize, dropped anchor in the middle of Turner’s Creeks and reluctantly abandoned her to the forces of nature. This past summer, she took her last breath above the water, and after a storm, she fell to the bottom of the river, joining the wreckage of another half-burned, abandoned trawler. Miss Peaches is only one in over 100 abandoned vessels on Georgia’s coastline that has been identified by the Georgia Department of Natural Resources­.

According to the National Marine Fisheries Service, the number of domestic shrimpers has declined 75% since the 1980’s, and now 85% of the shrimp consumed in the United States are imported. It’s not looking too good for the remaining 25% of our shrimp boat Captains.

I often see the Daddy’s Boy anchored near the Cockspur Lighthouse when I cross the last bridge over Lazaretto Creek, and I imagine Jean Dubberly cooking up a storm for her boys after a long day at sea. After working on the Daddy’s Boy for 12-years, Derek Stuart will never forget Miss Jean’s nightly feasts. Derek was one of the only crewmembers without the Dubberly blood in his veins, “but they treated me like family,” he told me on the day he left the business.

Two years ago, Derek took a deep breath and reluctantly packed up his belongings on-board the Daddy’s Boy. But he, unlike the Dubberly’s, was fortunate to have the option of walking away.

“That’s all we do. Our money is invested in these boats,” Jeff told me. It’s not just their money­ that’s invested–it’s their lives.

Friends don’t let friends eat imported shrimp are  the words boldly written across a sticker sealed to the bar in Desposito’s, a seafood restaurant hidden under the bridge crossing over the Wilmington River. This statement embodies the grit of the men and women of Savannah’s coast–they will fight for their heritage until the end, and the essence of their culture continues to beat on the islands. It remains to be seen whether this will survive after the last trawler sinks.

Photo by JT Blatty

Some have learned to accept the fate of their industry,and with the little energy they have left, they focus on documenting and preserving their history.

On Victory Boulevard, directly adjacent to Charlie’s store, there’s a tiny, one-story building that’s barely noticeable to those who drive by­–myself included until now. I used glance over at the sequence of colorful paintings along its side, and I briefly wondered what it meant. This is the Thunderbolt Museum, and the paintings depict scenes of Thunderbolt’s rich history–of shrimp boats trawling through the waters and men tarnished by the sun after weeks of hard labor at sea.

In 2001, the museum officially opened: Its basic upkeep and utilities supported by the city. But with only a handful of volunteers, the members of its society are struggling to make it a proper rendition of the past. The museum is only open three days per week­–the volunteers working countless hours in their attempts to organize and properly catalog a plethora of artifacts, photographs, and relics of Thunderbolt’s past.

In one corner of the museum, there’s a tiny model of a wooden-hulled shrimp trawler. It scares me to think that this could be the only kind of trawler we’ll see in the future.

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Photo by JT Blatty

April 2003 – Crossing the Border

A round-trip ticket to Kuwait and six months of free expenses, compliments of the United States Army. In two weeks we were packed up and ready for the six-hour drive north from Camp Arifjan, Kuwait, to Tallil Air Base, an old Iraqi airfield about 20 kilometers from An Nasiriyah, and walking distance from the historical remains of the ancient city of Ur.

I sat in the co-pilot seat of my HMMWV as we crossed the border for the first time, our vehicle situated near the front in a 20-vehicle, single-file line. We slowly rolled through the first little village, comprised of only ten or so lopsided huts, made from sticks and thatched reeds for roofing and about the size of blue-collar master bathrooms less than ten meters from the dirt road. Everything was the color of dirt and sand–the road, the huts, even the sky. Everything except for the people that is. Little girls wearing bright violet gowns greeted us as the sand blew into their eyes, little boys wearing red and blue striped shirts giving the thumbs up, and behind them laundry lines weighed down by garments of the color wheel, blowing in the wind and waving a welcome into their country.

As we continued to push through the village, more children manifested from the small shacks, waving, smiling, and sometimes running alongside the vehicles in their bare feet. In the distance I saw a little boy standing still on the side of the road, waiting for us. As we approached him, I could see his smile as he stood proud and tall, holding an American salute, and not dropping his stance until he was behind us.

Photo by JT Blatty

2010

There was still dust on everything–covering my retired uniforms, scrapbooks and keepsakes from a different time in my life. I packed it all away into containers when I was still in the Army, essentially forgetting about it all until I moved in 2009. I stumbled across a bin labeled, “Iraq – deployment stuff,” while unpacking, and everything became vivid again. The sights, flavors, smells and sounds, and above all, the interactions I had with the people of a country so ancient and historic, and so far from our fingertips. I watch the news . . . it hasn’t changed since I left in 2003, only sharing tragedy and war, only highlighting the black sheep and painting a picture that doesn’t represent everything, certainly not the beauty. I’m fortunate to see past it now, to have experienced at least a slice of reality and to have witnessed unexpected moments when barriers fall . . . and preconceived notions vanish.

1996

I was a tennis player, eager to graduate from high school and play on a Division I collegiate team–like most competitive athletes. I had a pile of recruitment letters from coaches around the country, but only one meeting the criteria of Division I: The United States Military Academy at West Point, where after graduation I would serve a five-year active duty service commitment in the Army to reimburse it for the free education. I wanted to travel the world, this time independently from a family who financed my teenage years with journeys to Africa and South America. The military seemed like the perfect opportunity. If I played my cards right, made halfway decent grades, I could travel the world for free. Maybe I would get stationed in Germany, save up all of my leave days and take a month to backpack across Europe. And then there was always Korea¬¬–from there, traveling to Japan, Fiji or Australia was only a pond’s jump away.

Instead, after graduation (2000), my best option was Fort Stewart, Georgia, joining a construction unit called the 92nd Engineer Battalion. I still held a good hand: The 92nd frequently traveled on peacekeeping missions to Egypt and other countries that I dreamed of visiting in my lifetime.

My travels didn’t end up exactly how I planned: 9/11 happened less than a year later.

2003 – An Nasiriyah

We spent less than a week adjusting to Iraq’s sandstorm season while building our new living area¬–about 500 of us squashed into 40 giant tents, each us claiming our personal space with a 2-foot wide cot. We were eager to begin work¬–the sooner we finished, the sooner we could return home (or so we always hoped). Our initial mission was to build a new living area for the incoming troops, and we needed a massive amount of materials for construction. At the time the Army’s logistical system couldn’t provide them quickly enough, so we had to take other measures. I was our unit’s contractor, fortuned with a weekly supply run outside of our camp’s perimeter and into the city of An Nasiriyah.

We had a routine: My peer, Captain Karen Fernandez, and I, drove twenty minutes from Tallil into the city, crossing a small bridge over the ancient Euphrates River where many of the locals bathed, washed clothes, and cooled from the sweltering 120 degrees Fahrenheit. So far, the Euphrates was the only natural landscape that offered a contrast to the color of sand. Small patches of grass broke the surface throughout the grayish water and sporadic palm trees offered a rare opportunity for shade along the banks.

The bridge led us into the outskirts of the city where we’d pick up our translator, Yassir, and on our way to him we’d drive along a dirt road lined with one-story, square blocks of sundried brick, each separated by a few feet of rubble. If there wasn’t a door on each, or if Yassir hadn’t exited from one of them before jumping into the back of the HMMWV, they could have easily been mistaken for mausoleums.

Yassir navigated our way into the central city–and what seemed like another country. The desert stretched for miles, and on a clear day, anything taller than a one-story shack stuck out like hot pink on white. But Nasiriyah was a chameleon in the landscape: I didn’t realize we were anywhere near Iraq’s fifth largest city until we were driving through a bustling city center where a collage of aromas and belly-dancing music permeated the air from the open-aired restaurants and shops.

As we drove around a standard city traffic circle, surrounding a giant, metal statue of a man, no doubt of historic significance, we met a small demonstration of about ten Iraqi men parading down the street. Two of them were carrying signs, hand painted in red, reading: “YES for the Democracy. YES for order and law.”

Photo by JT Blatty

We were on our way to a store in the city center, owned by Hussein, an Iraqi contractor who spoke English almost perfectly. We’d park curbside, directly outside of his shop, but making our way to the entrance was a task in itself. We moved against an incoming tide of local men and children who were without a doubt mesmerized by women in uniform. They wanted to speak, to practice their English, and they’d say anything to hold our attention for a few moments, even if it were through crass statements and gestures against Saddam Hussein.

Photo by JT Blatty

While sitting inside of Hussein’s store, the children outside squashed their faces against the giant glass window: Smiling pigtailed girls wearing uniforms of white blouses and black, overall dresses tried to peek in and wave, and shyly giggled whenever they succeeded.

Hussein spoiled us with platters of Iraqi kebabs: Tender lamb, fresh cucumbers, tomato, and warm pita bread awaited us with each visit, and we hovered around the plates, stuffing our faces for the first thirty minutes. I’m of Arabic descent and yet I’d never tasted anything like this in the United States.

We always looked forward to the food–next to the Army MRE (Meal Ready to Eat), this was five-star dining. Once we walked into the store, eager as always to eat like pigs at a trough, but to our dismay . . . no kebabs. Yassir came to the rescue, escorting us into one of his favorite hubs on the way home, a local rotisserie joint. We sat down at one of the green, cafeteria-style tables inside, smelling the aroma and watching the giant, rotating skewers over the oven fire, sipping on orange “Miranda” sodas. There were about five of us that day, and I think I can speak for us all when I say we had a moment of normalcy, sitting amongst other paying Iraqi’s, and doing the same thing we would have done as tourists.

We each ordered a whole chicken as customary, wrapped in a warm pita and served in a plastic green, standard burger and fry basket. After one bite, we knew we couldn’t leave without ordering chicken for the entire unit back on base. Before we left, we had 100 freshly cooked chickens piled on our table, ready to take away in pink, plastic bags.

On our last trip into town, Hussein insisted we visit his home. I’m sure we probably weren’t authorized to do this, but there was no way we were going to pass the opportunity. We followed him through a maze of cement and brick buildings, all flat, the same sandy color, and one to two stories high, until he finally pulled over and parked on the outer perimeter of the city next to the Euphrates. Before he could turn his doorknob, the front door busted open and a pack of children tumbled out, giggling and quickly staring at us before parting to create a passage for his wife. I expected her to look like the rest of the women I’d caught sight of in the city, covered in an abaya and hiding her face. Instead her flowing hair was pinned up neatly on top of her head, and I noticed the subtle lipstick she wore as she smiled and proudly escorted us into her home.

The inside was nothing I’d imagined it would be. Two long couches lined the living room walls, looking very similar to the décor of a nightclub or a jazzy hookah lounge in New York City. Sitting on the couches, or more like bouncing and jumping on them, were at least six little girls, giggling and staring at us bright-eyed and wearing the same kind of clothing we’d see in a regular 1st grade classroom. The television was on, and in front of it three teenage girls wearing fashionable, LA style clothing were watching Shakira (in English) music videos, singing the lyrics perfectly. After their initial shyness faded, they went into a dance routine, showing off their best moves.

We eventually bid farewell, and the way to the door I noticed a photograph of Hussein and his wife when they were much younger. It reminded me of any photograph I would see of a post college graduate couple–when the future is one big canvas of possibility. He noticed my interest and told me how they met in college. They were both track star athletes.

Culture Clash

I still feel honored to have been invited into Hussein’s home. As an American wearing the military uniform, it was something I never expected to experience but I now realize that without that uniform, it’s an experience I never would have had. However, with the Ying comes the Yang, and there was a moment when I would rather have been wearing an abaya.

I was outside of Hussein’s store taking pictures of the local children–they were smiling and laughing while they pushed each other to squeeze into the edges of my view, posing with their favorite American gestures such as “raise the roof.” I remember the sound of bells jingling as a door opened behind me, and then the cheering started to get a little quieter as the crowd’s eyes wandered over my shoulder.

He was an older man, standing in the doorway of his store with a book in one hand, one I believe to have been the Koran, and prayer beads in the other. He started to preach in Arabic, fiercely, scolding in his tone, and the power in his voice was enough to send me back to the 1st grade. It was also enough to silence the street and command every living presence. While he spoke, Hussein tugged me into the store¬, and from the doorway I listened to his voice shift to English¬. I couldn’t understand everything that he said, but I do remember hearing, quite vividly, “things are meant to be the way they are, you should not be here.”

When he stopped, there was a moment of absolute silence¬, uncomfortable silence, and then the crowd broke into applause and then into a cheer. But as soon as the man retreated into his store and the bells jingled with the closing of the door, they turned to look at me as if nothing had happened, smiling playfully and ready for more pictures.

“He’s the physician next door. He’s crazy and talks to himself. He’s crazy,” said Hussein. Whether true or not, it was a reminder that we were not tourists.

The Woman in the Green Abaya

There are some interactions in life that take place without words, but you remember them for a lifetime. My experience with Hussein and his family represented a more prosperous lifestyle, but not a lifestyle representing the entire population.

During one our supply runs we were waiting for Yassir, parked in the sand lot outside of his building. A whirlwind of sand kicked up into the air when we pulled in, and it continued to lurk while we waited, egged on by the wind, seeping into my nostrils and burning my eyes. I couldn’t see more than about 5 yards around us, but I already knew what was behind the curtain: Curious men and children waiting to approach the female soldier. I never would have imagined who emerged from the cloud instead.

An Iraqi woman, wearing a beautiful, green abaya, covering her from head to foot, but not concealing her face and the warmth that radiated from her eyes and smile.
I was blown away. The only contact I’d had with an Iraqi woman in the public was from 20 yards away as she turned her face to hide in the shadows of a building. Instead, this woman stood one foot away from me and stared straight into my eyes without fear or hesitation. For the first time during the deployment I felt stripped of my uniform; it was as if for a moment we were somewhere else, forgetting the unfortunate circumstances surrounding us. She wanted to understand my world and my culture just as much as I wanted to understand hers. We could have been in the middle of a combat zone, as we were, or in a coffee shop in New York City.

She carried a book under her arm, and as she smiled and nodded her head in a gesture, she opened it to a page and pushed it towards me. I took it from her hands, perplexed, and I closed it to read the cover. Then I understood: It was a translation dictionary.
How I wanted to stay and use the book. How I wanted to invite her to jump in with us, and come back to the base, or tell her I’d catch up with her later on the phone. But reality interfered and our brief encounter was stolen only seconds later with Yassir’s hasty entry into the vehicle. The engine cranked.

I quickly placed the book into her hands and met her eyes in farewell, and in that moment there was an understanding between us; an acceptance of our circumstances, and that our interaction would end where it began. It’s been seven years now, and I still think about what could have been said or shared between two people, two women for that matter, whose realities are so intensely different. But at the same time, right there, in that dirt parking lot in the middle of a combat zone in Iraq, we were exactly the same.

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]]> http://jtblatty.com/blog/2011/june-pollux-awards-2011/feed 1 http://jtblatty.com/blog/2011/banks-of-colliding-times http://jtblatty.com/blog/2011/banks-of-colliding-times#comments Wed, 01 Jun 2011 17:15:59 +0000 JT Blatty http://jtblatty.com/?p=761

Photo by JT Blatty

Somewhere not too far from the echoing sounds of the horses trotting, pulling carriages of new lovers through the tree-canopied squares of downtown Savannah, there’s a secret place that’s only discovered by word of mouth, and can only be reached by the rivers, creeks, and channels that weave through the low country of Georgia and South Carolina.

Just east of the tourists flocking on River Street, the colliding forces of the eastern winds and outgoing tide of the Savannah River create giant swells, and my little boat bounces up and down like an origami swan. The horn of a giant cargo ship bellows through the air as it moves slowly towards the Port of Savannah, blocking my view from the other side, but as it continues westward it raises the curtain over my island, and I instantly fall into a sort of hypnosis. The moment I see the sand cliffs lining South Carolina’s shore, I’m transported into another world and another time, and that time depends only upon which story the river wants to tell.

Photo by JT Blatty

Maybe today she’ll speak of the 60-foot megalodons charging through her depths when she was the ocean, or the giant, prehistoric mammals crossing the land bridge from Asia and Africa after her waters froze and melted, and then vanished as the land beneath her rose.

Or maybe she’ll tell me of the wealthy passengers dining onboard the oceanic steamship, the Savannah Line, and deep within the sound of waves crashing to the shore, I can hear their cheers and glasses clinking as they toast to a safe arrival from New York.

It sounds quite abstruse right now, but there’s nothing abstruse about it when you catch a shine from the corner of your eye, something glimmering in a tide pool, and two seconds later you’re holding an 8 million-year-old fossilized shark tooth that’s bigger than the palm of your hand. Or maybe it becomes even more of a reality when your fingers slide across the crisscrossed grooves on the fragment of a mammoth tusk, or along the flaked ridges of a spear-point from the Paleo-Indians, perhaps the same weapon that brought the mammoth to his death 10,000 years ago.

I walk towards a colony of fiddler crabs, watching hundreds of them as they scurry chaotically towards the holes in the marsh mud, running into each other, over each other, through each other, something like a cross between The Three Stooges and Aliens thrown into a pinball machine. But then I’m distracted by an aqua colored bottle half buried near my feet in the sand. I carefully dig around the glass before removing it, and as I hold it in my hands, I imagine the little boy who may have sipped from this Coca Cola bottle in 1903, when the local factory embossed the words, “Savannah, GA,” across the bottom.

Photo by JT Blatty

The river is a historian, pulling eras from a timeline that spans over a million years, and with the power of the tides, she casts it all onto the beach of the present, right there at my feet, on the shore, tangled in the marsh grass, cascading down from the eroding cliffs, leaving little fragments of history waiting to come alive in my hand and tell me an intriguing tale.

Indian pottery dimpled with reeds into beautiful patterns, resting amongst the silt, shells, and rocks; a fossilized mastodon molar breaking the surface of the sand in the tall marsh grass; a colonial tobacco pipe casually swishing back and forth in the shallow water, bearing the words, “Glasgow, Scotland,” along the stem; shards of blue and white chinaware fallen from the steamship travels.

But the river forbids you to let go of the present, reminding you through the hair prickling chill of an alligator’s stare, its eyes barely breaking the surface of the water as it stalks your boat, or the dolphins playing in the wakes of a monstrous cargo ship barreling towards the Port of Savannah, hauling military equipment to the Port of Kuwait: The same wakes that could easily sweep you into the depths of the river during high tide when it crashes against the cliffs and creates a whirlpool of menacing currents.

Photo by JT Blatty

I bring very few on my expeditions to the riverbanks: My little 15-footer only fits four, and honestly, I’d prefer to keep it that way. But something happens when we’re there, something that brings a comfortable silence and an interaction between humans I have yet to witness anywhere else. We drive straight onto the beach, I throw the bow anchor, and another sailor jumps onto shore with the stern anchor. And then, without a word, we all just walk our separate ways, enchanted by the sound of the water and the wind, and the story that we each begin to hear.

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9280 images were received from 57 countries

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186 images (2% of the total submitted) of 137 artists
were selected to be featured in the Book 2011 Best Shots.

Countries (39) of the selected artists:

Spain, Singapore, Iran, USA, Thailand,  Romania, Hungary,
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Nermine Hammam, from Egypt, and Patrizia Burra, from Italy, are the first and second prize winners of the Beauty Arund Us Contest. Istvan Kerekes from Hungay is the Runner Up. Another 80 artist, whose nams are displayed bellow, were awarded Honorable Mention.

Click here to browse all the awarded images. Visit www.thegalaawards.com for more details and current competitions.

6840 images were received from 42 countries
678 (9.9%) images passed the first screening and were entered into the second screening.
83 images (1.2% of the total submitted) were awarded and selected to be featured in the Book The Beauty Around Us.

Participating Countries:
Argentina, Australia, Austria, Bangladesh, Brazil, Canada, China, Denmark, Egypt, Fiji Islands, Finland, France, Georgia, Germany, Greece, Hungary, India, Indonesia, Iran, Ireland, Israel, Italy, Japan, Kenya, Lebanon, Lithuania, Mozambique, Nepal, New Zealand, Norway, Pakistan, Poland, Qatar, Singapore, South Africa, Spain, Switzerland, Taiwan, Thailand, Ukraine, United Kingdom, and United States

We congratulate all contestants and awardees that have found the beauty that surround us in this troubled world.

FIRST PRIZE:
Nermine Hammam, Egypt
SECOND PRIZE:
Patrizia Burra, Italy
RUNNER UP:
Istvan Kerekes, Hungary

SPECIAL MENTION OF THE JURORS:
Tess Abts, USA; Sucheta Das, India; Marguerite Garth, USA; Deanna Molnar, USA; Edward Olive, Spain; Julie Ramage, France; Sara Umemoto, Japan

MERIT AWARDS:
Daniel Afzal, USA; Adrian Ashworth, UK; Danielle Austen, USA; Barbara Barbour, USA; Steven Barlett, Australia; Alexandra Berger, USA; Susan Berkowitz, USA; Marco Bhimani, USA; Ingrid Bird, Canada; Jodanna Bird, UK; JT Blatty, USA; Clay Bodvin, Australia; Carrie Brady, USA; Joe Calleri, Australia; Carolina Cantore, Argentina; Sally Carpenter, USA; Bernardo Cesare, Italy; Aaron Challis, USA; Mucsi Csilla, Hungary; Alyscia Cunningham, USA; Heather Davidson-Meyn, Canada; Michelle Dillon, UK; Rinaldo Donati, Italy; Jason Dorfman, USA; Oliver Eglin, UK; Kristine Ellison, USA; Nicola Esposito, Italy; José Antonio Fernández Salas, Spain; Helene Fjell, Norway; Collins Gituma, Kenya; Susan Graham, USA; Shira Gutgold, UK; Carolyn Hampton; USA; Cynthia Hurayt, USA; Urs Jenzer, Switzerland; Mariya Kalitina, USA; Stephan Kolb, USA; David Macedo, USA; Rafal Maleszyk, USA; Laurie McCormick, USA; Sara Minelli, Italy; Hélenè Mogensen de Monleón, Denmark; Bruce Morton, USA; Jason Nichols, USA; Sandra Olson, Canada; Al Overdrive, UK; Ana Paula Pacheco, Brazil; Viktoria Panik, Ireland; Leszek Paradowski, Poland; Robert Rutoed, Austria; Javier Sánchez, Spain; Adam Santelli, USA; Dawnetta Savage, USA; Laszlo Selly, Hungary; Ramy Sidarious, USA; Ragne Kristine Sigmond, Denmark; Harvey Spears, USA; Andrew Stanford, USA; Hilary Stephens, USA; Sandro Tedde, Italy; Lee Tonks, USA; Maya Torgenson, USA; Peter Treiber, USA; Rosa Isabel Vazquez, Spain; Maria Fernanda Veintimilla, USA; Mathieu Vincent, France; Sabato Visconti, USA; Cynthia Walpole, USA; Kristina West, USA; Kerri Williams, USA; Lane Wilson, USA; Noit Zakay, USA; Ramin Zmicer, Ukraine.