Photographers in a war zone may expect the lens to put a protective distance between them and the horror. It does the opposite: the images burn into the mind as well as onto the film, and the trauma piles up. For some, that cost ended in suicide.
The public embraces a shocking image of suffering and then pins all the guilt on the person who took it. The war photographer becomes hero and pariah at once. The viewers who looked never share the shame.
At every violent scene the photographer faces a choice: keep shooting or put the camera down and help. Doing both at once is impossible, and the question of when you stop being a photographer has no settled answer. It has to be faced again each time.
People who come through danger again and again start to feel untouchable, and they drop basic precautions like body armour. Fear arrives suddenly, only once one of their own is hit. By then the danger was always real.
Even as a close friend lies dying, the trained habit takes over and the photographer raises the camera. The reflex comes with a private reason: the friend will want to see these pictures later. Professional identity can be strong enough to override the urge to run to someone's side.