â€śBeautifully written and vividly illustrated with her images â€” which are stunningly cinematic, often strange, always evocative â€” the book helps us understand not only what would lead a young woman to pursue such a dangerous and difficult profession, but why she is so good at it. Lens to her eye, Addario is an artist of empathy, a witness not to grand ideas about human sacrifice and suffering, but to human beings, simply being.â€ť â€”Boston Globe
â€śThe opening scene of Lynsey Addarioâ€™s memoir sucker punches you like a cold hard fist.Â She illuminates the daily frustrations of working within the confines of what the host culture expects from a member of her sexÂ andÂ her constant fight for respect from her male journalist peers and American soldiers. Always she leads with her chin, whether sheâ€™s on the ground in hostile territory or discussing politics.â€ť â€”Entertainment Weekly
â€ś[A] richly illustrated memoir.Â [Addario] conveys well her unstated mission to stir the emotions of people like herself, born into relative security and prosperity, nudging them out of their comfort zones with visual evidence of horrors they might do something about. It is a diary of an empathetic young woman who makes understanding the wider world around her a professional calling.â€ť â€”Â Los Angeles Times
â€śAddarioâ€™s narrative about growing up as one of four daughters born to hairdressers in Los Angeles and working her way up to being one of the worldâ€™s most accomplished photojournalists, male or female, is riveting. [She] thoughtfully shows how exhilarating and demanding it is to cover the most difficult assignments in the world.Â Addario is a shining example of someone who has been able to â€śhave it all,â€ť but she has worked hard and absolutely suffered to get where she is. My hope is that she continues to live the life less traveled with her family, as I will be waiting for her next book with great anticipation.â€ť â€”San Francisco Chronicle
â€ś[An] unflinching memoir. [Addarioâ€™s] book, woven through with images from her travels, offers insight into international events and the challenges faced by the journalists who capture them.â€ťâ€”Â Washington Post
â€ś[Addarioâ€™s] ability to captureâ€¦ vulnerability in her subjects, often in extreme circumstances, has propelled Addario to the top of her competitive field.â€ť â€”Associated Press
â€śA rare gift: an intimate look into the personal and professional life of a war correspondentâ€¦ a powerful readâ€¦ This memoir packs a punch because of Addarioâ€™s personal risks. But some of the power in this book comes from the humanity she holds on to despite the horrors she witnesses. [Itâ€™s What I Do] should be read, processed and mulled over in its entiretyâ€¦.in [Addarioâ€™s] words and photos, readers will see that war isnâ€™t simply a matter of black and white, of whoâ€™s right and whoâ€™s wrong. There are as many shades of gray as there are sides to every story.â€ť â€”Â Dallas Morning News
â€śA remarkable journalistic achievement from a Pulitzer Prize and MacArthur Fellowship winner that crystalizes the last 10 years of global war and strife while candidly portraying the intimate life of a female photojournalist. Told with unflinching candor, the award-winning photographer brings an incredible sense of humanity to all the battlefields of her life. Especially affecting is the way in which Addario conveys the role of gender and how being a woman has impacted every aspect of her personal and professional lives. Whether dealing with ultrareligious zealots or overly demanding editors, being a woman with a camera has never been an easy task. A brutally real and unrelentingly raw memoir that is as inspiring as it is horrific.â€ťâ€”Â Kirkus (starred review)
â€śA highly readable and thoroughly engaging memoirâ€¦. Addarioâ€™s memoir brilliantly succeeds not only as a personal and professional narrative but also as an illuminating homage to photojournalismâ€™s role in documenting suffering and injustice, and its potential to influence public opinion and official policy.â€ť â€”Â Publishers Weekly
You have two options when you approach a hostile checkpoint, and both are a gamble. The first option is to stop and identify yourselves as journalists and hope you are respected as neutral professionals. The second option is to blow past them and hope they donâ€™t open fire on you.
â€śDonâ€™t stop! Donâ€™t stop!â€ť Tyler was yelling.
But Mohammed was slowing down, sticking his head out of the window.
â€śSahafi! Media!â€ť he yelled to the soldiers. He jumped out of the car, Qaddafiâ€™s soldiers swarming around him. â€śSahafi!â€ť
In one fluid movement, the doors flew open. I crawled across the backseat with my head down and out the open car door, scrambled to my feet, and immediately felt the hands of a soldier pulling at my arms and tugging at my two cameras. The harder he pulled, the harder I pulled back. Bullets whipped by us. Dirt kicked up all around my feet.
Within seconds, five government soldiers were upon us, pointing their guns and yelling in Arabic, their voices full of hate and adrenaline, their faces contorted into masks of sheer rage. They ordered us facedown into the dirt, motioning us down with their hands. We all paused, assuming this was the moment of our execution. And then we slowly crouched and we each begged for our lives.
I pressed my face into the soil as a soldier pulled my hands behind my back and kicked open my legs. The soldiers were screaming at us, at one another, pointing their weapons at our heads as the four of us sank into silent submission, waiting to be shot. I looked over at Anthony, Steve, and Tyler to make sure we were all still there, together and alive, and then quickly looked back at the dirt before me.
But the soldier was preoccupied with something else. He removed my gray Nikes with fluorescent yellow soles, and I heard the whipping sound of the laces being torn out. I felt air on my feet. He tied my ankles together. With a piece of fabric, he tied my wrists behind my back so tightly they went numb. Then he pushed my face into the filthy earth.
Would I see my parents again? Would I see Paul again? How could IÂ do this to them? Would I get my cameras back? How did I get to this place?
The soldiers picked me up by my hands and feet and carried me away.