The instinct to document, to bear witness, is often what drives journalists toward the heart of conflict. In the early days of Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, as millions were displaced, that impulse became a lifeline for a world struggling to comprehend the scale of the crisis. Without those on the ground, reporting from the front lines, displacement becomes a statistic and war risks becoming an abstraction. It’s a risk my colleague and friend, Brent Renaud, understood intimately.
On March 13, 2022, Brent and I crossed a partially destroyed bridge into Irpin, a suburb of Kyiv under heavy bombardment. We were there to document the stories of families fleeing the violence, to show the human cost of the war. The scene was one of chaotic desperation: Ukrainian soldiers assisting the elderly, children, and the wounded across the rubble, carrying what little they could salvage. The constant echo of artillery fire served as a grim soundtrack to the unfolding tragedy. Documenting displacement – whether it be migrants at the U.S. Border, refugees in Greece, or communities ravaged by natural disasters – had become our shared focus, but the speed and scale of the crisis in Ukraine felt different, irreversible.
Minutes after accepting a ride from a local driver heading toward an evacuation point, gunfire erupted. I remember the shattering sound of glass, the tearing of metal, and the immediate, instinctive reaction to seek cover. When the shooting stopped, Brent was slumped beside the driver, critically wounded. Despite my efforts to control the bleeding, he was already unconscious.
That moment irrevocably changed my role – from observer to participant in the unfolding tragedy. Brent believed deeply in the responsibility of journalists to document history and to supply a voice to the voiceless. We first connected as fellows at Harvard, forging a friendship built on a shared commitment to humanistic storytelling. We consistently moved toward disaster, not out of a desire for bravery, but out of a conviction that the public deserves firsthand accounts and accurate information about events that shape their lives.
The Cost of Witnessing
Four years ago, Brent became the first American journalist killed in Ukraine following the Russian invasion, a stark reminder of the dangers faced by those committed to reporting from conflict zones. His death wasn’t an isolated incident. The Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ) recently reported that 2025 was the deadliest year on record for journalists, with 129 media workers killed worldwide. Since the start of the war in Ukraine and Brent’s death, more than 400 journalists and media workers have lost their lives although reporting globally.
War challenges the notion of journalistic neutrality. The line between documenting violence and becoming a target can vanish in an instant. While protective gear and experience can mitigate risk, they cannot eliminate it. They do, however, guarantee exposure – exposure to the truth, and tragically, sometimes to danger.
In the months following the attack, as I recovered from multiple surgeries, I wrestled with the question that haunts many survivors: why him and not me? Survivor’s guilt is a relentless companion, replaying moments and decisions in an endless loop. During the invasion, the world witnessed harrowing images of families fleeing destroyed bridges, mass graves being uncovered, and cities reduced to rubble. These images, captured by journalists on the ground, shaped public understanding, informed policy debates, and spurred humanitarian responses.
Bearing Witness Through Film
The cost of that proximity is often unseen. I remember leaving Kyiv by evacuation train, realizing I was no longer behind the camera, but another person displaced by conflict. War redefines roles without warning. I often find myself returning to those final moments before the attack – the ordinary conversation in the car, the assumption that we would complete our work that day. War interrupts time without warning, leaving behind only fragments: a seat, a sound, the weight of a camera, and the memory of a friend dedicated to paying attention to the suffering of others.
In the years since, making sense of that day has become part of my work. Brent’s life and death are now the subject of the documentary “Armed Only With a Camera,” which I produced. Creating the film meant confronting painful memories and images, but we deliberately chose not to shy away from the harsh realities of war or to sanitize the circumstances of Brent’s death. The violence journalists witness – and sometimes endure – is precisely what the world is often shielded from, and bearing witness demands honesty, even when it’s uncomfortable.
A Growing Threat to Press Freedom
Today, journalists in the U.S. Are facing conditions that could increasingly mirror those in war zones. Simultaneously, the erosion of trust in the press has coincided with a growing tolerance for attacks on those who document conflict. I continue to return to places defined by movement – borders, evacuation routes, communities grappling with uncertainty – not because I have answers, but because the act of documenting resists erasure. Brent understood this instinctively. His work wasn’t about recognition; it was about presence.
Journalism doesn’t stop violence, but it makes denial more difficult. It creates a record that cannot be easily erased. That was the responsibility Brent carried, and it’s the one many journalists continue to carry today, armed only with a camera and a belief in the power of truth.
Juan Arredondo is a photojournalist and producer of “Armed Only With a Camera: The Life and Death of Brent Renaud.”
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