Women and War [Paperback]

The cover offers a photo of a young Ethiopian freedom fighter hosting a rifle over her shoulder, hips askew, with an ammunition belt drapped around them. There's something uncannily sensual about the image--graceful, seductive--that speaks, perhaps, to our fascination in the West with violence and sex. But open the book to the first full page photograph inside the covers, and Matthew quickly disabuses one of any urge to romanticize of sensualize war. The photo is an in-your-face portrait of Phuong, an eight-year-old Vietnamese girl who was born without eyes because her mother was poisoned by Agent Orange years earlier.

The rest of the photos follow this initial template of starkly contrasts between beauty and horror. One of the most memorable contrasts is midway through the book. One page shows stacks and stacks of weapons. The other shows stacks and stacks of human bones, remains of genocide victims.

The text is minimal, as it should be in a book such as this. The photographs should speak for themselves. Trust me: they do.

The cover offers a photo of a young Ethiopian freedom fighter hoisting a rifle over her shoulders. Her hips are askew, an ammunition belt draped around them. There's something uncannily innocent about the image; one could easily imagine that the young woman is dressed in the latest punk fashion and on her way to a club. But open the book to the first full-page photograph inside the covers, and Matthews quickly disabuses us of any urge to romanticize war. The photo is an in-your-face portrait of Phuong, an eight-year-old Vietnamese girl who was born without eyes because her mother was poisoned years earlier by Agent Orange.

The rest of the photos follow this initial template of drawing stark contrasts between images of beauty and images of horror. One of the most memorable contrasts is midway through the book. One page shows stacks and stacks of weapons. The opposing page shows stacks and stacks of human bones, remains of genocide victims.

The text is minimal. In a book such as this, the photographs should speak for themselves. Trust me: they do.

The cover offers a photo of a young Ethiopian freedom fighter hoisting a rifle over her shoulder, hips askew and drapped with an ammunition belt. There's somethng uncannily sensual about the image--graceful, seductive--that speaks, perhaps, to our fascination in the West with violence and sex. But open the book to the first full page photograph inside the covers, and Matthew quickly disabuses one of any urge to romanticize or sensualize war. The photo is an in-your-face portrait of Phuong, an eight-year-old Vietnamese girl who was born without eyes because her mother had been poisoned years earlier by Agent Orange.

The rest of the photos follow this template of stark contrasts between beauty and horror. One of the most memorable contrasts is midway through the book. One pages shows stacks and stacks of weapons. The facing page shows stacks and stacks of human bones, remains of genocide victims.

The text is minimal, as it should be in a book like this. The photographs should speak for themselves. Trust me: they do.