Every photograph a charity publishes makes an argument about the person in it. It says who they are, what they’re capable of, and what they need from you. For decades, the charity sector has made the same argument over and over: here is someone poor, waiting for your help.
We don't accept this. The women we work with design, finance and build their own homes. They run savings groups, train as builders and are improving their communities without fanfare. A camera that only looks for hardship misses all of that. A story that only describes desperation leaves the audience knowing less than when they started.
What is ethical storytelling?
It’s the sharing of real life experiences with care, respect and consent. We must consider what we say, how we share a story, and what it means for the people in it once it’s out in the world.
At AzuKo, we hold ourselves to six things:
Every story starts with why. Who is this story for, what do we want it to change, and are we the right people to tell it?
Consent is a conversation, not a signature. People hear, in their own language, where their story will go, who might see it and what the risks are. They decide whether and how they're named, and they can change their mind.
People are the experts on their own lives. They know their story better than we ever will. Our job is to listen closely and get the details right. They have the final word.
The whole story. Not pity, and not a hero's tale either. As Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie said, the problem with stereotypes is “not that they are untrue, but that they are incomplete”.
Do no harm, even if it means saying nothing. If a story can't be told safely and honestly, we don't tell it.
Stories return home. Where possible, photographs and stories are given back to the people in them.
Underneath all six sits one question: how would I feel if this story were told about me?
We set an ethical storytelling challenge within Designing with dignity, our humanitarian architecture course. Each participant tells the story of someone they meet who inspires them, asking for their consent and focusing on what they’re achieving. One of our favourite moments is seeing those stories handed back to the people in them.
Behind the lens: Ananna and Arif
Who holds the camera matters. Someone who knows a place sees things a visitor might miss, and the people being photographed know the difference too.
Ananna and Arif are local photographers and architecture students. On the banks of the Teesta river in northwest Bangladesh, they spent time with our team and communities, learning what life beside such a volatile river is like, and what people hope for.
We asked them how they approach the responsibility of photographing people’s lives:
Ananna: a more complete and honest story
For Ananna, photography carries a responsibility that goes beyond recording what's in front of her. “The way we frame a person, choose a moment, and tell a story can influence how others perceive them”, she says.
She is clear that this doesn't mean making everything look rosy.
“Photographing with empowerment in mind does not mean ignoring difficulties or presenting an unrealistically positive picture. It means telling a more complete and honest story, one in which people are seen as active participants in their own lives rather than passive recipients of help.”
One of her photographs shows a woman working carefully on a bright piece of fabric outside her home. “What stays with me most is the woman herself and the dignity of her everyday labour”, Ananna says. “The image invites viewers to notice her skill, effort, and individuality.”
Documenting this story with AzuKo and Nirapod Bangladesh Songstha has changed how she sees her own country, and her role in it. “It has made me deeply accountable for the position I hold behind the lens... Every photograph is a choice.”
Arif: see a person, not a problem
Arif's method starts with patience. “I usually watch first, staying a little to the side and letting a scene settle”, he says. “I wait for a moment when light, expression and movement meet, instead of asking someone to pose as a symbol of hardship.”
What he finds when he waits is the stuff a quick glance misses.
“A woman might stitch while keeping an eye on several children. Women pool small savings or share tools so no one is left without. Someone adapts her home or stall for flooding, heat or limited space... These things are not done for an audience. They are part of how people keep life going for one another.”
He titled one of his Teesta photographs ‘Still Here’. Two children ride off, a young man walks his own path, and an older man sits by the river. “Three ages and three different journeys share the same landscape”, he says. “Generations change, but the stories of life and nature continue.”
His hope for anyone who sees his work is simple: “I want people to look at my photographs and see a person, not a problem.”
Beyond the photograph
Ananna and Arif noticed what we see every day. Women are already adapting their homes, pooling their money and looking out for their neighbours. AzuKo’s work starts from that strength. We can't build with women as equals and then describe them as helpless. Our co-design approach and storytelling must match.
Ethical storytelling doesn’t stop at the image. It shapes how we write, report and share what we learn:
We name the causes. Housing poverty isn't a natural state or a personal failing. It comes from who owns land, who can borrow money and who bears the brunt of a changing climate. A story that shows a damaged home without saying why leaves readers thinking that's simply how things are.
We're not the hero. We don't design for communities. We design with them, and the same goes for telling their stories. That's why we call the women we work with Homemakers: people who design, finance and build, not people who wait to be housed. We ask supporters to stand with them.
We credit what we learn. Much of what we know about building decent homes comes from women, and their communities. When we share those insights with others, we credit them.
We report honestly. We understand donors want numbers. But a figure next to a photo of someone looking desperate tells a story we don't believe. We show the work as it is: skilled, creative, collective, with the setbacks included.
This takes longer. Getting consent properly, understanding the context, and going back to communities with published stories all take time and money that our small team feels. We think it's worth it, because the alternative costs the people in the stories far more.
Learning to see
Ananna put it best: “Photography is as much about learning to see as it is about learning to take pictures.” That's true for anyone who tells stories about other people's lives, whether they're a charity, a journalist, or a volunteer. It is a responsibility.
Next time you see a photo or read an article from a charity, including ours, ask whose story it is and who chose how it was told. Ask whether the person in it would recognise themselves. Ask yourself, what have you learned about their humanity?
As Arif says, “If we keep looking only for problems, that may be all we ever see.”
FURTHER READING
A practical guide for communicating global justice and solidarity: An alternative to the language of development, aid and charity (Health Poverty Action)
From contributors to co-producers: A guide to participatory production & Shifting the power: A toolkit for journalists and communicators (On Our Radar)
How to communicate the world: A social media guide for volunteers and travelers (RADI-AID)
Narrative change: Why ethical storytelling matters (Devex, with Moky Makura of Africa No Filter)
Putting the people in the pictures first: Guidelines for the ethical production and use of content (images and stories) (Bond)
The price we pay for the money we raise: Effects of international development fundraising on British public attitudes & engagement (Development Engagement Lab)
