Gunpowder’s Daughters

Chantal Pinzi: I was in Thailand at the time, working on another story where nothing seemed to be going right. I was pretty frustrated. Then, right at that moment, I received the news that I had won. It felt like a push. In photography, you never know what tomorrow will bring. This industry is like a wave, and I am still surfing it for now, but that could change at any moment. What I'll never forget is how it all began. I was on my own, carving out my own path over the years. Today, I can tell and publish meaningful stories. My photography is part of my activism. It's part of who I am.

Ten images are definitely not enough, it’s just a glimpse into this world. But maybe that’s enough for the moment, so that people can at least understand:  The Farīsāt – which means “female riders” in Arabic – exist!

The riders are constantly under pressure to be perfect. Any mistake could be held against them, simply because they are women. Yet, they refuse to be intimidated. I’m fascinated by the strength and ease with which the Farīsāt control their wild, energetic horses – and without a saddle! I love that. That’s exactly how I want to portray women: strong, self-determined, and anything but victims.

It’s up to us to see the positive as well, and not let ourselves be overwhelmed by all the disasters and sadness. That’s not the only reality. I’m interested in positive stories: people who resist, who are resilient, and who keep going because they believe in what they’re doing. I love stories like that.

I was probably an activist first. I started taking photos when I was 16. At first, I just documented my own life; later, I photographed student protests. When I travelled alone, I realized how comfortable I felt out there in the world with just my camera. While studying photography, I came to understand the impact images can have on society. Today, I use photography as a medium for my activism. And it works!

It grew out of my research on female resilience in sports. I documented female wrestlers and skaters in India, and in my project “Shred the Patriarchy,” I documented female skaters in Morocco. I wanted to return to Morocco, and that’s when I came across the story of the Farīsāt. My focus was on Gen Z, and how this new generation is transforming the Tbourida tradition – and, in turn, Morocco itself.

I’m an athlete myself: a skater and a kickboxer. That’s why I know how difficult it is to navigate male-dominated spaces. That’s why I think it’s important to show how sports can empower women and foster future leaders in our communities.

I’ve photographed many protests, so I know how to handle the mix of adrenaline and movement. Animals are much more unpredictable. On top of that, I was the only person not on a horse at the dusty training grounds of the Moroccan horsewomen. That was pretty dangerous. Even though the show repeats itself, every moment must be treated as unique – because it’s never exactly the same. Sometimes, you only have a second to adjust a single camera setting and press the shutter button.

Of course, you can prepare by familiarising yourself with the rituals and key steps of the performance. But once you’re there, the most important thing is to stay curious, look closely, and react in the blink of an eye.

As I walked through the alleys of Marrakesh, carrying photo prints of the Farīsāt, a man approached me about them. When he saw my photos, he initially thought the scenes were fictional. It wasn’t until I explained to him that these women actually practice the Tbourida tradition, that he believed me. That’s when I realized that, even in Morocco, many people don’t know anything about these female riders. That makes it all the more important to give them visibility. The women told me that my photographs have earned them more respect.

The Farīsāt convinced me to dress just like them. I felt very honoured, but it was 40 degrees in the shade, and I was sweating my ass off.

Ghita Jhiate, one of the riders, had a serious accident. The rifles were double-loaded and exploded, causing her to nearly lose her arm. Despite this, she came to the performances to support her troupe. She didn’t know if she would ever perform again, or be able to move her hand. Her determination deeply impressed me.

Through clear communication, by respecting boundaries and always asking for consent. Trust takes time. That’s why I always spend at least a month with my protagonists, building a connection. Only after that do we really start working.

You have to develop a sense for that. When you’re confronted with injustice, you might have to take a picture, even if people don’t want you to. But when you’re working closely with a community and there’s an intimate moment in which someone might feel uncomfortable, you don’t take the picture. Even if it would be the most beautiful photo, you respect that. That’s different from documenting demonstrations, where I know my rights and use them.

None. You should never put yourself in danger for a story. That's stupid. I work safely, and try to create the safest possible conditions in high-risk areas.

When I was 20, I worked in Africa – in Cameroon – for the first time. In a rural village, I was invited to a funeral—because of my camera, they thought I was from the press. Suddenly, about 30 soldiers with huge weapons ran towards the crowd. I thought, “Shit, they’re going to shoot.” But it was just part of the ceremony. In the end, everyone was dancing.

Even without AI, journalism and photojournalism are professions that make our democracy possible. With AI, it’s actually pretty frustrating right now. My work is constantly mistaken for AI, probably because there are still people who can’t believe that women are capable of doing extraordinary things. If a woman in a photo is doing something extreme, people immediately assume it’s AI. I don’t usually respond to comments. But when someone says it’s AI, I always reply, “No! It’s not!”

The World Press Photo Contest is a great way to celebrate high-quality photojournalism. It could set an example for other media outlets on how to approach and evaluate photojournalism – including forensic analysis and fact-checking. There are so few media outlets that have the resources or the time to verify everything. That’s why it’s also our responsibility to work with precision. But really, governments should introduce a mandatory labelling requirement for the use of AI, especially in the media.
 

I’m proud that this photography award allowed me to keep my promise to the Farīsāt: to bring their struggle and their story to light. As a photojournalist, you always have a responsibility to ensure that the stories of your subjects are seen and heard, because they give you their time, and place their trust in you. I hope that this recognition has allowed me to give something back to them.