For my hero, Alban Bujarin

The child lay among the rubble, his eyes half-open, as if the sky had frozen in his pupils. A small plastic car, dusty, lay next to his tiny hand. He was only five years old, and now he had become a silent statue of human cruelty.

The photographer knelt down. His camera Nikon, with film, he waited; silent and patient, as if he knew that this was a moment not to be missed. It was that moment when he had to choose – to take a photograph that would shock the world, or to bow his head and let this child die twice: once from war and once from oblivion. He pressed the button. A single click, an eternity preserved on a piece of paper.

These are the kinds of images that a war photojournalist will spend his or her entire life taking. For those who hold the camera, the challenge is not just facing death, but also the necessity of framing it in a way that speaks louder than words. They cannot look away; they cannot let their feelings overwhelm them – they must be the eye of history, even when it is bloody. They must look at the difficult images to find the right angle, the right light, and the right framing.

No one comes out of war unscathed. I didn't come out after covering Likoshan, Rahovec and Loxha either. However, the burden of the photographer is greater and the work more difficult. In these jobs, the scars remain; they are not visible scars, but a fire that does not go out. When you return from difficult scenes, you are no longer the same. Every shot of the camera remains in the memory; much more powerfully than when you look at a photograph that you can remove whenever you want. There is no warning there that the following images may be disturbing. The images remain in your head even when you discuss them with colleagues about how you made the decision from which angle you will photograph; how fast you will shoot and how much exposure you will use while looking at the most terrifying images. Then, on the computer, you have to continue to deal with those images, becoming a professional so that the photograph tells the story.

My friend, Alban Bujari, was one of those who experienced this weight. He carried bitter stories on his shoulders, without ever seeking appreciation or recognition. He did not ask for medals or awards, perhaps because he was afraid that it would be a big request, a fame built on the suffering of others.

But he left a mark on time, a deep mark on world history. He will be remembered by many because his eyes, through the lens of the camera, immortalized what many others dared not even look at.