2011: The Year in Pictures

The breath and hum of democracy seemed almost a libidinous thing in parts of the Middle East, but, in truth, the body heat had been simmering for years. The protests took hold in Tunisia in late 2010 after the street vendor Mohamed Bouazizi set himself on fire. The kindle caught and the spirit of his self-immolation lit a fuse across the region. A wave of protests struck Algeria, Egypt, Yemen, Jordan. Almost as soon as protesters in Cairo were being herded away from Tahrir Square, they were dancing at the news of Mubarak’s resignation. Ruling families began to fall. Power-transfer treaties were brokered. Parliaments were dissolved. Monarchs locked their gates and boarded their windows.

In Libya, Muammar el-Qaddafi was ousted and killed. NATO planes streaked a sky so blue it seemed it to speak of other Septembers. Faces, too, were lit by a new blue light. It was the era of the revolution down through the wires: time was collapsed and geography shrunk by the use of social networking. The whole world was indeed watching, listening, e-mailing. Some in the media lost their lives for the art of the images that emerged — the photographs didn’t just capture singular moments, but they looked backward and forward at the same time, at what has happened, and what is yet to come. The light from the Arab Spring rose from the ground up; the hope is now that the darkness doesn't fall. — COLUM McCANN, an author whose book “Let the Great World Spin” won the National Book Award.

“We are the 99 percent.” It was so much beyond a local slogan: the louder it was spoken, the more it began to say. My job, my streets, my economy, my riot, my skin. Cities shook their souls out. The yearning went global. Some protesters poured gasoline into bottles and lit the sky with fire. Others unfurled hammocks under light poles. The idea was to be seen, to be heard, to be tweeted. The year 2011 was an evanescent spectacle of anger. Every corner was a world, and every world had its corners. The bankers stood back, the corporations hushed a moment, the politicians held their breath, and the cops

took out their pepper spray. It might have begun in Wisconsin, had its adolescence in Greece, and shattered the night in London, but it lost and won its innocence in Zuccotti Park. Suddenly, a tent had as much meaning as a tower. Kids from all over the country boiled collard greens in the courtyard of commerce. The city’s bureaucrats tried frantically to barricade them in, or out — nobody seemed sure which. The anger rolled all the way down to Wall Street and the markets shivered a moment. When cold weather kicked in, the tents began to disappear and the anger diffused, but the images remained, another sort of fire in flight. — COLUM McCANN

The water rose. And rose. Soon there were traffic lights flipping, doors tumbling, tatami mats spinning in the current. Cars began to float alongside washing machines, computers, people. The incredible could occur. And then the tsunami seemed to wash away the last vain dream of the 20th century: the nuclear answer. The Fukushima Daiichi nuclear plant went into meltdown and watched its poisons filter out to sea, and what remained is what we all must live with: the democratic rage of nature. No matter what we do, we cannot regulate how we are shaped by weather. We look for calm, but there is always

an inevitability of storm. The images from Joplin, Mo., were pure with grief. A snowstorm paralyzed Tulsa, Okla. The Souris River shed more than a tear. The streets of Bangkok were almost apocalyptic during floods. There were droughts, earthquakes, wildfires scattering animals like dice. So, the question, then, is ancient: How with such rage shall beauty hold a plea? Rescuers in Turkey put their fingers on part of the pulse when they managed to pull 2-week-old Azra Karaduman from the rubble. Her mother and grandmother also emerged safely. She was tiny and voiceless, yet she said so much. — COLUM McCANN

Those weren’t just tank lights leaving the desert behind. That was the darkness of a nearly nine-year war made visible. The soldiers moved through the sandstorms, and landed back home in the United States to deal with the continuing legacy of American foreign policies. In 2011, Barack Obama’s promises were finally beginning to find their way onto the front pages. A spectacular nighttime raid found Osama bin Laden in Abbottabad, Pakistan. The helicopters landed. The weight of the past was kicked up in the dust. Author of a decade of killing, Bin Laden had endpages that were quick and sharp. He was shot dead, buried at sea, and the White House held

its breath: it sounded so much like a sigh of joy, exhausted and necessary. The soldiers continued their journeys: it was a big world they were returning to. The seven billionth baby was born, starting global discussions on issues of environment, health and technology. Europe teetered on the edge of ruin, stunned by even more economic philandering. In the fall, lights were lit for Kim Il-sung and a regime that has hidden its face. In Norway the island of Utoya heard gunshots among the trees. Parts of Africa were dealing, yet again, with an almost impossible hunger and thirst. But stories and images are always new, no matter how old the theme. The surprise of the world is that it can still surprise us. — COLUM McCANN

Sometimes there is a necessity for anniversaries, even for things that cannot be forgotten. The memorial services for 9/11 were remarkable for their grace and dignity. The falling water, beside the reflecting pools, spoke volumes. While the Republicans fumbled for their own sort of memory — trying somehow to bring back the apparent ease of the Reagan years — the rest of the country drove down a street of foreclosed homes. We were all, in some way, looking for a brand-new roof. — COLUM McCANN

A photograph is sometimes a perfect testament to the notion that we can’t afford to lose our delight. While the news, and its makers, might dwell on what we’ve lost, we occasionally still witness the most remarkable music: marriages, journeys, longings, births and returns. Every now and then, the ground just won’t show its shadows. — COLUM McCANN