Every interview comes with its own quiet challenge. With this one, the challenge felt almost ironic: choosing a single quote for the headline. Because when someone thinks — and works — in layers, nothing really exists on its own.

Emily Garthwaite’s practice sits somewhere between photography and lived experience. She explores coexistence, memory, and the environmental realities that shape everyday life — but more than anything, it is her approach that defines the work. No quick visits. No surface-level storytelling. Just time — and a lot of it.

Months-long expeditions, years of returning, and that slow, almost unnoticeable shift that happens when a place stops being something you observe and becomes something you are part of. Much of this unfolds in Iraq.

And somewhere along the way, the work moves beyond documentation. It begins to ask questions — about faith, environment, perception, and what it really means to represent a place without reducing it.

The conversation followed that same rhythm — at times heavy, at times unexpectedly light. In the end, it didn’t feel right to cut it down; each part carried something of its own.

So we left it as it is: long, and meaningful. Here we go.

— You started photography when you were 14. What first drew you to it?

— It really began with a forest fire near my family home. My mother had just been given a camera for Christmas, and at the start of that summer the fire broke out and spread quickly across miles of land.

We used to spend a lot of time in that national park when I was younger, so it felt quite personal. I had already started borrowing her camera — she wasn’t particularly interested in using it — and when the fire happened, my dad took me up there, just behind the fire brigade line. That was the first time I photographed something that felt urgent and real.

I remember being genuinely upset. At that age, I was completely fascinated by reptiles — I even had three snakes — and that landscape is such an important habitat for them. Seeing it burn made me realise, quite instinctively, that this was something worth documenting.

Afterwards, I sent the photographs to my local newspaper, and they ended up publishing them. Suddenly, at 14, I was a published photojournalist. But more than that, it was the feeling of seeing an image tied to a story that mattered.

From there, the way I approached photography became quite clear. I was always drawn to stories that felt close and human — often quiet, but emotionally heavy. I remember, for example, spending time with Bosnian war veterans who would go fishing at a lake near my parents’ home as a way of coping with PTSD. They would sit together in silence, and I would sit with them, listen, and try to understand what they had lived through.

Looking back, it was probably an unusual curiosity for someone that age, but it is something I have carried with me. At its core, it has always been about a genuine interest in people — in how they live, what they carry, and what often goes unspoken. Photography just happened to be the medium I had at that moment, but I think I would have found my way to storytelling regardless.

— How did you decide to pursue photography not just as something on the side, but as the core of your career?

— It wasn’t a single, clear decision — it became obvious over time. When I was 18, I started assisting photographers across different fields — food, interiors, fashion, portraiture — and that is where I learned the technical side of things: lighting, studio setups, how everything works. But none of that was photojournalism.

At the same time, I began doing more street photography, and that is where something shifted. What stayed with me weren’t the images themselves, but the conversations behind them — real moments, real people.

Working in fashion, I found myself repeatedly asking: why am I taking these pictures? And I never quite had an answer. Whereas when I was photographing people — on the street, families, even my own relatives — that question simply didn’t come up. There was always a sense of meaning, something that felt grounded.

That difference became very clear when my grandmother passed away. My mother’s side of the family is from northeast India, and when I took her ashes back there, I started photographing that experience. It was deeply personal, but it also clarified things for me.

I realised that photography wasn’t just something I did — it was how I understood the world. It gave structure to my curiosity and allowed me to connect with people in a way that felt natural. Carrying a camera creates a kind of shared space — it gives you a reason to ask questions, to be present, to stay longer.

From that point on, the direction became quite clear. I was less interested in fast, breaking stories and more drawn to long-term work — returning to the same people and places over time, building something more layered. Some of the people I have photographed — I am still in touch with them six or seven years later. And that, in itself, is part of the work. Staying present, checking in, continuing those conversations — it can feel like a full-time commitment, but it is also what gives the work its depth.

— One of the core themes in your work is Iraq. How did that connection begin?

— It began quite unexpectedly while I was working as a street photographer, when an Iranian arts institute reached out to me about a documentary project around Arbaeen — a religious pilgrimage in Iraq — which they wanted to approach from a cultural perspective, and for which they were specifically looking for a non-Muslim photographer.

I flew into Najaf, just south of Baghdad, where I joined a group of Iranian filmmakers — there were around ten of us — and from the beginning it felt quite intense, as I was trying to understand what was happening around me, to connect with people without a shared language, while also being filmed myself.

At the same time, there was something incredibly moving about the experience. I had grown up in the United Kingdom with a very fixed idea of Iraq — shaped almost entirely by war, by news coverage, by distance — and being there disrupted that completely.

That contrast stayed with me when I returned. I became much more aware of how Iraq was spoken about — often in reductive or openly Islamophobic ways — and at first, I felt a strong need to challenge that, to show a different perspective.

But the more time I spent there, and the more relationships I built, the more that motivation began to shift. It became less about correcting perceptions from the outside, and more about listening — to Iraqi voices, to local communities — and trying to represent something that felt true to their experience.

That shift has shaped my work ever since. I first went to Iraq in my early twenties, and I am now 33. Through all the changes in my life, that connection has remained constant. It is no longer just a place I photograph, but somewhere I feel deeply tied to.

— In one of your interviews, you said: “I want to motivate people to go back home to Iraq.” What did you mean by that?

— What I meant comes from something I kept noticing through conversations with people from the Iraqi diaspora. Many, especially from our generation, feel a strong desire to return home, or at least to reconnect with it. But their parents often carry a very different perspective, shaped by lived experience of the war, and that tends to come with a lot of fear. So there is this quiet tension between generations — between the urge to return and the instinct to protect.

Over time, I began receiving messages from young Iraqis living in Europe or the United States, saying things like, “I am trying to convince my parents to go back — I am showing them your pictures.” And that was incredibly moving.

It made me realise that the work was doing something beyond documentation. It was helping people imagine a different relationship with home.

— Let’s talk about your projects. You have developed several long-term projects dedicated to one place: Tigris river. What keeps drawing you back to the same place?

— It really began through the writer Leon McCarran, who first spoke to me about the idea of following the Tigris from source to sea. What struck me immediately was that the river isn’t just geographical — it is historical, cultural, almost mythological. It is a river that birthed civilisations, and at the same time, it cuts directly through Iraq in a way that allows you to move across completely different landscapes, communities, and identities.

It quickly became a natural storytelling thread — something that could hold together archaeology, environment, and everyday life.

We started developing the project around 2019, but getting it off the ground was incredibly difficult. There was the question of funding, of course — people saw Iraq as too dangerous, the journey as unrealistic, and, quite surprisingly, many hadn’t even heard of the river in that context.

Still, we believed in it, and eventually partnered with an Iraqi environmental organisation called Humat Dijlah — which means “Save the Tigris”.

The first expedition took three months. It was intense in every sense — logistically, physically, emotionally. We were working as a group, most of us had never collaborated before, and every single day involved negotiating with military forces, local authorities, and different provinces. The river is highly restricted, so nothing was straightforward. The bureaucracy alone was overwhelming.

In many ways, that first journey became less about storytelling and more about proving that it could be done at all.

That is why, when I later received support from a French NGO, CCFD-Terre Solidaire, I decided to return — but in a completely different way. This time, I travelled much more slowly, by car, with just one other person. We stayed in villages, spent time with communities, went fishing, and revisited places I hadn’t been able to properly engage with before. That second journey shifted the work — it created space for listening, for observation, for depth.

Across both journeys, what became increasingly clear was how much the river is changing — and not for the better. The Tigris is facing a severe ecological crisis.

There are structural issues — ineffective water management, lack of infrastructure, and the long-term impact of war on agriculture and rural communities. And then there is pollution, which you can feel quite physically.

At one point, while we were camping along the riverbanks, the smell alone became so strong that we could no longer stay there. And that, in itself, gives a very real sense of what is happening — not just environmentally, but to the people who rely on that water every day.

— You also mentioned noticing how much the river is changing. What is actually happening to the Tigris today?

— The most immediate issue is the lack of water. The Tigris begins in Turkey, but a significant amount of that water is now held back by dams upstream, which has reduced the flow into Iraq.

At the same time, climate change has brought less rainfall, while population growth has increased demand. Years of war have also weakened farming systems and rural infrastructure, making the situation more fragile.

As water levels drop, salinity becomes a major problem. Seawater moves upstream, damaging farmland and making the water harder to use.

On top of that, there is severe pollution. In Baghdad, untreated hospital waste can be discharged directly into the river, alongside industrial waste from oil companies. By the time the river reaches the south, the water is heavily contaminated. You can see it, and you can smell it.

At one point, while we were camping along the riverbanks, the smell became so strong that we could no longer stay there. And that gives you a very real sense of what is happening — not just environmentally, but to the people who rely on that water every day.

— I saw that even after several publications, you have continued raising the issue, including through conversations with Salman Khairalla. How urgent is the situation?

— It is extremely urgent. There are organisations doing important work, such as Humat Dijlah, but the reality is that Iraq has been through so much that environmental concerns are often pushed aside in favour of more immediate needs.

And yet, water and soil are the foundation of everything — they need to be protected.

— Another project of yours, Road to Arbaeen, was one of your earliest. Can you tell me more about it?

— Yes, it was my first major project, and in many ways it shaped everything that came after. It focuses on the Arbaeen pilgrimage — “Arbaeen” meaning forty — a Shia Muslim journey that unfolds over 40 days, with people walking more than 70 kilometres from Najaf to Karbala.

What makes it so extraordinary isn't just the scale, but the experience of it. You move along ancient paths, often tracing the Euphrates, sometimes even passing through places like Babylon — which, for anyone interested in history, feels almost surreal.

For me, it was also my first real encounter with Islam, and specifically with Shia Islam — not in theory, but through people, through conversations, through lived experience. Through that, I began to understand its history, its struggles, and its place within Iraq in a much more personal way.

When I first travelled there, the war in Mosul was still ongoing, which meant many of the men from the south were away fighting. As a result, I often found myself staying in homes with women, children, and elderly family members, which gave the experience a very particular atmosphere — both intimate and quietly heavy.

What stayed with me most was the rhythm of moving through a country on foot. Walking creates a kind of openness — you meet people in a more direct and humble way. And as a foreigner, and a Christian, being welcomed into something so deeply sacred felt incredibly powerful.

The pilgrimage itself has been taking place for over 1,400 years. It was banned under Saddam, so people would walk in secret, often at night. Today, it brings together over 20 million people, all united in their faith, creating an atmosphere that feels almost like a shared emotional current.

I have returned to it several times — walking the full route twice, and later spending longer periods in Karbala observing the entire 40-day cycle. And over time, what has stayed with me most is the role of faith — how it offers clarity, structure, and resilience, especially for people who have lived through so much.

— When you are photographing such deeply personal and spiritual moments — like prayer — how do you approach consent?

— Interestingly, Arbaeen was one of the few places where photographing people felt very natural. The emotional and spiritual intensity was so strong that many people were open to being photographed — they wanted that moment to be seen.

That said, I was always careful not to interrupt. If someone was praying, I didn’t step in. I might have simply gestured with the camera, and often they would acknowledge it with a small nod — a quiet form of consent that didn’t break their focus.

There were also moments that were far more sensitive. I once photographed a funeral at the Imam Ali shrine in Najaf — a man who had passed away during the pilgrimage. His body was brought in, surrounded by family in prayer. I approached it very gently, took a single frame, and stepped back. It felt like something shared, not taken.

Sometimes those images carried a life far beyond the moment. Years later, people reached out — grandchildren recognising relatives in the photographs, sometimes after they had passed. In that sense, photography became an archive almost instantly. And being able to return those images to families felt incredibly meaningful.

— You have spoken about how important consent is in your work, particularly in Iraq. Why does that matter so much to you?

— Iraq is an incredibly hospitable place, but it is also a conservative and deeply honour-based society, and that has to be respected. Consent, for me, isn't optional — it is fundamental.

The reason is very real — an image shared publicly could bring shame to a family and, in extreme cases, could even put someone at risk. Honour-based violence still exists, and it isn't something that can be ignored. So for me, it is about responsibility. Just because you can take a photograph doesn’t mean you should. I would rather miss an image than risk causing harm.

— Have you ever come across situations that made you realise just how serious that risk can be?

— I remember hearing about a photograph taken through a restaurant window — there was a man sitting at one table and a woman sitting behind him at another. In reality, they were completely unrelated, but the way the image was framed made it look as though they were dining together.

The woman was engaged, and when her family saw the photograph, it created the impression that she was meeting another man. It ended up having very serious consequences for her life. And that is exactly the point — something that might seem like an innocent or even beautiful image can carry completely different meanings in a different cultural context.

— I know that while travelling in Iraq, you sometimes moved with military units. Was that necessary for safety, or something arranged by the authorities?

— It wasn’t something we actively needed, but it was largely organised by the authorities. For the expedition, we had permission from the Prime Minister’s office, and because we were travelling as foreigners along a highly restricted river, they decided to provide military convoys for protection.

At times, it made things more complicated — suddenly our small team became much larger, with 20 or 30 additional people, more logistics, more pressure. But at the same time, it opened up a completely different experience.

We weren’t just moving with them — we were living alongside them: shared meals, sometimes stayed in their homes. There were moments where I would wake up from my tent and see rows of boots outside, all of us brushing our teeth together in the morning and making tea.

And through that, what became very clear was that many of these men hadn’t imagined this life for themselves. One wanted to be an architect, another clearly a musician — always tapping rhythms, saying he would have been a drummer. But the military was often the only stable option available to them.

So it shifted my perspective. It became less about security, and much more about understanding people — their lives, their choices, and the reality of a country where opportunities are limited, and stability often comes at a cost.

— Are you still in touch with any of them?

— Occasionally, yes. I will receive messages — often around Eid or Ramadan — sometimes with an old photographs attached.

But there is also a much heavier side to it. Some of the units we travelled with later lost their lives in operations. So when I hear from those who are still there, or when I look back at certain images, there is always that awareness of what has happened since.

— You have also co-founded a hiking trail in the Zagros Mountains. How did that project come about?

— It began around 2016–2017, during the war in Mosul, when Leon McCarran shifted his focus away from covering conflict and towards the mountains of Kurdistan. Together with Lawin Mohammed, a Kurdish Syrian artist, they started developing the idea of a long-distance hiking trail across the region.

When I joined later, it became something we fully committed to. The entire project was volunteer-led — we spent months in the mountains, walking thousands of kilometres, testing routes, refining them, and slowly shaping what would become a continuous trail.

What made it so meaningful was the process itself. We worked closely with local communities, guides, and former Peshmerga fighters — people who knew the land intimately. It wasn’t just about mapping a path, but about understanding the region through those who live there.

Now the trail exists independently.

— Your work often involves long-term immersion — months, sometimes years. Why is that approach so important to you?

— It comes from a very conscious rejection of what is often called “parachute journalism” — arriving briefly, taking what you need, and leaving.

For me, time is essential. It is about returning, building relationships, and allowing life to unfold naturally. When you stay longer, you aren't just capturing moments — you are witnessing change. You are there for everyday life, but also for the moments in between — weddings, funerals, seasons shifting.

Over time, those connections deepen. People’s lives evolve, and the work evolves with them. Some of the people I have photographed have since passed away; others have started families. Remaining part of that continuity changes how you see and document everything.

For me, it is never just about the image. It is about the relationship behind it.