Brian Sokol worked as a guide in Nepal until 2005, when its civil war compelled him to pursue documentary photography. He became interested in the hundreds of brick factories scattered throughout the 220-square-mile stretch of the Katmandu Valley. Millions of workers, many of them poor migrants, depend on the labor-intensive process. In the late evenings at the Kadambini Brick Factory, it's not uncommon to find children drinking wine or lighting up a cigarette after a hard day's work.
Mr. Sokol, originally from Missouri, spent roughly a year exploring a factory 12 miles from the capital, where he documented all of the images for his black-and-white photo series, ' Kadambini.' Though he started out shooting in color with a digital S.L.R., he switched to black and white using a smartphone, which he said made him look at the world in simpler visual terms.
Q.
How did you come across this issue?
A.
The air quality in the Katmandu Valley is among the worst in the world, due in part to the smoke pouring from hundreds of brick factories. I had been living in Nepal for some time, and like most Katmandu residents, each winter developed a bad case of bronchitis or some other respiratory infection. Curious about the link between illness and air quality, I decided to find out about the giant chimneys dotting the eastern end of the valley.
Q.
How regulated is this industry?
A.
During the several months that I've spent working on this project, I've never seen any sign of governmental or other industrial oversight. Of the estimated 750 brick factories operating in Nepal, only 450 of them are even registered with the government. While there may be laws in place that theoretically should guide labor practices and mitigate environmental impact, I haven't personally come across anything to suggest that they are being implemented.
Brian Sokol/Panos Pictures
Q.
Where do the majority of workers come from?
A.
The brick workers at Kadambini, the small factory that I've focused on, are all migrant laborers, primarily from two regions. The first group are domestic migrants from the Rolpa region of northwest Nepal. This is one of the poorest and most remote corners of an already-impoverished country, and the region perhaps hardest hit by the decade-long civil war that ended in 2006. The second group is composed of international migrants who cross the open border between India and Nepal. Males and females work side by side and ages span from small children to the elderly. I've seen toddlers attempting to help their mothers press bricks from clay and photographed an 8-year-old who carried heavy loads atop his head for long hours each day.
Q.
What are the living conditions like?
A.
Typically, brick factories open in the autumn, operate through the winter and close in the late spring, at which point migrant workers head back to their homes and families. During the approximately six months of operations, workers live on site in small, cramped shelters composed largely of uncooked bricks covered with sheet metal or plastic tarpaulins. At points throughout the season, the structures are cannibalized, brought inside of the kiln, and fired, then rebuilt out of a new slew of raw, unfired bricks. Most workers wake up in the dark, take tea and begin work around dawn. The work day continues until shortly before dusk, at which point people wash off their ruddy coating of sweat and brick dust. It's not uncommon to see a 9-year-old unwinding with a glass of strong rice wine and a cigarette, shortly after setting down a load that weighs more than he does.
Q.
What are the environmental factors that have contributed to Nepal being the hub for brick-building factories?
A.
The Katmandu Valley is an ancient lake bed, and the clay in certain areas is apparently well suited to producing bricks. The topography of the region, however, is not at all favorable. As it's a mountain valley, the winters - the season of peak brick production - are prone to thermal inversions. A layer of cloud forms over the valley floor, trapping in the smoke produced by hundreds of kilns and leading to some of the worst air quality on earth.
Brian Sokol/Panos Pictures
Q.
This environment is obviously hazardous for their health, especially for children.
A.
The kiln is a tough environment. Probably the greatest threat to health is the perpetual cloud of red dust that gets thrown up by the baking and excavation of bricks. People carry incredibly heavy loads either via tumplines suspended off their foreheads, or stacked on short horizontal boards balanced atop their heads. Headaches are common, as is dehydration. There are no toilets or latrines, so sanitation is poor, leading to diarrhea and other maladies.
Q.
Can the workers make a viable living based on their wages?
A.
At Kadambini, the pay scale was based upon number of bricks carried, pressed and baked. Workers are given a number of small tokens to designate how many bricks they've 'produced' by a supervisor each time they walk past. The tokens are collected in pockets and periodically tallied, then recorded in a ledger kept by the management. Payment isn't settled until the end of the season, which is why the majority of workers end up purchasing food and alcohol - and thus tremendously reducing their earnings - at the company store. A strong young man who is able to carry heavy loads may earn up to 1,200 or even 1,500 Nepalese rupees (around $13 to $16) a day. This may not sound like much, but it's actually quite a lot of money in a country where the average per capita income is $735, or $2 a day. However, once deductions are made for booze and noodles, people can easily have spent the majority of their daily earnings, often without realizing that they're doing so.
Q.
During the time you spent documenting this series, where did you live?
A.
On several occasions I slept at the factory, wrapped in a sleeping bag and sharing the office floor with one of the very drunk managers. More often, however, I stayed with a friend on the opposite side of Katmandu and commuted back and forth. I rented a motorcycle while working on this project, and would drive each day between Katmandu and Kadambini. There were some close calls with buses and oblivious drivers, but I don't think anything more serious than a few flat tires, a dead spark plug and an empty tank of gas ever happened.
Q.
This could not have been an easy process.
A.
The more time I spent at the factory, the more people opened up around me, and I, them. The more invisible I grew, the more accepted I felt. The random blur of faces became individuals, some of them friends. As days ticked past, the situation never grew stale, though I was seeing largely the same repetitive motions again and again. I understood more of what was happening around me, both mechanically and emotionally, the longer I stayed. Little interpersonal dramas would play out, and the more I observed, the more I had to say, verbally and visually. The things that initially caught my eye ceased to be as important and quieter details, ones I wouldn't have noticed in the first days or weeks, became visible. It had been a long time since I was excited about anything, and while photographing Kadambini, I would fall asleep at night thinking about the day's sounds and scents, conversations and images, already anxious to return and continue shooting. The following morning, editing the previous day's take was at times difficult.
Q.
As a post-conflict photojournalist, what do you hope to accomplish with your stories?
A.
That's something that continues to change. Right now, I'm primarily driven by a desire to humanize people who have been dehumanized by their circumstances. In crises, people can easily be turned into statistics by the sheer volume of suffering. It's important to remind audiences that these aren't 'just' Syrians or Sudanese or Nepalis who are being driven from their homes or dying, they're individual people.
Brian Sokol/Panos Pictures
Correction, July 8: An earlier version of this post inaccurately stated that Brian Sokol left his job as a guide to photograph the brick factories of the Katmandu Valley. When he began the project in 2011, he had been photographing professionally for six years - having left his guide job, years earlier, in 2005, to document Nepal's civil strife. Brian Sokol is a New York-based photojournalist represented by Panos Pictures. This fall, his work will be shown at the Angkor Photo Festival in Cambodia. Follow @Whitney_Rich and @nytimesphoto on Twitter. Lens is also on Facebook.
