In 2010, after days of working in the aftermath of Haiti’s earthquake, he caught sight of it in an instant, the lifeless body of a toddler in a red dress being lifted into the air as a dog mauled her body in the streets of Port-au-Prince. It was the kind of moment that hits all at once, disorienting before the mind can make sense of it.
He didn’t take the photo.
Sitting in the back seat of the car, he gasped, his reaction coming before thought, sharp enough that the reporter in the front seat turned and asked what was wrong. For a second he couldn’t answer, couldn’t fully process what he had just seen, only managing to say to keep going.
The car rolled forward, carrying them past the scene. For a few blocks, there was only stunned silence, as his mind tried to catch up to something it didn’t yet understand. Then clarity struck. He insisted they go back, already sensing that the moment had slipped past where it could be photographed, leaving behind only the potential of an image that would never be framed or explained, but would remain unresolved.
For photojournalist Al Diaz, that moment didn’t fade. It stayed with him, returning across assignments, shaping how he sees, responds, and decides. The question it left behind is simple in structure, but rarely simple in practice.
When do you press the shutter, and when do you hold back?
For Diaz, the question doesn’t come with a single answer, but it does begin with boundaries.
“My hard line is that I do not step onto private property without permission,” Diaz says. Even when a news event unfolds on private property, he doesn’t cross that line. He works within that boundary from public space, adjusting his position to tell a story.
That kind of boundary offers a place to begin, but it doesn’t go far enough to account for what actually unfolds in front of a lens. It can seem like photography simply captures what’s there, but every image is shaped by decisions made in real time about what to show, what to focus on, and what to leave out. To photograph something is to pull it out of the flow of experience and mark it as something that matters. That act carries a responsibility that can’t be separated from the image itself.
“If a frame gives the victims a voice, shows their strength, their struggle, and the forces acting on them, then the image helps move their story forward in the world,” Diaz says.
That intention introduces its own tension. Giving someone a voice isn’t always clearly distinct from exposing them, and the difference often reveals itself later, once the moment has already been captured and shared.
Early in his career, Diaz encountered a young girl trapped behind burglar bars outside her home, crying after losing her keys and unable to get back into her own house. She was stuck at the window, trying to get inside, with no way through. He rushed to help, calling for assistance, telling her someone was on the way. Then, in the same moment, he asked if he could photograph her. She agreed, and the image ran the next day.
Diaz’s regret came later.
Not because he broke any rules, but because the question shifted. It was no longer about whether he could take the photograph, but what the photograph had actually done.
“What good did it serve? How does this photograph help change anything? Will they make burglar bars safer?” Diaz asked himself.
Over time, those questions began to surface sooner.
“I now ask myself, does publishing this photograph serve the public interest, or does it risk causing unnecessary harm?”
Looking back, Diaz recognized a pattern. He has consistently documented traumatic moments, and situations marked by physical, emotional, or psychological harm, where people are often overwhelmed, and caught in circumstances they can’t fully process in real time.
“As a photojournalist, my work continually places me in ethical gray areas,” he says.
There are situations that don’t allow for distance, where the camera is no longer just a tool, but an intrusive presence that bears witness. Diaz encountered that tension while covering the aftermath of the mass shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida, where 17 people were killed and 17 more were wounded. In moments like that, the ethical tension is no longer abstract.
This is how Diaz frames the tension: “How do you balance the public’s right to know with the private pain of those affected? Will these images retraumatize families and survivors, or do they serve a greater public good?”
There’s no version of this work that’s neutral. Every frame makes a decision, and every decision carries weight.
In 2014, on a stretch of the Dolphin Expressway in Miami, that weight showed up in a different way. On that day, Diaz recalls the sound of desperate screaming cutting through traffic as he waited in his car. He looked up to see a woman leap out of her SUV, screaming, carrying a baby in her arms, his skin already turning blue. It was clear he wasn’t breathing. This woman’s urgency was immediate. The camera didn’t factor into the reaction. Movement, action, and the need to get help did. The gear stayed where it was, ready when it was needed, but irrelevant in that moment.
He jumped out of the car, trying to flag down help as the woman, frantic, held the baby in her arms. Only later, once others had stepped in to help, did the awareness surface that the moment worth capturing had already passed.
When he returned with his camera, he hesitated. He didn’t want to add more stress to an already traumatized woman, or for her to see him taking pictures. When she did, he felt the weight of it immediately. He understood how it might look, like someone capturing another person’s worst moment, but he also knew that images can reach people who weren’t there and show what would otherwise go unseen.
The photographs he eventually took were widely shared, sparking conversations about CPR training and preparedness. “A single image can change the course of history, influence policy, raise awareness, and inspire people to act,” Diaz says.
Photojournalism isn’t only about recording events. It’s about capturing what a moment feels like and carrying that to others. Even when a situation is overwhelming, the photographer has to stay present, control their emotions, and decide what matters enough to photograph.
That day on the Dolphin Expressway became one of those moments, not only because of what unfolded, but because of what it required of him. In the span of seconds, as a woman fought to save the life of a child in her arms, Diaz moved from witness to participant and back again, aware that what he was seeing carried weight beyond the immediate moment.
He captured it in a rapid sequence, eleven frames in two seconds. From it, one image would come to be known as The Breath of Life, carrying the urgency, emotion, and stakes of that moment to those who weren’t there.
“Breath of Life”
That power gives the work its significance while also complicating it. The same image that informs or motivates can carry unintended consequences for the person in the frame.
Over time, Diaz has developed ways of navigating these moments, not as strict rules, but as guidelines. He pays attention to access, to consent when possible, and to how a story can be told without placing someone at the center if they don’t want to be, but even then the work doesn’t become predictable. Each situation is different, shaped by context and unknowns that can’t be fully understood in advance. There’s no formula to rely on, only the moment as it unfolds and the decisions that follow.
Some images are taken and released into the world, while others are never captured and exist only in memory, yet both remain with you. The weight doesn’t disappear once the camera is lowered. It lingers, shaping how you see what comes next and how you decide to act. Maybe the real question isn’t whether to press the shutter, but whether you’re willing to carry the weight of whatever you decide.
When do you press the shutter, and when do you hold back?