"I believe in the power of information": James Nachtwey in conversation with Hilary Roberts

You came to my attention when you covered the hunger strikes in Northern Ireland in 1981, but before then you worked as a press photographer in the United States. What first attracted you to photography?

There's nothing in my background growing up that would have indicated any interest or aptitude in photography. It's something that I decided to do after I graduated. I was inspired by photography from the Vietnam War, and the American Civil Rights Movement. These pictures had a great impact on me personally and changed my opinion about what was going on in reality. Our politicians and military leaders were telling us one thing and photographers were telling us another – they were telling us what was actually happening.

You taught yourself photography – how?

I didn't have enough money to enrol in photography school. I began taking pictures on a borrowed camera. I'd read books about how to expose and develop film, how to make prints – I would rent darkroom space to practise. Wherever I happened to be, I'd make believe I had a magazine assignment – I would go out on my own and try to produce pictures that I might show to an editor. Over the course of years, I built a portfolio and eventually took it to Time magazine's Boston bureau. They liked what they saw and began to give me assignments.

Do you think it's essential for young photographers to take risks to get started in their careers today?

You take risks to get started and you take risks every step of the way, as long as you're a photographer. But you should never be reckless, because the consequences can be very serious – beyond just failure. If your pictures are going to be seen by the public, you want to make sure you're doing your best to get the story right. We're experiencing history in real time. We don't know what everything means. That's why we're photographing it [but] we have to use our instincts and our knowledge of the past to try to project an image that has some kind of truth in it.

Don McCullin has said that he doesn't believe his photographs have made a difference. What are your thoughts about your work? Have you seen how photographs bring change for the better, or inform people?

I believe in the power of information in the mind of the public. [Information stops people simply being] monopolised by the powers that be. The process of change is dependent upon that. There's empirical evidence that the work of the press – not my work, or the work of any one journalist, but the work of all of us together – creates a critical mass of information that helps create change. There are wars that people think are hopeless and will never end, but they do, and one of the reasons for this is because of information and the collective conscience it creates. When the war in Iraq began, the American public was overwhelmingly in favour. Fast forward a few years and the majority of Americans are overwhelmingly against it. What made that difference but information?

Moving on to your latest project, Memoria, a major retrospective exhibition, which is also going to be a book. What do you hope it will deliver?

I took this as an opportunity to communicate on another platform, not in the press, but in an exhibition space. My work is intended to be in the mass media at the time these events are taking place, so it becomes part of people's daily dialogue. But a secondary use for the pictures is to be contemplated outside of that context. As much as photography is about a single moment, it's also timeless. When you see pictures isolated from the news, you contemplate them in a different way.

I'd like to talk about some specific examples from the exhibition. Some are extremely well known but they still leap out at you. The first image is from the battle from Mostar in Bosnia, in 1993, showing a Croat fighter firing his weapon out of a window (above)...

I'd just arrived in Bosnia for the first time. I got there on the second day of the battle. I was with another photographer, and we managed to attach ourselves to a group of Croatian militiamen who were fighting from house to house, from room to room, trying to expel their Muslim neighbours who they'd lived with for generations in peace. With this post-national civil war that broke Yugoslavia apart, ordinary citizens were forming themselves into militias to create sovereign entities for their own ethnic groups.

One of the militiamen was shot right in the hallway moments before I took that picture, and the other photographer I was with actually administered first aid to him. It didn't seem like anyone else in their group knew how to do it. To me, that picture [of the fighter taking aim] has resonance because it takes place in the bedroom. A bedroom is where people rest and dream, where life itself is conceived, and there it was a battlefield.

You've met many victims of conflict. Do you ever go back, or do you remain in contact with any of the people that you photographed in these circumstances?

It's not the role I play. I go into places where there's conflict and chaos, and things are moving quickly. I have established relationships at the time, but I move on. People move on.

You were right at ground zero in New York on 11 September 2001, when the south tower went down. I sense that body of work is one of the most personal for you. What are your memories of that day and how do you feel about it looking back now?

I don't think I've ever gotten over it. I got to New York at about 11:30pm on 10 September from a trip to France, and the World Trade Center towers were visible from my window. When I looked out of the window in the morning, I saw the first tower spewing black smoke. I had no idea what it was. I thought it might have been an accident, but [I realised it] was something important, so I assembled my camera gear. By the time I was ready to leave, I looked out of the window again and the second tower was burning. I realised America was under attack.

I ran over there and began to photograph. As I was framing the south tower, I came upon a church that had a cross and used it a framing device – a foreground element that instinctively seemed right. As I was photographing, the tower collapsed in front of my eyes. It was astonishing. My mind went into slow motion and all of those huge pieces of metal that were flying through the air like matchsticks were floating in slow motion. I thought I had all the time in the world.

Photographers are not only doing a job, they're witnesses, and we know that they are not immune to the consequences. You've had such a long, distinguished career in this field. You've seen some dreadful things. How do you manage those memories?

As gracefully as I can, hopefully. With difficulty.

Do you find it's easier to discuss them, or to just focus on the next thing?

I don't discuss it with people who haven't been in those situations because it's really impossible to make them understand. Not through any fault of their own. With my colleagues, a remarkable band of people, we share these memories and feelings... and implicitly understand each other. We don't actually have to talk about it and, when we do, we know what each other is talking about. It's something you carry with you. You have to be willing not only to face physical risks and dangers and hardships, but also the emotional obstacles. That comes with the territory.

Coming on to your more recent work, there's a photograph from Cambodia of a mother with her son who's suffering from tuberculosis (TB) and meningitis. It's almost a Pietà-like composition. It lingers in the memory, perhaps because of that association. That highlights for me how modern medical science can do wonders, but in third-world countries or the less well-resourced countries, there is still suffering. Was that assignment done on your own initiative again?

The first time I ever actually concentrated on tuberculosis was during a partnership with the Cambodian Health Committee, an NGO founded by Dr Anne Goldfeld from Harvard, who went to Cambodia to try to help people with TB. That was a state-run medical facility that had very little medication and doctors without much training. The families of the patients did most of the care themselves because there was such a shortage of staff. I think it's a picture of love.

It is.

I think love was keeping that boy alive as much as anything else.

Did he have access to any drugs or treatment?

Very little.

The outcome was probably not a good one?

I don't know. I hope he survived. His mother, at that point, had not given up. She was full of hope, as desperate as that situation was.

Coming right up-to date, you were in Greece photographing the European refugee crisis, along with many other photographers. What was your experience of that event?

I made three trips to Europe during that time. During the first trip, I arrived in Belgrade just as the Hungarian border was being closed. The refugees were now redirecting themselves towards Croatia and Slovenia. I got picked up at the airport by the man who was going to be my interpreter and guide, and we just headed straight out in that direction, not knowing what we'd find.

I saw a group of people walking through farm fields. I just got out of the car and started following them. I told my guide, "I don't know where I'm going. See if you can find me by the end of the day." People didn't even know what country they were in. I don't think they really knew where they were going. They were propelled by desperation and drawn by hope. They made their way through farm fields and finally got to a train station. Nobody knew if a train was coming or where it would take them.

From there, I went to Lesbos in Greece to photograph the people coming across the strait from Turkey, landing on the beach. Then, finally I went to Idomeni on the Greek-Macedonian border. The border had been closed and people were stranded in squalid tent camps in the mud and the rain. This was happening in the 21st century in Europe. If it had been animal skins, as opposed to high-tech tents, it could have been the Middle Ages.

These days, fake news is very much part of the agenda, and people seem bewildered about how to distinguish fact from fiction, and what photography can offer them. What do you think about fake news and the dilemma about veracity and believability in photography?

Journalism depends on integrity. Organisations or individuals who are knowingly spinning something the wrong way, or just outright lying, are casting a shadow over the profession that isn't warranted. The best newspapers and magazines, the best television stations and wire services, are adhering to a code of ethics and standards. People can really depend on those organisations with a proven track record. If politicians accuse those organisations of fake news, it's probably because the truth doesn't suit their purpose. I think we have to give people credit for being able to sort those things out for themselves.

Do you think journalism in the 21st century is in a healthy situation?

Yes, I think it's very healthy and it's evolving. Journalism is necessary for society to function properly. It's not going to go away. It will get stronger. Whatever tools are currently being used, we will use those tools properly. Then, when something else comes up, we'll adapt to that. I can't speak much about the economics of running a news organisation because I know nothing about it, but I'm sure the people who do know about it are finding ways to adapt.