Bodies Behind the Lens

I was 18 when I first sneaked into a concert with nothing but a borrowed camera, a press pass I begged off a blog editor, and the foolish belief that talent alone would carry me. I was hungry, literally and figuratively. I spent nights editing photos on cracked software, mornings skipping breakfast to catch a bus across town, and afternoons begging editors to credit my name instead of replacing it with the outlet’s watermark.

I was doing what hundreds of young photojournalists and media workers across Mexico do every day: paying my dues. Except in this country, those dues can cost your dignity, your future, and now, your life.

Two photographers Berenice Giles and Miguel Ángel Rojas lost their lives last week while covering Festival Ceremonia, one of Mexico’s most prominent music festivals, a shrine to modern pop culture and underground sounds alike. Their deaths, still shrouded in partial details and bureaucratic shrugs, have sparked the beginnings of a long-overdue reckoning.

But let’s be clear: this was not an isolated incident. It was a consequence, a tragic and predictable one, of an industry that thrives on disposability, where the creatives behind the curtain are treated as expendable props in someone else’s headliner dream.

There is something particularly cruel about the way Mexico treats its media workers. Not just indifference, but a kind of systemic contempt. Photographers, especially the young ones, are routinely underpaid, overworked, denied access to basic facilities, and subjected to harassment from all sides, from security guards, from management, from the very artists they are trying to elevate.

And we accept it. We normalize it. We dress it up as “hustle” or “paying your way.” We call it exposure, as if you could eat that.

Behind every viral image of a rockstar mid-leap, or a singer bathed in golden-hour light, is a tired young person who hasn’t eaten in 12 hours, who’s been pushed aside by security for trying to get a better angle, who is covering a “glamorous” gig for the promise of Instagram likes and maybe, maybe, a tag from the brand’s social media intern.

The deaths at Ceremonia must be understood not as an isolated failure in logistics, but as the inevitable collapse of a system that has long ignored its weakest links. In the scramble for content, the media industry in Mexico, and by extension, the music scene that feeds off it, has allowed an informal, predatory culture to thrive.

One where credentials are given without responsibility, where safety protocols are a luxury, and where the cost of creating “content” is too often invisible until a body hits the ground.

Festival Ceremonia, like most media outlets in Mexico, contracts out its operations to third parties who promise coverage at scale and on budget. These third parties, in turn, rely on a growing army of underpaid freelancers and interns, kids with dreams, cameras, and little to no protection. What happened last weekend wasn’t an accident. It was the result of an ecosystem that feeds on precariousness.

Why are we surprised that tragedy struck when we’ve allowed this model to flourish? When we value “reach” over credit, when festival organizers show diversity in their lineups but not in their hiring practices, when a photographer is worth less than the price of a VIP ticket?

I remember being backstage at a major festival a few years ago. A security guard shoved me aside and kicked me out, saying it wasn’t a media spot, even though it clearly was. But I wasn’t loitering. I wasn’t wasting time. I was crouched next to a generator, stealing five minutes of Wi-Fi to send in photos before deadline. I hadn’t eaten all day. I was just doing my job. But in that moment, I wasn’t a person. I was invisible. Disposable. Replaceable.

Mexico’s music industry likes to wrap itself in the aesthetics of revolution, of rebellion. But the truth is, it’s built on the same hierarchies it pretends to protest. It sells community while exploiting those who document it. It preaches inclusion while treating the very people who build its myth as afterthoughts. It wants our images but not our voices, our work but not our welfare.

So what now?

We need accountability from festival organizers, not just performative statements or PR bandaids. We need real investment in safe working conditions for media workers, in clear protocol for emergencies, in fair pay and labor protections. Outlets that cover music need to re-examine their role in perpetuating this cycle. You don’t get to post a tribute to the fallen and then assign your next coverage gig to an unpaid intern.

And we, the photographers, the writers, the videographers, the overlooked and underpaid storytellers, need to stop romanticizing the struggle. Hunger is not a badge of honor. Exploitation is not part of the journey. Our labor has value, and so do our lives.

This tragedy could’ve been prevented. So could many others. But if this moment does anything, let it tear open the shiny veneer of an industry that profits off the unpaid dreams of the young. Let it remind us that no concert, no story, no content, is worth a human life.

Because behind every great image is a body, too often ignored until it stops breathing.