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Dori Caspi

Phone: +972-54-8001006 | E-mail: doricaspi@gmail.com
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Traction Magazine

Traction Magazine
An interview with me - British art magazine

The Matriarch

The Matriarch
I was sitting with the cameras on the ground, near the calves’ enclosure, waiting for the sun to go down. At this hour before sunset it was already cold and I knew that the old matriarch is waiting too.

The Dying Woman

The Dying Woman
The old woman was dying and it was obvious. In the hut's darkness she seemed like a bundle of bones left aside and the stench that rose from her necrotic foot was unbearable, almost as were her rhythmic moans.

Forced marriage

Forced marriage
In the morning the final decision was made and there was nothing Kamutiti could do to change it. In three days' time she will be married to the man from Okongwati and will leave with him to his village.

Twakohirwa

Twakohirwa
Takohirwa blew on the glowing embers, on which she placed a rusted tin can, filled with water. The heat, in these hours of high noon, was unbearable even in the shade of the giant Ana trees that grew on the dry river bank in Otjikongo.

Twakohirwa son

Twakohirwa son
The small gorge was partly shaded by the Mopani trees which grew on its banks. I sat down on the grainy sand, sweating and breathing heavily, exhausted from walking in the burning sun.

Preferable lovers

Preferable lovers
At noon, we were resting in her mothers' hut after having a long conversation as to the preferable position of birth giving

Opendula

Opendula
The morning was cold. I sat close to the small flames of the fire in Takohirwa's hut trying to warm my frozen hands. Pretty Opendula appeared at the opening of the hut bending so as to see into the dimness.

The old tree

The old tree
I was sitting with the old woman on the white sand, where the road crossed the Okangwati dry riverbed.

Dreams

Dreams
Like every evening, the kids were the first to arrive at my fire. Temperatures have already dropped but they stayed naked, the way they walked around all day long.

Feet

Feet
The Cunene flowed on, hiding within its deceiving whisper the secret of the roaring waterfalls down stream. Sun rays, penetrating the canopy of the huge Ana tree in its shade I was sitting, were dancing on the golden sandy riverbank. A young woman a

Awakening

Awakening
The night coals were still whispering red and a strong scent of fire ashes was hanging heavily inside the hut.

Ugly

Ugly
Zekwaterwa’s wives were sitting in the hut adorning themselves. They were naked, except for a small piece of cloth covering their loins. “I love her” answered the first wife to my question, looking fondly at the young one.