Lindokuhle Sobekwa has long explored the tension between memory and silence, but receiving the Deutsche Börse Photography Foundation Prize marked a powerful shift. The recognition not only validated his deeply personal work—it gave wider visibility to stories often left in the shadows. With his latest project, he revisits the loss of his sister through a lens that is both intimate and political. We caught up with Lindokuhle to talk about grief, photography, and the legacy of apartheid that lingers in South Africa’s everyday life.
Winning the Deutsche Börse Photography Foundation Prize is a huge recognition—how has this shaped your confidence and future direction as an artist?
Receiving the Deutsche Börse Photography Foundation Prize is a profound honour and a significant affirmation of my commitment to documentary photography. This recognition revitalises my journey and inspires me to delve deeper into the narratives that shape our world. It serves as a reminder that the stories I capture, deeply rooted in South Africa’s history, resonate with audiences far beyond our borders. Being acknowledged in this way empowers me to continue my work, knowing that the images I create can spark conversations and foster understanding among diverse communities. I am encouraged to explore and share the complexities of our shared human experience, highlighting both our struggles and triumphs, wherever we may find ourselves in the world.
What was the moment you first felt compelled to transform your family’s story into a photographic narrative?
The moment I felt compelled to transform my family’s narrative into a photographic journey was when I discovered a family portrait with a painful truth: my sister Ziyanda’s face had been cut out. This represented her absence from our family history and compelled me to confront the long-standing questions surrounding her disappearance, as well as the guilt I carry from that fateful day of the accident. She left for over a decade, and I never had the chance to see her again until she was found and returned home ill and shortly after that she passed away.
This discovery sparked an urgent need in me to understand her life better and to reclaim her story through photography. With my camera in hand, I began visiting the places she had been and reconnecting with the people who knew her, searching for remnants of her existence and trying to piece together the invaluable fragments of her life alongside the ongoing life back at home.
How did discovering the altered photo of your sister Ziyanda become the catalyst for this deeply personal project?
Discovering the altered photograph of my sister Ziyanda marked a significant turning point in my life. The image represented more than just a manipulated snapshot; it embodied themes of loss, erasure, and the deep-seated mystery surrounding her existence. This moment prompted me to ask a larger question: What truly happened to her? I wasn’t simply reflecting on the moments after I was struck by a car; I was contemplating the entirety of her life and the events that shaped it. Ziyanda’s life began amid political unrest in Thokoza in the early 1990s, a turbulent time marked by conflict and uncertainty. In an effort to provide her with a more stable upbringing, my parents made the difficult decision to send her to the Eastern Cape, where she was raised by my grandmother. Unlike the rest of us who grew up together, Ziyanda experienced life apart from the family unit, creating a divide that left me longing for answers. The discovery of that altered photograph drove me to trace her life’s journey, particularly the chapters we did not share. This path led me to the Eastern Cape, a region filled with familial history and untold stories. As I dug deeper, I found that this personal quest became the core of my project, ultimately evolving into a new body of work titled Ezilalini (The Country). This project is rooted in a quest to understand not only Ziyanda’s beginnings but also my own identity and the intertwined narratives that define us both
Your work blends family snapshots, handwritten notes, and documentary photography—how do you approach balancing memory with visual storytelling?
This work began as a personal scrapbook a diary of images and handwritten notes gathered in the search for my sister, Ziyanda. Over time, it evolved into a visual dialogue between memory and absence. I didn’t try to control the story too tightly. Instead, I allowed the materials family photographs, documentary images, fragments of text to speak for themselves. Some elements didn’t make it into the final edit, but the silences, the gaps, and what remains unseen are just as much a part of the narrative.
What challenges did you face emotionally and creatively in photographing someone who had refused to be photographed?
When my sister returned home very ill, I found her sitting on the bed, and instinctively, I reached for my camera. However, as soon as I lifted it, she shot me a sharp, almost threatening look and said, “I will kill you if you take that photo.” Despite her physical weakness, her voice was commanding, and I immediately lowered the camera. I felt afraid, not just of her words, but also of crossing a line. My sister has never liked having her picture taken, even during family portraits—I don’t remember how my mom convinced her to be part of one. I have always respected her decision not to be photographed and have found other ways to remember her and keep her memory alive.
How has the process of making “I Carry Her Photo with Me” reshaped your understanding of grief, healing, and family memory?
Creating I Carry Her Photo with Me has profoundly reshaped my understanding of grief, healing, and the intricate nature of memory within a family context. Initially, I viewed grief as a private and linear journey, something that people navigate quietly, step by step, towards resolution. However, as I engaged deeply with this body of work, I discovered that grief is far more complex. It is layered and often nonlinear, deeply intertwined with what we choose to remember, what we forget, and the memories we may even wish to erase. This exploration forced me to confront uncomfortable silences in my family, particularly surrounding my sister’s passing. I realized these silences were not signs of weakness but reflections of our collective struggle to articulate loss. It became clear that family memories are often fragmented, resembling pieces of a puzzle waiting to be connected. By piecing together those fragments, I discovered a deeper and more compassionate understanding of my narrative and a renewed connection to my sister’s story. This process has not only enriched my perspective on grief but has also illuminated the enduring power of love and memory in shaping our identities. We forever grief our loved ones.
What conversations do you hope this project sparks about disappearances, trauma, and the legacy of apartheid in South Africa?
I hope this work creates space for a deeper conversation about loss, grief, and disappearance, and how the legacy of apartheid still lives with us. My sister’s story is personal, but it speaks to something much bigger the silence that surrounds the emotional and psychological wounds many families carry.
Apartheid didn’t just shape the political world it broke homes, separated people, and left behind questions that still haven’t been answered. With this project, I wanted to show how those histories still affect our everyday lives, even now.
I also hope it encourages others to look into their own pasts to speak about what’s been hidden, to name the pain that’s often left unspoken. I believe that healing begins when we are honest, when we face what we’ve lost, and when we allow space for remembering. That’s when understanding becomes possible. That’s when we move toward something like reconciliation.
You’ve spoken about photography as a tool for speaking about the past—how do you see it evolving as a tool for truth and reconciliation in your work?
In South Africa, there’s still so much we haven’t spoken about — what apartheid did to families, how it continues to shape us. Photography allows us to sit with those silences, to honour the people and the histories that were pushed aside. It’s not about providing answers, but about creating space for reflection, and maybe, slowly, for reconciliation.
