Capturing Tigray: A Photographer's Journey Through Mekelle's Ancient Churches

Photographing Tigray's churches demands technical preparation that my engineering mind appreciated. The region's dramatic lighting conditions—from harsh midday sun to the dim interiors of ancient sanctuaries—require versatility in your gear and approach.

I spent weeks researching before my journey, knowing that once in Tigray, resources would be limited. My primary camera body, a full-frame mirrorless, proved invaluable for capturing the dynamic range needed in these challenging environments. For lenses, I packed a versatile trinity: a wide-angle for architectural interiors, a standard zoom for everyday shooting, and a fast prime for low-light conditions inside the churches.

Amar o desafio—embracing the challenge—became my mantra as I navigated the technical difficulties. The churches' interiors, often illuminated only by small windows and candlelight, pushed my low-light photography skills to their limits. Many contain ancient murals and religious artifacts that require careful exposure to capture without flash (which is prohibited in most churches).

Power was another consideration. With limited electricity in remote areas, I relied heavily on my solar charger and multiple battery packs. The Ethiopian plateau offers abundant sunshine, turning this potential obstacle into an elegant solution that aligned with my commitment to sustainable travel.

Of all Tigray's remarkable churches, Abuna Yemata Guh remains etched in my memory like a vivid dream. Reaching it requires a heart-pounding climb up a near-vertical cliff face—with no safety equipment beyond the steady hands of local guides. As someone who codes for a living, this physical challenge was far outside my comfort zone, but às vezes precisamos sair da nossa zona de conforto para crescer (sometimes we need to leave our comfort zone to grow).

The 45-minute ascent culminates in a narrow ledge overlooking the Hawzien Plain—a breathtaking vista that alone justifies the climb. But the true reward awaits inside: 800-year-old Byzantine-style frescoes in remarkable condition, their colors still vibrant against the hand-hewn stone walls.

Photographically, Abuna Yemata presents unique challenges. The small entrance admits limited light, creating dramatic shadows across the ancient artwork. I found that bracketing exposures and later blending them preserved both the vivid details of the paintings and the atmospheric quality of the space.

The priests who maintain these churches are typically present and, with respectful interaction, often willing to be photographed. I offered prints of my photos from my previous day's visit to another church, which helped establish rapport. This cultural exchange—the giving of images rather than just taking them—opened doors throughout my journey.

When documenting the priests, my portrait lens proved invaluable, allowing me to capture intimate portraits with beautiful bokeh that isolated subjects against the textured stone walls. The lens's fast aperture meant I could work with available light rather than disrupting the sacred atmosphere with flash.

If there's one church that exemplifies the photographer's eternal dance with light and shadow, it's Maryam Korkor. Situated atop the Gheralta mountain range, this church rewards the two-hour hike with architectural magnificence and some of the most dramatic lighting conditions I've encountered.

I arrived at the base before sunrise, guided by Haile, a local expert who has navigated these paths since childhood. "Bäkur tära yimäṭalu," he advised in Tigrinya—come early for the light. His wisdom proved invaluable as we reached the summit just as the first rays illuminated the eastern façade of the church, creating a golden glow against the red sandstone that lasted barely twenty minutes.

The church's cruciform layout, with its domed central sanctuary, creates fascinating light patterns throughout the day. I spent hours observing how sunbeams moved across the ancient stone, occasionally illuminating details of crosses carved into columns or briefly highlighting centuries-old murals.

For interior photography, I found myself constantly adjusting between technical precision and artistic interpretation. The variable ND filter in my kit proved essential for managing the extreme contrast between the bright doorways and the shadowy recesses.

Beyond the technical aspects, Maryam Korkor offers something more profound: a sense of timelessness that's difficult to convey in photographs. Standing in spaces carved by hand over 800 years ago, watching the same light patterns that generations of worshippers have observed, creates a connection across centuries that transcends the mere clicking of a shutter.

The experience reminded me of similar feelings I'd had photographing ancient temples in southern India with my father years ago—that peculiar sensation of being simultaneously insignificant in the grand timeline yet connected to something eternal through the act of witnessing and documenting.

Photographing sacred spaces requires more than technical skill—it demands cultural awareness and ethical consideration. Throughout my time in Tigray, I constantly navigated the balance between documentation and respect, between artistic expression and cultural preservation.

Many churches require removing shoes before entering, covering shoulders and knees, and paying modest entrance fees that help maintain these treasures. Some prohibit photography of certain religious artifacts or ceremonies. Rather than seeing these as restrictions, I viewed them as opportunities to engage more deeply with the cultural context of my subjects.

I found that my experiences in Japan—being a foreigner navigating cultural nuances—prepared me well for Tigray. The concept of kuuki wo yomu (reading the air) that I've embraced in Osaka served me equally well in Ethiopia's ancient churches. Often, the most powerful images came not from pushing boundaries but from patient observation and cultural respect.

Before photographing individuals, I always sought permission—first through gesture, then with the help of my guide translating more specific requests. Sharing my camera's LCD screen to show people their images often transformed initial hesitation into genuine connection.

One memorable encounter occurred with an elderly priest at Debre Maryam Korkor. After respectfully photographing him during a quiet moment of prayer, I showed him the images. His weathered face brightened as he pointed to my instant printer, which I'd brought specifically for such exchanges. The small print I offered became a bridge between worlds—his ancient tradition and my technological one—resulting in an invitation to photograph areas of the church typically closed to visitors.

These exchanges underscore a philosophy I've developed across three continents: the camera should be a tool for connection rather than separation, for giving rather than merely taking.

While Tigray's churches rightfully command attention, Mekelle itself offers rich photographic opportunities that contextualize these ancient sites within living culture. As a software engineer accustomed to systems thinking, I found myself drawn to documenting the connections between past and present, between sacred spaces and daily life.

Mekelle's markets provided vibrant counterpoints to the solemn church interiors. The Edaga Hamus Market (Thursday Market) explodes with color and activity—spice merchants arranging perfect pyramids of berbere and shiro, textile vendors displaying traditional Ethiopian fabrics in kaleidoscopic patterns. Here, I switched to street photography mode, using a discreet compact camera that attracted less attention than my larger gear.

The technical challenge shifted from managing low light to capturing fleeting moments amid constant movement. I found myself working with zone focusing techniques, pre-setting focus distances and exposures to react quickly to unfolding scenes.

Musically, Mekelle offered unexpected inspiration. One evening at a local azmari bet (traditional music house), I witnessed musicians playing the krar (Ethiopian lyre) and masenqo (single-stringed fiddle)—instruments virtually unchanged since the time the churches were carved. The rhythmic connections between this music and the architectural patterns I'd been photographing became a theme I pursued visually.

I spent an afternoon with a traditional instrument maker named Bereket, documenting his process of crafting a begena (Ethiopian harp) using techniques passed down through generations. The resulting photo essay became one of my most meaningful projects, connecting the artistic heritage of the churches with living cultural practices.

These experiences in Mekelle's contemporary spaces provided essential context for understanding the churches not as isolated historical artifacts but as part of a continuous cultural tradition. For photographers visiting Tigray, I strongly recommend balancing church visits with time in markets, music venues, and artisans' workshops to capture the full spectrum of this remarkable region.