Heading from the port to the absorption center in Lod, Miki Kratsman understood there was a problem. He was almost 12 years old and had just arrived in Israel with his family. "I remember that, when we arrived in the country by ship, I saw a person with a white robe, for the first time, at the port. In Argentina, we used to see films about Israel every Friday - people dancing the hora and pretty girls in khaki working in orchards. But they never showed Arabs. I asked my father who that man was and he explained to me about Israeli Arabs and the differences between them and the Palestinians. That was the first time I heard that term."

You didn't know there were Arabs in Israel?

"I knew, but I didn't know to what extent. I remember that when my mother's uncle drove us from the port, I asked him why the street signs were written in Hebrew, English and Chinese. He asked what I was talking about and then burst out laughing and said that what I thought was Chinese was Arabic. I remember that then, on that very day and at that very moment, I understood there was a problem here."

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Kratsman not only grew up in a strictly Zionist home, but also helped set up the settlement of Homesh in the West Bank. This is certainly surprising given that the photographer is considered a radical left-wing artist who expresses his political and social positions through his work.

Two weeks ago, Kratsman returned from participating in the Art Biennale of Sao Paulo, and on Sunday he begin his stint as head of the photography department at the Bezalel Academy of Art and Design in Jerusalem. The Biennale dealt with coexistence, and Kratsman exhibited some 40 works there: pictures from the first and second intifadas, panoramic shots of the view from Gilo in Jerusalem and of Route 443, photographs from the Negev town of Ofakim, the Gaza disengagement, Khan Yunis in the Gaza Strip, and the recent Lebanon war.

He joined the Sao Paulo exhibition at the last minute. "Nira Yitzhaki, the owner of my gallery, arranged a meeting for me with the curator Lizette Laniado at her hotel, an hour and a half before she left for the airport," he says. "I arrived, I opened my laptop, I showed her my work, I left her a diskette and she called me back and invited me to participate."

Why were you chosen?

"I presume my photographs suited the subject of the exhibition. In our conversation, she asked me what it was like to live together. I told her, 'We are nowhere near that. I can't talk about living together and I don't know whether right now it will be possible to live together.' By the way, everyone I met later at the Biennale said, 'Oh, you're the one who said it's not possible to live together.' I got the reputation of being a wet blanket."

All the same, there is a great deal of political photography today. What drew her attention to your work?

"I believe that what interested her was the identity of the photographer in relation to his subjects. A Jewish Israeli who works inside Palestinian society is also a way of 'living together.'"

No neutral photography

Kratsman is one of the best, most appreciated local photographers in both photojournalism and the art world. His photographs appear regularly in the Haaretz Magazine column "Twilight Zone," by Gideon Levy. In the last few years, since the world of art adopted photojournalism, he has exhibited many of his works in galleries and museums. One of the well-know exhibitions in which he participated was "Control," which was displayed two years ago at the Israel Museum and dealt with the dialogue between Kratsman and artist David Reeb.

For Kratsman, there is no such thing as a neutral photograph: All his pictures reflect and express a standpoint. Surprisingly, even people who oppose his views cannot help but feel sympathy for the subjects of his photographs. There is something soft and sensitive in them, something thought-provoking.

Kratsman and his family arrived in Israel in 1971, "exactly four years to the day after the Six-Day War broke out," he says. "I remember that war very well. I grew up in the Jewish community in Argentina, in a very Zionist family, and I studied at a Jewish day school. I remember that during the war we collected clothes to send to Israel, and after the war was over they sent us to buy maps of Israel for our geography class. All the maps were out of date. Our teacher told us to draw a line from the Hula lake to the Dead Sea and said, 'All of this is now part of the Land of Israel.' Everyone in the class clapped. We didn't think there were people living in this territory."

Six years after immigrating to Israel, when he was serving in the army in a Nahal unit, Kratsman helped set up the Ma'aleh Nahal outpost, which later became Homesh. "We were sent there to guard a tractor that was flattening the ground, and we had to put up a fence according to a map," he recalls. "There was an almond orchard there that was supposed to be part of the settlement. A few days after we began putting up the fence, an Arab arrived on his donkey. He was surprised and asked what was happening. We explained that the area no longer belonged to him. He asked us to let him take his work tools from the orchard, and we let him do so. He piled them on the donkey and left. I remember that, and I have felt absolutely terrible all the years since then. That was the first item on the list of bad things I have done.

"A year ago, when Homesh was about to be evacuated, I went with Gideon Levy to interview farmers from the village of Burqa. During that visit, I met that same old Arab man from whom we had taken the land, and I apologized to him. He accepted my apology."

Museum-ready

Kratsman relates to all those events in his past as formative experiences that have molded his approach to life. There is no doubt that his worldview, which can be clearly seen in his photography, is one of the reasons he was chosen to head the photography department at Bezalel. And there is no doubt that his worldview is significantly different from anything that has been taught or exhibited at Bezalel's student exhibitions. The choice of Kratsman is above all an indication of the academy's desire for change.

Kratsman does not plan to bring about a revolution, but he does plan to make changes. These changes, however, will be felt less in the coming academic year, which was planned in advance by his predecessor, Yossi Berger.

Kratsman is not very familiar with the photography department at Bezalel. Unlike most of his colleagues, he is not a product of the academy. He got to know the institute only recently, when he participated in critiques of photography students' final projects and met individually with the department's lecturers. He says he was extremely impressed by the professionalism of the work.

"They have made an amazing technological leap" but less so in terms of content, he says. "One of the things that stood out was the extent to which the students aim their works toward the galleries. Everything looks very professional."

What do you mean?

"The photography looks like it is ready to be exhibited; the student is targeting a museum-like space. I do not feel that is the only option for photographs. Galleries are undoubtedly important, but while the gallery contributes to the artist, it also damages him - particularly when we are talking about artists who are not yet mature. I believe a young artist has a great deal to lose when he is in touch with a gallery. His work becomes a commodity and cannot remain free, outside the market economy. That is one of the things to which I plan to devote thought."

Israeli light

What else requires changing?

"I think an institute like Bezalel must have a commitment to local identity, and this has not been expressed in the works. Local content must be emphasized. I think someone has slipped up."

What do you mean?

"If I wait for a wintry morning to take a photograph so that the picture will have a European light, then there is a problem. We live with yellow smudges from the local weather, and when we print our pictures, the sky will not be blue like it is in Europe. There is also a problem with subjects. If a student is influenced by the German photographer Andreas Gorsky - and it is fine to be influenced by him - it is reasonable to expect he will photograph housing tenements. These come out looking like the tenements in Montparnasse, but we are in Israel. The tenement houses here look different."

Are you saying photography in Israel does not reflect the place?

"Yes. And this is a grave statement."

It depends in whose eyes. There are people who would think this is the correct direction.

"It is inconceivable that the work of Bezalel students should look exactly like the work of students from Dusseldorf or San Francisco. It is true there is greater artistic and cultural wealth in Europe and the United States. But here there is also wealth, and if there is not enough, then it must be created. The Israeli lighting is just one example. The institutes are responsible for creating a slightly more local discourse. I am not trying to disparage what exists abroad; I merely mean it is worthwhile to use it as a basis for local interpretation."

Why?

"Because I believe this is what we owe the place, all of us, all of those who deal with art that documents something. This place has a great deal of things that do not exist in other places, and they must be given expression. I am talking about political photography, photojournalism, fashion photography and studio portraits. I do not believe there is one field of photography that is not tied to the place and the period. These two elements are immanent in photography. These possibilities are not available today in the various institutes."

But Bezalel's orientation has always been toward what is happening in the outside world.

"I am convinced that the right thing to do is to integrate the two somehow. To look outward but also to look inward. The camera can do that. It looks forward but it also looks back. The result can be seen in the photograph itself, which reflects the glance forward but also the person standing behind the camera."