Claire Thomas is a documentary photographer whose series on women accused of witchcraft in Ghana’s so-called “witch villages” features in Counter-Records, This is Gender’s exhibition examining gender, law and visual justice. Claire’s work has been shortlisted across multiple This is Gender competition cycles and recognised for its clarity, ethical sensitivity, and refusal of sensational narratives. 

As part of our Representation Matters series, This is Gender curator Imogen Bakelmun speaks with Claire about this project, her approach to photographing injustice, and the responsibilities that come with making images that circulate far beyond the moments in which they are made.

Witnessing & Reframing Narratives

Your portraits made in Ghana’s so-called “witch camps” offer a quiet and deeply respectful counter-narrative to the sensationalism that often surrounds these spaces. What first drew you to the women living there, and what felt important to you about telling their stories through photography?

I was first drawn to the women in Ghana’s so-called “witch camps” because of how profoundly misunderstood they are. When I first visited in 2008, I realised that almost everything people believed about them came from fear, rumour, or hearsay, not from the women themselves. What struck me most was their dignity, resilience, and the strength they carried despite the isolation and stigma they faced.

On my second visit in 2012, I asked one woman gently whether she believed herself to be a witch. Before she could speak, my translator — who was related to the camp chief — cut in sharply: “Of course she’s a witch. Why else would she be here?” The question was never translated. Her answer was lost, her voice dismissed before it could even be heard. That moment stayed with me as a profound illustration of how these women are silenced.

It felt important to use photography as a way to slow things down, to create space for them to be seen as human beings rather than as accusations or myths. My aim was never to sensationalise their situation, but to offer an honest and respectful portrayal that centres their presence, their stories, and their humanity.

Across the series, there is a powerful play between visibility and invisibility. In some images, a woman meets the camera directly; in others, faces are turned away or partially concealed. Can you speak about the artistic and ethical decisions behind these different approaches to looking — and being seen?

For me, the starting point is always sensitivity and compassion. I only photograph women who have given their informed consent, and once that trust is established, I follow their lead — how they want to be photographed, and how they want to be seen. Many of the women I’ve met in the camps are surprisingly open to being photographed; their situation is not hidden, and there is often a genuine desire to have their stories acknowledged and the injustices they face understood.

At the same time, I’m very aware that visibility carries weight. Sometimes a direct gaze into the camera conveys strength, agency, and a clear refusal to be reduced to an accusation. But in other moments, partially concealing someone’s identity — focusing on hands, gestures, or a figure turned away — can speak to vulnerability, silencing, and emotional interiority.

Balancing visibility and invisibility is both an artistic choice and an ethical responsibility. It allows the women to be present in the images on their own terms, while also acknowledging the complexity of their experiences.

Historically, photographs of accused “witches” have leaned toward spectacle or voyeurism. How did you navigate the responsibility of holding these stories, and what guided your approach?

My goal from the very beginning was to portray these women with dignity, strength, and humanity. I never wanted their identities to be reduced to the accusations made against them — accusations often rooted in fear, malice, or longstanding superstition. These women are not the “witches” they’ve been made out to be, but vulnerable human beings who have endured profound injustice.

That commitment shaped every choice I made. I avoided imagery that leaned toward spectacle or shock, and instead focused on presence, stillness, and the quiet resilience I encountered in each woman. I wanted to honour their interiority rather than exploit their suffering. Interestingly, this approach meant that some news outlets chose not to publish the story, saying the visuals were “too predictable.” But for me, ethical responsibility was far more important than producing something sensational simply for the sake of impact.

Ultimately, I hope that by reaching audiences the women themselves may never meet, the images can foster understanding and, in time, help prevent others from facing the same fate.

Justice, Visibility & the Meaning of Images

In your work, justice appears not as an abstract legal concept, but as something lived. How do you understand justice within the contexts you photograph?

For me, justice begins with telling individual stories — giving space to people whose lives are shaped by justice, or by the absence of it. For the women banished under witchcraft accusations, there is no real path to formal justice. Their lives are reshaped by forces they cannot contest, and the consequences may affect them for years — and for some, for life — even when reintegration is possible.

But within that absence, there are powerful forms of solidarity. It’s deeply moving to see how the women support one another in the camps, and how members of the church, NGOs, and research institutes work with real commitment to help those the justice system has abandoned. Their care, advocacy, and presence are quiet but profound acts of resistance.

A visual language of justice isn’t about depicting courts or dramatic legal moments. It’s about making visible the humanity that has been overlooked, the relationships that sustain people, and the strength that emerges when communities come together.

Development Imagery, Positionality & Visual Power

Much of the history of humanitarian and development photography has relied on visual tropes of suffering or passivity. As a Western photographer, how do you think about your position and responsibility?

Being a foreign photographer in these communities makes me very conscious of the responsibility I carry and the need to work with care. I try to work slowly and collaboratively, building trust and making sure the women understand who I am, why I’m there, and where their images may be shared.

With the help of a local translator, informed consent becomes an ongoing conversation, not just a formality. I also try to give the women as much agency as possible in how they’re photographed — asking how, when, and whether they want to be seen, and making it clear that saying no is completely fine.

For me, challenging the power imbalance behind the camera means resisting familiar tropes of suffering and instead focusing on dignity, presence, and complexity. My aim is to honour their humanity, not to speak for them.

Your images carry a deep sense of trust. How do you build relationships in contexts shaped by trauma or displacement?

For me, building relationships begins with listening. Ethical care means recognising what someone is willing to share — and what they’re not. Trust takes time, patience, and genuine compassion.

Thanks to the support of the Pulitzer Center, I had the time to work without rushing. That allowed me to be present in a way that felt respectful, rather than dictated by editorial pace. I try to speak with women where they feel most comfortable and to ensure ethical care sits at the centre of every encounter.

The Afterlife of Images & Responsibility

Your photographs travel far beyond the communities where they are made. How do you think about stewardship and responsibility once images leave your hands?

Once an image enters the world, it takes on a life of its own. That makes stewardship incredibly important. Ethical care doesn’t end at the moment of taking the photograph — it continues through decisions around publication, framing, and circulation.

Through conversations with the women, it became clear that one urgent need was simply mattresses to sleep on. Many were sleeping directly on the ground. I used the visibility of the work to set up a fundraiser to provide mattresses and essentials.

For me, stewardship means recognising that photographs have power — they can illuminate, but they can also distort. My responsibility is to guide that afterlife as thoughtfully as possible, and to ensure the work contributes not only to understanding, but where possible, to tangible support.

You can explore more of Claire Thomas’ work through the This is Gender collection, our evolving global archive of images and perspectives that challenge dominant narratives and open new ways of seeing how gender operates across societies and systems. Further projects and ongoing work can also be found on her website.

About the Author
Imogen Bakelmun is a curator, researcher, and writer, and has led This is Gender since its inception. Her practice spans community-rooted collaboration, critical visual cultures, and experimental storytelling. Working across gender, racialisation, disability, and migration, she has particular experience at the intersection of visual justice, data, advocacy, and policy, using creative practice as a tool for research, accountability, and public intervention.