Think about the photos you’ve seen from Iraq over the past eight years. It’s fair to assume the majority of what you remember are probably images filled with violence, destruction and fear. Compare those photos to one made by Safin Hamed, an Iraqi photojournalist in Sulaimaniyah, Iraq. In his photo, Hamed captures a quiet, tender moment between a wife and her husband before he heads off to work at a local hospital. This type of photo, which documents a less familiar but more intimate side of Iraq, is central to a new project developed by photojournalists Kamaran Najm and Sebastian Meyer. The pair recently founded Metrography, a photo agency that exclusively represents Iraqi photographers. In addition to promoting the work of 65 photojournalists, Najm and Meyer hope the agency can help these photographers continue to find and document in-depth stories that provide a more organic understanding of daily life in Iraq. We recently caught up with Meyer (who is currently in London) to ask him more about the history and goals of Metrography. Wired.com: Can you tell us more about why and how Metrography was started? Sebastian Meyer: Kamaran Najm, a Kurdish photographer, started Metrography in 2009 while he was working as a photo editor for an Iraqi news magazine. He was looking for photographs and realized there was no central place to go for images from Iraq. So he decided to start one. Kamaran and I had been friends since 2008 and when I moved to Iraq in 2009 he asked me if I’d help him with Metrography. The first year was slow going, mainly because we were trying to figure out what we wanted to do. We dabbled in stock imagery and tried our hand at breaking news, but we eventually realized that we could do something much more important, namely to create a culture of photojournalistic storytelling in Iraq. To that end we’re focusing more on running workshops and trainings so Iraqi photographers can learn how to shoot at the level demanded by Western clients. We leave the breaking news—for the most part—to the wire agencies which do an excellent job and we focus on the features, portraits, and intimate stories. Wired.com: Why is it important to have Iraqi photographers making pictures in their own communities? What advantages do Iraqi photographers have over their Western counterparts? Meyer: It’s important to have Iraqi photographers making pictures because they know the country better than anyone else. They know the people, the places, and the stories because they’re from Najaf, Dohuk, Kut, Baquba, etc. They speak the language and know the culture and they can get closer. This past June we ran an intensive workshop for 22 of our photographers and five of them managed to spend the night in their subject’s house. No fixer. No translator. Just the photographer and the subject. For me it’s a no-brainer why we need Iraqi photographers shooting photo stories in Iraq. Wired.com: Tell us about one of your favorite photos that came out of that workshop. Meyer: The workshop was held in Sulaimaniyah, which is in the Kurdish region of Iraq. Ahmed Al Husseini, who’s from Karbala in the south, decided he was going to do his story on Arabs who had fled north to escape the violence and who were now working as impoverished day laborers. He, like them, is an Arab who doesn’t speak Kurdish and felt, just like them, out of place in this part of the country. When you look at his photograph of the man with his sleeves rolled up, this comes across in such a powerful and subtle way. He was able to notice and pick out details that would have been lost on anyone else. The muscular arms that show the physically demanding work he does. The pronounced tan line that shows not only that the man works outside in the blazing hot sun, but also that he probably only has that one shirt. And then cropping out the face, which reminds us so poignantly how many men are like this and how little attention we pay to their individuality. Wired.com: Who is Metrography’s target audience? Meyer: We don’t really have a target audience. We’re more focused on clients. So far we’ve done assignments for The Times of London, FT Magazine, BILD, NPR, The Washington Post, Playboy, One Magazine, The National, Getty Images and the International Organization of Migration. We also sell images to Iraqi newspapers and magazines. Wired.com: Do you face any technical difficulties working in Iraq? Meyer: Of course. The Internet is slow and crashes pretty often. This makes it hard to handle high-resolution files. The phone network can be very shaky, particularly in Baghdad. Our biggest problem is electricity. In our offices we now have a system of inverters and batteries that gives us 24 hours of electricity, but it’s not very stable. Even with a generator the electricity cuts can make it very difficult to work. Wired.com: What are the next steps for Metrography? Meyer: We’re working on a stock image bank, but we’d also like to see the photographers we work with move beyond the borders of Iraq. Western photographers shoot all over the world. Why not Iraqis? Westerners don’t have the sole right to photograph the world. We’ve seen so many photos of Iraq shot by Americans. I, for one, would love to see the U.S. through an Iraqi lens. Recently Kamaran joined me in the south of France for the Visa pour l’Image festival. Before he came down he spent some time in Paris and Amsterdam, staying with Iraqi friends. When we met up he told me mind-blowing stories that were happening in these immigrant communities. Who else but an Iraqi photographer could even know about them, let alone access them? Wired.com: Do you think Metrography’s model can be used in other countries? Meyer: For sure. I know there have been attempts to create an Afghan photo agency, which I think is fantastic because last year I met a bunch of really talented Afghan photographers while I was in Kabul. I think the best example of successful photography training is in Bangladesh, which has an outrageous number of award-winning photographers. Last week a few of my Libyan friends asked me to set up a Metrography-like agency in Libya. Unfortunately, I don’t have the time to do it, but I would love to see it happen. Just imagine what the Arab Spring could have looked like if Egyptian, Libyan, Syrian, Yemeni, Bahraini photographers had had the skills to shoot it! To see more of the Metrography’s work, please visit their website at metrography.org Above: Soma Hussain fixes her husband, Dr. Omed Ali Hama Salih’s, jacket before he leaves for work at the hospital in Sulaimaniyah, Iraq. Salih has been married to Hussain, a lawyer, for five years, and they have a 6-month-old son named Baran. Photo by Safin Hamed.

Dr. Omed Ali Hama Salih operates on a patient in the hospital in Sulaimaniyah, Iraq. Salih works a five-hour shift every day and does a double shift three times a week. Photo by Safin Hamed.

Thalassaemia is usually diagnosed amongst children who must be under constant treatment just to stay alive. The illness is hereditary and often is a result of intermarriage between cousins. There are more than 2,500 cases in Kurdistan. Photo by Rawsht Twana.

An Arab migrant worker stands in the corridor of the Asia Hotel in Sulaimaniyah, Iraq. His dark tan and muscular arms show that he works outside as a manual laborer. Since the eruption of ethnic violence in 2005, many families from around Iraq have moved to the more stable region around Sulaimaniyah, which is located in Iraqi Kurdistan. To support themselves and their families in the south, they work as manual laborers, making between 10,000 and 30,000 IQD (roughly $8-$25) on the days they are lucky enough to work. Photo by Ahmed Al Husseini.

An Arab migrant worker in Sulaimaniyah, Iraq shows tattoos he received when he was in the Special Forces under Saddam Hussein. Photo by Ahmed Al Husseini.

Day laborers line up on the side of the road in Sulaimaniyah, Iraq at 5 a.m. in the hopes of finding work. The laborers earn very little, if they're lucky enough to find work at all. It's hard work and the workers themselves have no rights. Photo by Ali Arkady.

A Kurdish laborer, lucky to have found work, is taken to a job site in the back of a pick-up truck on an early morning in Sulaimaniyah, Iraq. Day laborers do this sort of work to help their families and put their children through school because they don't want them to suffer like their fathers. Photo by Ali Arkady.

Sulaimaniyah, Iraq. Photo by Gona Aziz.

A stray bullet from Kurdish security forces ignites electrical cables over the heads of protesters in Sulaimaniyah, Iraq. Photo by Haedar Omar.

A protester who was shot in the face is wheeled down the streets in Sulaimaniyah, Iraq. Photo by Akam Shekh Hadi.

Feradoon Ahmed lives with his three sons, each from a different wife whom he has divorced. In the summer, he works with his children at a brick-making site, where they work 12 hours a day in the heat. The oldest boy, Farhang, gives special care to his younger brothers—Serhang and Mohammad. They return hone exhausted in the evening and are fed by the father's sister. Fefadoon tries to be both mother and father to his sons. Nevertheless, the boys sometimes sneak off to seek the comfort of their mothers. Photo by Tofiq Jaf.

Gypsy children play on an electricity tower near their camp on the outskirts of Sulaimaniyah, Iraq. Sulaimaniyah is located in Iraqi Kurdistan, and there are more than 4,000 gypsy families spread around the area. In Sulaimaniyah alone there are more than 400 families on the outskirts of the city, living apart from the rest of society, with their own culture and language called Domani. Photo by Sartip Osman.

A young tattooed gypsy from Sulaimaniyah, Iraq. Since tattoos are forbidden in Islam, this level of tattooing further alienates him from mainstream Iraqi society. Photo by Sartip Osman.

Shekh Khalid stands outside his house with his wife Gawhar, and youngest daughter Kaziwa. The family lives in Sarau, a village 58km outside of Sulaimaniyah, Iraq. In 1992, Khalid lost his right leg when he stepped on a mine. Even now, the area remains littered with mines, which means the villagers still cannot move around freely. Photo by Rafiq Shukri.

With his prosthetic leg propped against the wall, Shekh Khalid goes to sleep next to his daughter Kaziwa. Photo by Rafiq Shukri.