Photograph: Catalina Martin-Chico/Panos

Catalina Martin-Chico

The Farc fought a guerrilla campaign in Colombia that lasted for 53 years. Almost half of the fighters were women, but they were forbidden from getting pregnant – those who did had abortions in the jungle or were forced to abandon their children. As soon as the peace deal was signed, in November 2016, Farc women began getting pregnant. I thought that symbolised the transition from war to peace. Olga, in this picture, was one of the first women to become pregnant. She had lived on the street since the age of seven and joined the Farc when she was 11. She had known only war for more than 20 years. A year after this was taken, I returned to Colombia. The camp was so different – there were lines of houses, no weapons, people were being reunited with their families. Olga had traced her brother – apparently he had been working for the military, chasing down the Farc. Now they live nearby, in peace. As told to Tim Jonze

Brandon Thibodeaux

Photograph: Brandon Thibodeaux

I had been napping in the back of my friend’s car when this happened. We were in Mexicali, Mexico, waiting to cross back into the US. A disturbance woke me up – I looked through the windshield and saw three men, one of whom grabbed a ladder. He held it while the other two climbed up and shimmied down the US side on a yellow nylon rope. The picture was taken on instinct – luckily, I woke up with the camera lying beside my head. I only got two or three frames before they were gone. Scaling this fence is a massive step into the unknown – from the moment their feet hit the ground, these men are entering a world of virtually enforced anonymity. It can be disheartening, filled with injustices. But, for them, it seemed worth the risk. As told to Tim Jonze

Yukari Chikura

Photograph: Yukari Chikura

Before embarking on this project, I was in a really low place. My father had died unexpectedly, I had suffered two serious injuries and the 2011 Tōhoku earthquake and tsunami had devastated my country. I felt hopeless, until my late father came to me in a dream: “Go to this village hidden in deep snow where I lived a long time ago,” he whispered. I decided to take a train there. When I arrived, an ancient shrine ritual called zaido, dating from the Nara period (AD710 to AD794), was being performed. This picture shows a child drinking water from a chōzuya. Zaido is performed on the second day of the new year in order to call upon happiness for the coming 12 months. Taking the photographs represented a fresh start for my life, too. The love and dedication of the people who had preserved this sacred festival throughout its 1,300-year history, overcoming hardships such as earthquakes and war, gave me the courage to live life to the fullest again. As told to Tim Jonze

Massimo Sestini

Photograph: Massimo Sestini/Eyevine

I was taking photos for the annual calendar of the Italian navy, but I wanted to carry on doing reportage at the same time, focusing on immigration. I was on board a frigate for about a fortnight and it picked up 400 to 500 refugees in the Mediterranean. Some were fleeing war, including many Syrians; some were from Africa. This man had arrived from Libya after crossing the Sahara, but I don’t know where he started. I never had a chance to talk to him. He was resting on the roof of the frigate under his thermal covering, along with all the other men - the women and children were inside. I want to communicate the subject in a positive way, to help make people in government more aware. As told to Phil Hoad

Susan Meiselas

Photograph: Susan Meiselas/Magnum Photos

I was working in El Salvador, covering the civil war in the early 80s after the military government was overthrown. My daily routine was to get up early and drive the roads in every direction until I couldn’t any more. I wasn’t looking for anything scripted, I was just photographing the daily life around me. I was driving along a highway in the middle of the countryside one day and I saw this wedding. They welcomed me in and I stayed for a couple of hours, taking pictures. I didn’t know much about the couple and I wouldn’t be able to find them again, but this intimate scene felt like an oasis of hope among the violence. I see it as a sombre moment because of what was happening in the country, but it also represents how life moves on despite terrible crises. You never know where it will lead you. As told to Ammar Kalia

Paola Paredes

Photograph: Paola Paredes

I was trying to figure out what kind of photographer I wanted to be. I realised that the most personal thing about me was that I hadn’t told my parents I was gay. What if I came out to them in a photography project? The idea seemed too crazy, but it kept haunting me. I realised I had to be sensitive to my parents – I couldn’t be like: “Hi, I’m gay,” and shove a camera in their face. So, I spent three weeks photographing them from the moment they woke until they went to sleep. By the time we had this conversation, they were at ease with cameras being everywhere. After I told them, I burst into tears. Then everyone else did. My parents threw their arms around me and said: “It’s OK, we love you.” It felt like a before and after moment, not only in my personal life, but also as a photographer – the project gave me the confidence to become the artist I wanted to be. As told to Tim Jonze