As a boy, Albert Einstein wondered what it would be like to ride a beam of light. The answers he found as a scientist changed our view of the universe. At the speed of light, there is only light, since nothing else can travel so fast. Concepts of “here” and “there,” “now” and “then” collapse. Distance and time lose their meaning.

There is a quality to light that universally fascinates. To Hindus, it symbolizes the victory of good over evil in the festival of Diwali. To Jews, it miraculously blessed their return to the Jerusalem Temple, now commemorated in the celebration of Hanukkah. To Christians, it heralded the coming of Christ Jesus.

Yet there is something in Einstein’s discoveries, remote as they may seem, that also speaks to us intimately – about the discoveries of the human heart. 

I remember traveling as a Monitor correspondent to Afghanistan, convinced that my days and nights would be in a state of anxiety and fear. What I found was a warmth and kindness that remains to this day – conversations over sizzling kebabs, the smiles of teachers and milkmen and tribal chiefs, more sugary cups of tea than the principles of mathematics can calculate. In my days there and my memories now, distances shrank, time expanded, and light knew only the sharing of light.

The chords of this season can at times be kitschy. But there is truth beneath them that yearns to expand in our lives, if we only give it space and time. In this beautiful collection of stories, we celebrate the light that shines so brightly in this season – from candlesticks, in trees, through connections to one another, and in our own hearts.

But we also presume to catch some small glimpse of Einstein’s wonder: the view of a wider world filled with light.

– Mark Sappenfield, Editor

Feeling a cushion of kindness in Beijing

“Look at these!” exclaimed the auntie, or cleaning woman, after we exchanged greetings one recent morning in a building near my Beijing office. Her eyes shining, she held up one big carrot and a large white parsnip. 

“Today is Lidong, so I’m making dumplings,” she said as she bent over a utility sink to rinse the dirt off her prized vegetables.

Seeing I was curious, she went on. Lidong means the beginning of winter in the Chinese lunar calendar, she explained. On this day in southern China, where she’s from, people venture into the hills to bring harvest offerings to their ancestors’ graves. In the north, they eat boiled wheat dumplings stuffed with meat and vegetables – seen as fortifying against the chill.

“You should eat them too!” she urged, offering to share hers. 

Practical wisdom, food, warmth, and friendship – Chinese people offer these in abundance as I settle into life as an American in China. On returning this year for the first time since 2018, I wasn’t sure whether the frosty relations between Beijing and Washington would cast a shadow – but soon I found these are ignored by most ordinary folk. Indeed, the affinity between Chinese and Americans, and admiration for the other’s distinct cultures that I recall from living here years ago, seem to have survived.

Karen Norris/Staff

“The problems between our two governments are their thing,” one Beijing retiree I met during a walk told me, flicking the air with his hand as if sweeping that topic into a corner. “They don’t concern you and me.”

I feel this steady cushion of kindness from Chinese strangers – like the older man who gave me a piece of cardboard to lie on when we were both stranded at a train station during a COVID-19 lockdown.

Later on Lidong, as I biked down Beijing’s main street, the Avenue of Eternal Peace, I felt a hint of the bone-chilling winter winds that sweep into the capital from the north across the Gobi Desert. 

“You have to wrap up! Beijing will get much colder,” a young traffic officer in a bright yellow jacket advised me when I stopped to ask directions. As I turned to pedal away, he said, “Man zou,” literally “walk slowly” – or take care.

As darkness fell, my eye caught the lights of a dumpling shop, with cooks in white hats and aprons rolling dough and filling the half-moon shaped morsels in the front window. I hurried inside and ordered a bowl. Sipping the warm broth, I felt grateful to the auntie for brightening my day. 

– Ann Scott Tyson, the Monitor’s Beijing correspondent, is co-author of “Chinese Awakenings: Life Stories From the Unofficial China.”

The complex light of the South   

I grew up during the modern civil rights era, and for me and for many other Black people like me, the state of Mississippi was nothing but a series of ugly words and even uglier images. Emmett Till. Freedom Riders. Lynchings. Murders. Medgar Evers. All of this played out in stark black and white. Not a place you’d choose to go to.

So I was surprised when I found myself, in 2002, taking a job in a small city in north Mississippi.  

On my first day here, fresh back in the United States from living many years abroad, I came upon a South that was very different from the one I’d been told about and expected. The tragic history was real, and it was evident. Though excuses were being made, at that point no one was trying to deny that what had happened had happened. But there existed another evident reality. Black and white people – and their numbers were almost equal – were intermingling on the street. They chatted with each other. They held doors open for each other. It was obvious that these people knew each other, knew each other’s families, knew this shared place they called home.

This is both the darkness of the South and its light.

Karen Norris/Staff

Charles Evers, Medgar Evers’ older brother, returned home to Mississippi in 1946 after serving in World War II, determined to register to vote. His determination was strongly opposed. Each day when Mr. Evers showed up at the courthouse in Canton, Mississippi, there’d be a ring of pickup trucks to greet him. Guns pointed out the windows. Threats and racial epithets hurled. The sad and, to Mr. Evers, baffling part was that those trucks belonged to white men he knew. Those guns were pointed at him by men he’d hunted and fished with when they were boys.

How is it possible to hate somebody you know? Because in the South, more than perhaps in any other part of the nation, the races do know each other. More so in smaller towns, but no matter where you go, knowing is there. In the South, the races are bonded together in ways I’d not witnessed anywhere else I lived.

I came to see that knowing as the light that can lead not only the South but also the nation and the world to a better tomorrow. It has informed both my novels and my life.

– Deborah Johnson is the author of the novel “The Secret of Magic” and the forthcoming “Washington and Leigh.” She lives in Columbus, Mississippi.

The regenerating power of memory  

My earliest memory of holiday lights is my grandfather snuffing out Hanukkah candles with his fingers. He would pinch out the flames whenever we grandchildren outnumbered the candles, so that even if the older kids had lit the full number for that evening, we younger kids could still have a chance to light. As a 5- or 6-year-old, I was struck by the power of this man, squelching fire without even a wince.

Recently, I mentioned this memory to my own kids, curious if they had any holiday-light recollections of their own. One of my 17-year-old daughters – the one we adopted 21 months ago after her mother died – immediately recalled her mother’s Christmas tree.  

“For me, the tree was never about the ornaments or the gifts,” she said, lighting up with the memory herself. “It was the lights that made me feel bathed in warmth and peace.”

Then she grabbed her phone and pulled up a photo from Christmas 2019: the living room of her old house, now sold; her beloved dog, Orris, now living with another family. The focus of the photo is the tree, glowing red, gold, and green against the back wall, its reflection casting a shimmer on Orris.

Karen Norris/Staff

And I thought: Here is a Christian memory in a Jewish home. Those lights are still bathing her, connecting her disrupted childhood to her slowly, but beautifully, emerging adulthood. 

Then it occurred to me: When my grandfather snuffed out those Hanukkah candles, his power wasn’t just in his thick fingertips, impervious to the fire. It was in his insistence that everyone can strike a light into the darkness.

Fifty years later, my new daughter looks at her old Christmas lights, grieving for an era snuffed out too soon, but warmed by a faith that she, too, can regenerate the light.

– Kinney Zalesne, a former Microsoft executive, is a strategy consultant for social change organizations in Washington.

How to treat each other “lightly”

The storm filled the valley like a river fills a bucket. Fast and full. One moment the cars in the office parking lot were visible; the next, the world had gone white. We adults in our adult office clothes stared out at the fury of flakes the same way our pajamaed 8-year-old selves must’ve stared at a school-canceling storm. Yet unlike most 8-year-olds, we had to get ourselves home.

At noon I went out and brushed off the first 4 inches, dreading the inches still to fall and the inevitable drive. By 5 p.m. the roads were slick with packed snow, and most everyone drove with a caution that meant a 15-minute commute would stretch past 40.

But at every light, every intersection, I began to notice a communal graciousness that displayed gentleness between neighbors. There was a pause. As one set of burning red traffic lights switched to a glowing green, drivers rested for a length of time I can best describe as four heartbeats. This miniature intermission gave space for the possibility of a neighbor sliding into the intersection on bald tires. For a Prius spinning on fresh ice, a pickup’s hind end fishtailing. A collective breath when no one expected an impatient horn.

Both the seasoned Montanans and the recent California and Washington transplants needed time to adjust to the sudden season change. Winter makes neighbors of us all.

Just like long, dark nights, inflation, gas prices, supply-chain issues, and COVID-19 can make neighbors of us all, too.

As I waited for the line of cars in front of me to creep forward, I wondered how long we would treat each other “lightly.” How long could we hold each other with the kindness that recognizes our shared struggle?

Karen Norris/Staff

These daily moments – how many intersections do you drive through every day? – are where we can show kindness beyond our daily circle. Beyond the people whose names we know.

In a world where we don’t wait for most anything, how valuable is it to pause long enough so a neighbor in distress doesn’t feel foolish or embarrassed or rushed? So they might be held in an instant of kindness when frustration might be the norm. We have a lot of snow ahead, which means many opportunities to graciously pause for one another.

When the light turned green, my tires took a second to catch, and no one honked. 

– Noah Davis is the author of the poetry collection “Of This River.” He lives in Missoula, Montana.    

A beam of recognition pierced the doubt

From the moment I learned I’d be a father, I was consumed with doubt about how I’d fulfill that role.

I’d spent close to two decades in a complicated relationship – love stretched to the limit across oceans, between careers, and everything in between. When we were separated by a COVID-19 lockdown, I learned via a video call from the United States to my home in Turkey that we were having a baby.  

In the months that followed, I’d often stand on the roof of my apartment building in Istanbul, like George Bailey on the bridge. I’d grown up with divorced parents who lived on opposite ends of the country, and dreaded duplicating that situation for a child. It was uncertain I’d share a continent with my child, let alone the same house. The prospect of failure felt bottomless.

At the risk of losing my job, I moved back to the U.S. But six months after my son was born, my relationship with his mother officially ended. I moved out, stayed in the same city, and spent time each day with my son, falling in love as I watched him grow into his own person. Whenever we played, I tried to give him space to figure out what interested him and develop it. It felt like we were forging a bond, but, with babies, it’s often hard to know.

Karen Norris/Staff

Shortly after my son’s first birthday, I got a job offer that meant moving halfway across the country for a year and then overseas indefinitely. There were countless personal and professional reasons to accept it, but how would my son experience it? 

Now, eight months later, I visit monthly. And until recently, I was feeling my son saw me as a babysitter at best. But, on my last trip, he’d just started talking and, as it turned out, enlightening me.

When we were playing, I asked where his nose was. He pointed. 

I’d never tried to teach him to call me “Dad” but, out of curiosity, and without expecting much, I asked, “Where’s your Dad?”  

Without hesitating, he pointed at me and said, “Da.” He said it again, smiled, and pushed his finger into my chest.

In that moment, the darkness I’d been carrying lifted. He confirmed for me that, just like his nose, he knows I’ll always be a part of him. 

– Tom A. Peter, a journalist based in Arlington, Virginia, spent nearly two decades covering the Middle East. 

Behold: The spectrum of what can be   

The first time I cried at the finish of the Comrades Marathon in South Africa this year, a couple was jogging over the line, clutching a life-size photo of a baby girl with fat, round cheeks. “In Loving Memory,” it read. As they crossed, they flung their arms over each other and began to weep. So did I. In truth though, it wasn’t just about them.

For me, there’s something generally about a marathon finish line. It’s a place where, on a mass scale, human beings are doing something they previously believed impossible.

To be there is to watch in real time as the aperture on someone’s life slowly opens, as the possibilities for what they could be expand to accommodate what they have just done – this impossible, possible thing.

“Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport.” So begins the classic Christmas film “Love, Actually,” as the camera pans over real scenes of friends, families, and couples reuniting at the London airport. There are mothers sweeping their children off the ground, couples sprinting toward each other, fathers and sons pulling each other into big bear hugs.

I feel similarly about a marathon finish.

Karen Norris/Staff

“It’s like living your entire life in a day,” one runner remarked to me recently about the Comrades, which is 56 miles long. By that, he meant that a race like that will send a person hurtling through the full spectrum of human emotions – from elation to despair, with everything in between. What drags a person through that experience, and out to the other side, is often something profound – like the couple I saw running for their late daughter. But it also may simply be a desire to prove to themselves that they can do a hard thing, whatever doubts they have.

Each year, long after New York’s roads have reopened and the screaming crowds have cleared out of Central Park, the New York Marathon’s last runners stumble over the finish in the dark, undeterred by the fact that the race has, technically, already ended. If you ever get gloomy about the state of the world, I suspect you’ll find redemption there, in the people making literal the adage about putting one foot in front of the other, again and again and again, until the distance in front of them shrinks to nothing.

– Ryan Lenora Brown, the Monitor’s former South Africa bureau chief, is based in Johannesburg.

Hördur Gudmundsson spends the better part of his day with a book in his hands – but only in winter.

As the skies darken, he will spend full mornings at his favorite bookstore, IÐA Zimsen, near the Icelandic capital’s harbor. After supper he’ll turn to his hobby: bookbinding. He’s already bound all the works of Iceland’s most famous author, Nobel laureate Halldór Laxness, and now is deep into the works of Gunnar Gunnarsson.

By Icelandic standards, this doesn’t make him a fringe book buff. Iceland is known as one of the world’s most literary countries, when it comes to the love of both reading and writing. 

“It must be in our mother’s milk,” says Mr. Gudmundsson, a retired trades teacher.

Books in Reykjavík, the first nonnative English-speaking city to be designated a UNESCO City of Literature, are everywhere. At one breakfast spot, the counter serves as a giant bookshelf. Tomes are piled onto the sills of steamed-up cafe windows.

The streets of Reykjavík are an ode to the characters of the medieval sagas. Written in the 13th and 14th centuries, the Icelandic sagas retell the exploits of Norse settlers beginning in the ninth century. The works are a source of pride and a pillar of Iceland’s literary sensibilities. Tours in Iceland’s only city take visitors to the birthplaces of authors like Mr. Laxness and the scenes of plot twists in Nordic noir, a booming genre.

Melanie Stetson Freeman/Staff/File

Traditional candles light a home's window for Christmas in Reykjavik, Iceland.

Literature is inextricably linked to wintertime here, and that’s in no small part because of the Jólabókaflóð, which translates to “Yule Book Flood,” the heart of Icelandic Christmas traditions.

In the United States, mailboxes fill with advertisements for toys; in Iceland, a glossy catalog of books signals the arrival of the holidays. 

The first catalog dates back to 1928. Giving books became a Christmas tradition during World War II, when shortages meant that imports – and spending money – were scarce. That scarcity, connected to isolation and poverty, is also tied to a modern love of reading, says Eliza Reid, Iceland’s first lady, who, fittingly, is also an author (she spoke about her book “Secrets of the Sprakkar,” about Iceland’s gender equality, at the Toronto International Festival of Authors this year).

“If you look at many other European countries that went through the Renaissance, Iceland didn’t have materials to develop a great culture, architecture, to build sculptures, to make musical instruments, to create music,” says Ms. Reid. “They just had the written word.”

And while Iceland today is far more connected to the world – it’s a bucket list destination for many travelers – middle-aged Icelanders remember growing up with one television station that didn’t broadcast every day. Icelanders read on those days instead.

All of this history comes together in December, when it is customary to receive a book on Christmas Eve and spend the hours after dinner cozying up with it. That tradition is beloved for reasons that span from poetic to practical. “It’s right in so many ways,” says Bryndís Loftsdóttir, co-director of the Icelandic Publishers Association. “It’s right because we are preserving the language.”

With a population under 400,000 and a language that has remained relatively unchanged over the centuries, Iceland is safeguarding culture by promoting its literature, she explains.

Sara Miller Llana/The Christian Science Monitor

Hördur Gudmundsson spends the better part of winter mornings at his favorite bookstore, IÐA Zimsen, near the Icelandic capital’s port. This day he is reading Rosamund Young.

It also sets a price norm. Everyone gives and receives a book, at a cost that doesn’t fluctuate much. “So I’m not at risk of giving someone a much cheaper gift,” Ms. Loftsdóttir says. And perhaps the best part: “When we meet one another after Christmas and at various gatherings, we talk about what books we got.” So there is no time to rehash any family holiday drama, she says with a laugh.

After the festivities, the winter months provide the perfect backdrop for reading. Iceland isn’t nearly as cold as most people assume, but it experiences many months of darkness. Homes and offices are lit with candlelight – breakfast is eaten and afternoon meetings are conducted over it. The winter draws people like Mr. Gudmundsson, the retired teacher, indoors (while in the full daylight of summer, he is drawn outside), and he is certainly not alone. 

“In the wintertime, we look inward somehow,” says Ms. Reid.

The season also provides the perfect vehicle for writers.

Winter appears within the first 50 words of Auður Jónsdóttir’s latest work, “Quake” – when a man in a winter coat leans over to help the protagonist named Saga, after she’s had an epileptic episode in the streets of Reykjavík.

For the prizewinning Icelandic author, winter is the natural setting for “Quake,” a story about a woman trapped as she fights to restore her memory – and the family secrets that surface. But it’s also a setting that writers employ often in this country, she says, because of winter’s sheer intensity. “You have this overwhelming feeling during winter in Iceland,” she says. “You get the special atmosphere because it’s so dark.”

That darkness also stirs the imagination. Iceland boasts a high per capita rate of published writers. According to Statistics Iceland, there are five titles published per every 1,000 Icelanders. There’s a saying in Icelandic: “Everyone has a book in their belly.”

For Bara Bjarnadóttir, who works at the city library, that volume can generate a virtuous cycle of creation. “At some point it has just become part of the culture, and it doesn’t seem like such a big obstacle to create something,” she says. “Everyone around you has written a book, so it doesn’t feel like a very distant thing.”

Ms. Loftsdóttir says surveys show a dip in book-buying last year, but the tradition is still strong. The glossy catalog this year lists 682 works. 

The Book Flood is a mixed blessing for authors, who spend the six weeks before Christmas crisscrossing the country to attend talks, readings, and signings. Most of the country’s books are published in the months leading up to Christmas.

“It’s really valuable, this interest in society in books,” says Ms. Jónsdóttir, who is the granddaughter of the late Mr. Laxness. “But it has two sides. Some people will say it’s a bit of a problem: We have too many books.”

Jaiy Dickson’s family has an unorthodox Christmas tradition: no gift giving.  

For years, the Boston-based law student would pool resources with her sister and stepfather to buy her mother appliances such as a KitchenAid mixer. In turn, Ms. Dickson’s mother would buy her adult daughters a select item, such as a winter coat. But the family members began running out of ideas for bigger gifts. So, a few years ago, they collectively decided to stop giving presents altogether. As a result, her family’s outlook on what makes the Yuletide season meaningful has shifted.

“We get to spend time together and enjoy each other’s company. We’re thankful for each other,” says Ms. Dickson during a Zoom call. “My friend actually calls it ‘celebrating capitalism’ rather than ‘celebrating Christmas.’ And I’m like, ‘Yeah, I’m not celebrating capitalism this year.’” 

For most people participating in Christmas or Hanukkah, presents are part and parcel of the season. Whole economies bank on the flurry of purchases that begin in earnest on Black Friday. Yet there are those who, for various reasons, eschew buying stuff for others. Not because they’ve adopted a “Bah! Humbug!” attitude. Rather, they find greater value in offering nontraditional gifts such as handmade presents, acts of kindness, or just spending time with friends and family. They’re forms of generosity that aren’t rooted in materialism.

“Thank you all” 

The no-gift philosophy can be hard to explain to others, says Jimmy Sapiega, a social worker in McHenry, Illinois. His young nieces’ Christmas wish lists include tablets and phones. But although Mr. Sapiega treats his sister’s family to meal outings, he tells his nieces that cooking together or playing card games is more precious than anything money can buy.

“I grew up a very spoiled child,” says Mr. Sapiega, who explains he was given several hundred dollars worth of presents each year. During his teens, Mr. Sapiega revolted against the messy clutter he’d accumulated. He now lives simply and inexpensively. 

“My father passed away about 12 years ago, and the last words he said to us were ‘Thank you all for being my family.’ That’s really stuck with me ever since,” says Mr. Sapiega in a Zoom call. “You’ll never see a U-Haul behind a hearse.” 

Renee Bergeron, author of a blog about how to lead an austere lifestyle, established non-gift Christmas traditions for her family. She and her husband have 14 children, five of whom are adopted. (“I’m a minimalist in every area – except for kids,” says Ms. Bergeron, laughing over the phone.) Their family-focused holidays include going to church, donating food to homeless people, decorating cookies, and watching a Christmas movie. 

“We are Christians, so we wanted to keep the focus on Jesus,” she explains. “So we said, ‘Let’s start some traditions purposefully that aren’t wrapped up in giving actual gifts.’”

They do make one small concession. Each family member gets a Christmas stocking containing an orange, a candy cane, and one nominal, thoughtfully chosen item. The idea was inspired by a “Little House on the Prairie” novel in which Laura Ingalls Wilder is delighted to reach into her stocking and find a tin cup, sticks of peppermint, a cake, and a shiny penny.

“[Laura’s father] says something like, ‘It’s almost too much,’” says Ms. Bergeron, who lives in Bellingham, Washington. “As we read and loved those [books], we thought, ‘We don’t want every year at Christmas to be bigger and better.’”

Melanie Stetson Freeman/Staff

Jane Taylor volunteers at First Parish Church in Boston's Dorchester neighborhood in a program run by the nonprofit Fair Foods on Dec. 16, 2022. Her impulse at Christmas is to give her time to those who need it most.

Many parents are wary of trying to top the previous year’s gifts, especially at a time of high inflation. Ipsos, a market research firm, conducted a poll on behalf of Shutterfly and found that close to 2 in 3 Americans say they’re concerned about the impact of recent price increases on their holiday budget.

“At the same time, when you ask people what’s important when they’re thinking about gift giving, the number one thing is finding a thoughtful gift that someone would love,” says Mallory Newall, an Ipsos vice president. “So even with economic concerns ever present in our minds right now, Americans are still looking for ways to bring joy and warmth to the holiday season.” 

Inflation is inspiring many Americans to fulfill Christmas wish lists with items that other people are giving away, says Liesl Clark, CEO of the Buy Nothing Project, which she helped found in 2013. Ms. Clark says that the movement now has more than 7 million people participating in neighborhood-based recycling groups, connected by an app and social media.

“Once I do receive a mountain bike from a neighbor that I can give to my daughter for the holidays, I would then be able to go into the app and click on ‘Gratitude,’ and then post my thanks to that neighbor,” says Ms. Clark in a phone call from Bainbridge Island, Washington. “Everyone gets to look on at and witness this expression of gratitude. Everyone feels the joy from that expression.” 

Another option: Make your own gifts. Michele Guieu, the arts director for the Millennium Alliance for Humanity and the Biosphere environmental group, recently wrote an article sharing her ideas for creating eco-friendly presents. The San Francisco Bay Area artist makes tree ornaments out of paper bags and found pieces of wood. Last Christmas, Ms. Guieu’s adult son made a drawing of her and her husband.

“It goes back to the importance of things compared to the importance of people, moments, experience,” says Ms. Guieu. 

“More time to spend together”

For Susan Kay, from Cooper’s Landing, Missouri, the most valuable gift is one’s time. “I would always say, ‘No presents, but your presence is required,’” says Ms. Kay over Zoom. 

Her parents taught her the value of “round to it” gifts, namely helping others do things they haven’t gotten around to, like winterizing a yard, repairing a step, or fixing a leaky toilet. 

“It also gave us the time to visit – not just then during what we were doing – but then also because we had saved time by doubling up,” says Ms. Kay. “And so we’d have more time to spend together.” 

In the Boston neighborhood of Dorchester, Jane Taylor’s impulse at Christmas is also to give her time to those who need it most. When she isn’t volunteering for Fair Foods, a nonprofit that helps feed low-income families, she’s baking Christmas cookies, bread, and gingerbread men for friends and family. When she does buy gifts online, they’re handcrafted items that benefit a charity. At Quaker meetings, Ms. Taylor sings carols that get her thinking about all humankind.

“We’re celebrating every life, every baby, every child, regardless of race, religion, any of those things,” says Ms. Taylor during a Zoom call. 

Inspired by the Christmas story of the donkey that gave up its manger to Jesus, Ms. Taylor also opens her home to strangers.

“I have rooms in my house that are filled with people, and they are all coming from different countries and different needs,” she says. “That’s the whole Christmas story to me. It’s about giving.” 

Editor’s note: This story has been updated to correct the amount of gifts Mr. Sapiega said he received as a child. It was several hundred dollars worth, as Mr. Sapiega shared with the Monitor after publication.

An Andean plateau. A Ukrainian church. A Florida swamp. These are just a few places brought to life for readers by Monitor photographers in the past year. Our photographers hope that all their images make an impression on readers. But the team’s favorite photos of the year “left a mark on us in some memorable way,” says Director of Photography Alfredo Sosa. “They touched you, or surprised you.”

Many of the images that mean the most to the team are those in which they forged bonds with their subjects. “We feel we made a human connection,” Alfredo says, “because we try to understand, relate to, and share the experience of the subject. It’s a partnership.”

Other favorites reflect a certain level of difficulty or perseverance to get the shot. And some are relished for their unexpectedness, such as the otherworldly scene at the top of this page, captured by Alfredo during a trip to Chile for a June 6, 2022, cover story about lithium mining.

“Our hope is that we can be a vehicle for the reader to connect and understand what it’s like to be there, to be the person,” he says.

Resilience and grace in a nation under siege

When Russian troops invaded Ukraine on Feb. 24, 2022, Monitor correspondent and photographer Scott Peterson was eager to travel there. His experience on the front lines of other conflicts, and his “propensity for proximity,” as one editor describes it, give his photos a feeling of immediacy and intimacy.  

Scott, who took four reporting trips to Ukraine last year, often makes return visits to people he met on previous forays, including those whose loved ones died in the fighting. “Scott dives into a place and keeps visiting to see how people and situations change over time,” says Alfredo Sosa, the Monitor’s director of photography.

Scott’s work captures Ukrainians’ grief and resilience, vulnerability and defiance. And also their exhaustion, as shown in the gesture of a soldier near Izium (1). As families moved to shelters to escape bombardment, Scott caught images of children playing in the underground sanctuary of a church in Odesa (2). He also impresses on viewers the quiet dignity of a woman surveying the damage to her apartment in a Kyiv suburb (3) as she considers the effort to rebuild.    

(1) Scott Peterson

(2) Scott Peterson

(3) Scott Peterson

At the same time, he unflinchingly portrays the devastation of war, including the aftermath of a Ukrainian airstrike on a Russian armored column (4) northwest of Kyiv. “Stark as these scenes may be, I aim to show with my photographs how people find it within themselves to cope and conquer, even in small ways,” says Scott.

Moments of affection and grace were also cataloged, like a bulwark of normalcy in a careening world. A couple in Odesa share an embrace in front of a coffee shop window that’s been taped against explosions (5). And emergency workers speed efforts to clear rubble (6) from a Ukrainian school used as a Russian military base in Izium.

(4) Scott Peterson

(5) Scott Peterson

(6) Scott Peterson

Among the most compelling images are those that enable the viewer to enter the scene, such as that of a young Ukrainian soldier preparing to pray by lighting candles in church (7). “You don’t feel like you’re intruding; you’re sharing the moment with them,” Alfredo says. That’s also true of the photo of a soldier holding two roses in tribute to fallen comrades (8).

(7) Scott Peterson

(8) Scott Peterson

The hopefulness of the returnee is captured on the face of a young woman who fled to Poland but is boarding a train back to Kyiv (9). And two brothers in the Donbas region have adapted to frequent stays in the storage cellar behind their house that serves as a shelter (10). “Ukraine is full of war and despair, but it should be the photographer’s mission to also show how its people are resilient, courageous, and even hopeful,” says Scott. 

All Scott Peterson photos are also found at Getty Images.

(9) Scott Peterson

(10) Scott Peterson

In search of politics that unite

The Monitor’s political coverage seeks to unite, rather than divide. From a flag-waving supporter (1) of a Republican congresswoman in Texas to voters in Ohio listening to Democratic Rep. Tim Ryan (2), the midterm elections were an opportunity to build understanding. While staff photographers bore witness to the tremendous, sprawling spectacle of American politics, they also captured quieter moments, like that conveyed in the portrait of congressional staffer Rosario Duran (3) on Capitol Hill.

(1) Alfredo Sosa

(2) Ann Hermes

(3) Ann Hermes

They immersed themselves in the thick of difficult conversations, such as those among participants in a project in Ohio to teach the techniques of constructive disagreement (4). Always, they kept an eye out for telling visual details and cover-worthy images, like the bejeweled elephant spotted at a Republican primary event in Arizona (5).

“Part of the job is to anticipate what’s going to happen,” says photographer Ann Hermes. On the campaign trail, “you have to think about what direction the candidate will turn and be ready,” she says.

(4) Melanie Stetson Freeman

(5) Melanie Stetson Freeman

When work transcends the task at hand

Work “is about a search ... for daily meaning as well as daily bread,” wrote Studs Terkel in his seminal 1974 book, “Working,” in which ordinary Americans talked about their livelihoods. 

Monitor photographers consider it a privilege to capture the meaning and purpose that people find on the job. Take the band Bent Knee, whose passion for music jumps off the stage (1) during a performance. The musicians are doing what they love. That’s equally true for Samsara Duffey, a fire spotter who has spent 26 seasons as the sole resident in a remote lookout tower, keeping watch over her beloved Montana wilderness (2).

(1) Melanie Stetson Freeman

(2) Alfredo Sosa

Professional life can sometimes feel scripted. But when unexpected moments happen, like a fist bump (3) between Boston Mayor Michelle Wu and Police Commissioner Michael Cox, a routine press conference can become a moment of solidarity and friendship.

Even repetitive tasks can transform when pursued with precision and care, as seen by a server creating an intimate dining experience in a New York restaurant shed (4).  

During a visit to the studio of collage artist Ekua Holmes (5), photographer Melanie Stetson Freeman found an appreciation for light and color that mirrored her own. The artist and photographer shared a common visual language. “She understood what I was looking for,” Melanie says.

(3) Melanie Stetson Freeman

(4) Ann Hermes

(5) Melanie Stetson Freeman

Dedication to a job well done can be about more than the task at hand. It’s a contribution to a greater whole. In Canada, a farmer offers the same care he shows his cows (6) to the soil that nourishes his farm, through regenerative farming practices. 

The world of work prizes ingenuity and patience to create new paths toward prosperity. In Maine, an aquafarmer harvests kelp (7), an innovative catch that is helping lobster companies stay afloat in the offseason.  

The commitment of these workers makes them not only compelling subjects, but also inspiring examples. They motivate all of us to see past daily breadwinning toward a greater, more fundamental purpose.

(6) Melanie Stetson Freeman

(7) Melanie Stetson Freeman

Where the world is the classroom

Learning takes place everywhere, not just in the classroom. Our photographers found many opportunities to shine light on these moments of transformation. In Chicago, Melanie Stetson Freeman captured an “aha” moment for a young man (1) who was discovering alternatives to gang life. 

Alfredo Sosa witnessed young military officers at Fort Benning in Georgia (2) wrestle with the concept of ethical warfare and the tough leadership decisions they may someday need to make. 

(1) Melanie Stetson Freeman

(2) Alfredo Sosa

Learning can open new worlds, such as through a telescope a little girl in California borrows from her local library (3) or during a flight lesson (4). Ann Hermes, who took both photos, was struck by the confidence of both subjects. The young girl at the library needed no prompting, but plunked herself down with a self-possessed expression. Ann was also impressed by the determination of the pilot-in-training in Oakland, whose instructors broke down barriers for her and other underserved students.

(3) Ann Hermes

(4) Ann Hermes

These photographs show the ways that teachers help guide and nurture, like the tutor in a Tennessee classroom (5), and how students take agency in their own education, like the group of girls in Florida (6) planning community service projects.

(5) Alfredo Sosa

(6) Melanie Stetson Freeman

Wonders of the animal world

It’s no mystery that staff photographer Melanie Stetson Freeman adores animals. Her portfolio is bursting with shots of creatures great and small from every kind of habitat.

This year, she caught a glassy sweeper fish egg just moments before it hatched (1) at a lab in Rhode Island. In her favorite shoot, she traveled to Minnesota for a story about Lynn Rogers, who has been studying black bears for decades. There she met Elvis, a wild black bear (2), eating peanuts at a picnic table. Bears, she says, have personalities just like humans.

(1) Melanie Stetson Freeman

(2) Melanie Stetson Freeman

In New Mexico, she was fortunate to photograph Navajo-Churro sheep (3), guarded by huge white Great Pyrenees dogs, before the flock took off out of sight. There’s never any guarantee that the animals will be around when she arrives, or that they’ll stay put. And sometimes, the “wrong ones” wander into the picture. The unpredictability is part of the charm, Melanie says. But when the timing is just right, as in her shot of a white ibis (4) soaring over the Florida Everglades, the world opens up for photographer and viewer alike. 

(3) Melanie Stetson Freeman

(4) Melanie Stetson Freeman

On that same trip to the Florida Everglades, she was particularly amused by a tricolored heron chick in its nest (5), looking somewhat annoyed, with its outlandish feathers sticking up like a punk rocker. Alfredo Sosa had a similar experience in Argentina, when he captured a delightful crowd of pigs (6) – wonderful pink snouts and all. “I was channeling Mel,” Alfredo says. Whoever frames the shot, Melanie says, the result is pure joy.

(5) Melanie Stetson Freeman

(6) Alfredo Sosa

Reuters

Women take a picture in front of the public Christmas tree in Sofiyska Square in Kyiv, Ukraine, on Dec. 19, 2022.

The city of Bakhmut in the Donbas region of Ukraine has in recent months become the battleground of all that matters in the war. For Ukrainians, a defense of their national identity and right to self-determination. For Russia, a reversal of humiliating defeats. Yet it may be words that one day define Bakhmut for something else: a defense of innocence.

“I think that the heroes of Bakhmut should have what every person has, that everything should be OK for their children, their families, that they’re warm and healthy,” Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy said in a visit to the front lines Dec. 20. “I’d like to wish them light. ... The main thing is for there to be inner light.”

Around the world, from Ethiopia to Colombia to Syria, numerous societies emerging from war or striving to do so are grappling with how to build durable peace through transitional justice. That reflects an increasingly universal recognition that mercy and forgiveness are indispensable to peace. Justice modeled on reconciliation has enabled countries like South Africa and Rwanda to move forward from their traumatic histories. It provides a pathway for combatants and perpetrators of violence back into their communities through acknowledgment and remorse.

But it makes hard demands on those who have suffered the most. It bids them to live side by side with those who have done them harm, and to draw a distinction between those who have committed violence and those who have ordered it. As journalist Natasha Gural wrote in Forbes recently, “Extending justified abomination for [Russian President Vladimir] Putin to all Russians harms our collective humanity and undermines the cultural fabric that serves to comfort, inform, and enlighten us in times of strife.”

In its embrace of reconciliation as a means for post-conflict social healing, humanity is seasoning justice with selflessness and sacrifice. In his battlefront prayer for “inner light” this week, Mr. Zelenskyy alluded to the deeper spiritual substance of peace – the inextinguishable glow of each individual's divinely bestowed innocence.