MySide: Scott Smith

When the Gaza solidarity encampment was established at Newcastle University on 1 May 2024, Scott Smith, also known as The Bearded Skot, was there from the first day. What began as an act of support grew into a sustained act of witnessing. Over two and a half months, Scott lived alongside the students, sharing the routines, tensions and quiet moments that shaped daily life inside the camp.

Working from within rather than from the perimeter, he built a record grounded in trust and proximity.

We spoke with Scott about what it means to photograph a movement you are living inside, how you hold responsibility when the people in front of your lens are your friends, and why building a record from within can matter long after the tents have come down.

Side: Can you start by introducing this body of work? When did you first encounter the Gaza solidarity encampment at Newcastle University, and what made you decide to commit to documenting it?

Scott Smith: This body of work began on 1 May 2024. I was there from day one, arriving before midday to witness the birth of the Newcastle University Gaza solidarity encampment. My commitment to documenting this space grew out of a deep-seated involvement in the local protest movement that began in October 2023.

To me, these images are not the work of an outsider. I was a participant first, helping with daily chores and supporting the students; a photographer second. This documentation is an organic extension of that shared life; it is a record of my community from the inside.

Side: When you arrive at a live protest as a photographer, what are you looking for first? An atmosphere, a structure, a key image, or something harder to define?

Scott: First and foremost, I am there to listen, to learn, and then to engage. My goal is to freeze a moment in time one powerful enough to allow the protest to live on long after it has ended and people have gone home. I find that the essence of a protest is often captured in a single gesture, whether it’s a shared moment between two people or a solitary act. Those are the frames that truly hold the spirit of the movement for me.

Side: Many of the photographs stay close to bodies, hands, temporary structures and surfaces rather than relying on wide, declarative views. How did working at that scale shape the way the story is told?

Scott: Inside the encampment, the physical constraints mirrored the social ones. While it was easy for passers-by to photograph the site from the outside, being on the inside meant working in tight, functional spaces. My use of a Richoh GR3 with 28mm lens reflects that—it’s an immersive focal length that demands you get close.

This body of work is defined by what is absent as much as what is present. I have deliberately avoided identifying features to safeguard the students and staff involved. By focusing on the tactile the structures and the gestures instead. I hope to convey the essence of the protest while upholding a commitment to the community’s protection.

Side: You were photographing something still unfolding, without a clear outcome. How did that uncertainty influence the way you worked day to day?

Scott: Day-to-day, my focus was simply on showing up and supporting the students; the 'body of work' was secondary. I documented the camp as a participant, eventually taking over 8,000 photographs without any fixed goal or grand plan. During the encampment itself, I only shared around 240 images; after that, the rest just sat there.

It took me over a year to even gather them into a single folder, and another six months to actually sort through them. Looking back, that uncertainty meant I wasn't shooting for an edit or a deadline—I was just recording our lives. The distance of time was necessary to transform those thousands of raw moments into a cohesive story

Side: As a documentor rather than an organiser, how did you position yourself in relation to the students? What does responsibility look like in that role?

Scott: My position was defined by the students; I took my steer from them on what they were comfortable with and, more importantly, what they weren't. I often think of Dawoud Bey’s On Photographing People and Communities—specifically how he integrated himself into Harlem, becoming a known face before he ever sought out more personal moments.

I took a similar approach: being part of the community rather than a spectator standing on the outside. By the time the work was well underway, almost everyone at the camp knew me by name, and some became my closest friends. Responsibility, in this role, means the camera only comes out once the trust is already there.

Side: Protest images can quickly become symbolic or reduced to a single frame. Were you consciously trying to build a slower, more layered record?

Scott: Many protest images aim for that single, symbolic frame, and often my own work does the same. But the Newcastle encampment was different; it didn’t have a set schedule. It allowed for a much slower, more layered record. I have quiet, personal moments captured at 3 am, contrasted with drunk passers-by in formal wear on a Saturday night looking for a political debate.

The time I spent there was exhaustive; on the final day, I took my first photo at 11 am and didn't take the last one until the site was fully packed down at 10:30 pm. It stopped being a 'protest' in the traditional sense and simply became life. On my birthday, the group counted down to midnight and I had 'Happy Birthday' sung to me in Arabic by Palestinians. For those two and a half months, this wasn't an event I was visiting—it was just where we lived.

Side: Some moments in the series feel intimate or exposed. How do you decide when an image contributes to the historical record, and when it risks overstepping or becoming too personal?

Scott: I weigh each photograph against the responsibility I feel toward the community. This means avoiding 'harder-hitting' imagery—such as the raw grief of a vigil or the collective trauma of watching live-streamed atrocities—which I feel should remain private for now, and perhaps forever. My aim is to curate for strength.

A key moment in this record is the image of Omar. It captures a turning point in his own journey of identity, as he spoke about his Palestinian heritage in the face of the genocide. This image has already taken on a life of its own; a wider version served as the poster for his film Ana Dammi Falastini, featured in the 2025 BFI Film Festival. When I review these frames, I am not just looking at compositions; I am remembering my friends and the trust they placed in me. Having been shared and recognised already, these images serve as a vital, public bridge between the camp and the wider world.

Side: You were documenting a contested moment inside a powerful institution that will produce its own account. Do you see your photographs as part of a parallel archive? What does truth mean to you in that context?

Scott: This work exists to ensure the story of the encampment isn't eventually sanitised by the very institution it challenged. Universities have a habit of claiming student radicals as part of their 'proud history' decades after they tried to silence them. My goal is to prevent that revision.

This isn't just a collection of photos; it’s a counter-archive. It belongs to the community, not the University. In a world of 'alternative facts', the visual evidence in these frames provides a grounding reality. To me, truth in this context means refusing to let the official narrative be the only one that survives.

Side: These photographs hold both confrontation and care. How conscious were you of resisting a single narrative about the camp, particularly in a media climate that often simplifies events like this?

Scott: Modern media operates on a narrative of extremes; they sell stories without nuance, where everything is forced into black or white rather than a greyscale. But those middle tones are where the magic is. Unlike the mainstream media, I don't need to pretend to be 'balanced'—I can state quite clearly that I wholeheartedly supported the students.

Their demands were consistent from day one: Disclose, Divest, Protect, Pledge, and Call. My goal was to highlight the depth of empathy and humanity behind those words. I wanted to capture the reality of the quad: students exhausted physically and mentally, balancing exam revision with overnight security shifts to keep others safe. It was important to me to document their sacrifice of privilege. Even where people didn't want to be photographed, I've tried to ensure that the spirit of their care for one another is felt in the spaces between the images I’ve chosen to show.

Side: For photographers responding to MySide call outs in their own communities, what would you say about recognising a shift while it’s still unfolding?

Scott: Change often feels small when you’re standing in the middle of it; its profundity only becomes clear in hindsight. It can be found in a chance meeting in a pub or a conversation with a flatmate’s friend. But it also manifests on a larger scale, like a community pulling together for a shared cause. As long as we keep our eyes open, we can capture those minute details. Our cameras are merely tools—most of what I’ve captured here could have been taken on a phone. The real art lies in the noticing.

To truly notice these moments, you must be present, not an outsider. When I look at these images now, I don’t just see frames; I remember the taste of the tea, the people I was making it with, and the afternoons spent playing football with the children or teaching them how to use my camera. These aren’t 'happy' memories—it was a mentally punishing time—but it was a significant moment felt worldwide. I was particularly inspired by the work of Palestinian photographer Zach Hussein in NYC across multiple Universities, whose documentation began weeks before we started here in Newcastle on 1 May 2024.

Side: Amazing, thanks for speaking with us Scott!

If this piece has you thinking about the changes shaping your landscapes and communities, MySide is open now, and we want to see photographs and projects that explore your side of life.