On 26 February 2011, I accompanied a group of fishermen practising traditional ice fishing on the frozen surface of Lake Çıldır in eastern Türkiye. During the region's harsh winter, the lake can remain covered in ice for months. Fishing here demanded knowledge and experience passed down through generations. We set out together, I witnessed their work throughout the day, and we returned together.
The fishermen kindly carried my camera bags on their sled. As we walked across the snow-covered lake, there was almost nothing to distinguish the surrounding landscape. At times the horizon disappeared and the white surface of the lake seemed to merge with the sky. Water rising through cracks in the ice soaked our boots as we walked. I wondered whether the ice was thick enough, although I could not know its actual thickness. I continued working in wet boots for the rest of the day. The cold and moisture also made photography difficult: condensation on my lenses reduced the contrast of some frames and gave them a hazy appearance that recalls the conditions of that day.
Winter fishing on Lake Çıldır involved checking nets stretched beneath the ice. The fishermen used long poles, ropes and simple hand tools to reach the nets through openings in the frozen surface. Working on the ice required care and experience. They gradually pulled the nets from the water, removed the fish they had caught and adjusted the nets as necessary. Much of this work took place in freezing temperatures, sometimes bringing their hands into direct contact with the water.
What struck me most was the coordination and cooperation between the fishermen. They needed few words to know what to do. While one checked the nets, another managed the ropes, and someone else cleared the opening in the ice. Their movements seemed shaped by years of practice. Fish laid out on the snow, gathered nets, broken ice and simple tools created the distinctive scenes of this traditional livelihood.
I wanted to photograph more than the catch itself. I followed the fishermen walking across the ice, working together and moving through the seemingly endless white landscape. At times the human figures almost disappeared into the snow. The vastness of the surroundings made me think about how small human labour can appear before nature, and yet how persistent it remains.
When we returned together at the end of the day, I understood more clearly that this demanding work was more than a means of earning a living. Ice fishing on Lake Çıldır was a way of life that required patience, solidarity, an understanding of nature's rhythms and knowledge accumulated over generations. For me, the photographs I made on 26 February 2011 tell not only the story of a traditional fishing method, but also of people sustaining their lives through their labour in the harshest winter conditions.