The Second World War defined my childhood. I was evacuated to Somerset from London. My younger sister was sent to a big manor house. I got the farm worker’s cottage. It taught me at an early age that, as humans, we’re on our own. That life is an individual struggle.
My mother was hard and muscular. When she thwacked you, you noticed. She had a temper, smoked, swore and got pissed. I vowed not to follow in her footsteps. My father was an invalid with chronic asthma. I was 13 when he died – he was only 40. I loved him deeply.
Finsbury Park, when I grew up, was an unpleasant place: all violence, ignorance and stupidity. Our family lived in two rooms, below ground level, with no toilets. The gangs and fighting was inescapable. It was rather miserable.
I left school at 15 without qualifications. Working on the railways and washing up in dining cars I discovered two things: digestive biscuits, and that chicken could be eaten outside Christmas.
National service didn’t appeal to me. Even at 18, I had no interest in being yelled at by men in uniform. The authoritarian world was my enemy.
In Nairobi, I bought my first camera. Back in Finsbury Park, I started to photograph my area. I took one picture of a gang of boys in a violent brawl as a police officer was stabbed. The Observer published it. It became so well known I was offered every job going. I had no idea what I was doing.
Being very dyslexic, I refused to pick up books for far too long. Now, I go to bed at 9pm each night to read. It’s my wife Catherine’s doing, and is one of my old age’s greatest pleasures.
I grew up believing I had to be tough. Deep down, I crave peace, calm and integrity.
Hollywood types have never impressed me much. It’s doctors, aid workers and teachers who I admire. People who dedicate their lives to humanity, with dignity and kindness.
It’s difficult to describe the inhumanity I’ve seen. My upbringing, I think, prepared me. I was exposed to all sorts, early on. Had I been more sophisticated, I’d have had a mental breakdown decades ago.
Photojournalism is dead. We’ve become obsessed with glamour and gloss: footballers, narcissism and gossip. Nobody wants the pictures I used to take.
I’m a man consumed by regrets. Abandoning my first wife and family for another woman is a big one I think about daily. And as a father, I can’t say I’ve been great. In my line of work, travel was constant. I was so rarely there. In retrospect, it was rather shameful.
Old age is making me frail. I stumble sometimes. I just had an operation to remove a tumour. I’m unfazed by the pain.
I photograph landscapes now. I’m not a man at peace. I still carry guilt and pain within me. Landscapes take my mind off all I’ve seen. It’s like therapy. It’s healing.
Don McCullin in Rome – a Retrospective is on from 10 October-28 January at Palazzo delle Esposizioni (palazzoesposizioni.it)
