For more than five decades, Tony Ashby stood behind the camera but in front of history.

His brilliant career, marked by two Walkley Awards and a long list of accolades, was not defined by longevity or recognition, but by where he chose to look.

He worked in places most would avoid, witnessing moments many would rather not see.

Ashby’s news photography spanned 32 years at The West Australian before he continued to freelance around the globe, building an amazing body of work spanning continents, conflicts, and cultures.

Longtime newspaper readers would remember some of Ashby’s iconic and award-winning photographs — decades on from when they were published.

Ashby, who died last month aged 83, is being remembered for his rare talent and drive to document the everyday realities in places far worse than his hometown, Perth.

Ahead of a memorial on Monday, former editor of The West Australian Paul Murray summed up the man he allowed to travel to the frontline of many international conflicts and disaster zones in a word — determined.

“What motivated him was the civilians caught up in war, that was the constant theme in his work,” said Murray, who was editor of The West from 1990 to 2000.

“He wasn’t attracted to the battle itself — he was drawn to how it affected people living through it. That’s what made his work so special, it came from something innate in him.”

Ashby’s images captured the extremes of human experience — war and survival. Grief and resilience. Destruction and dignity.

More than anything, they captured reality, they captured the truth.

Born in Kent, Ashby came to Perth aged 13 and started work at The West in 1970.

During his stellar career, Ashby travelled repeatedly to Lebanon during its long and dangerous civil war, at a time when journalists were being abducted and held hostage.

He also documented the horrific siege of Sarajevo and the wider Balkan conflicts, returning nine times to the region.

It was there he earned his first Walkley award, in 1993, for the country’s best news photograph.

But Ashby wasn’t motivated by awards.

“I don’t think he did it for the glory. Of course he appreciated the recognition, it acknowledged his talent and willingness to put himself on the edge, but that’s not what motivated him,” Murray said.

“He cared about the suffering of the people he photographed. He thought their stories deserved to be told.”

Ashby’s lens then turned toward Rwanda during genocide, Afghanistan under the Taliban, the Occupied Territories during the Intifada, and conflict zones across Africa, Asia, and the Middle East.

From Rwanda, he moved the nation with a captivating photograph of Australian Army Corporal Trevor Brown shaking the hand of a child in Kibeho, a camp near the southern town of Butare, as the nation reeled from the genocide which killed hundreds of thousands.

The image secured Ashby a second Walkley award.

Ashby returned again and again to the same places, drawn not just to the news story but to the lives and voices within them.

The question inevitably arises. What drives someone to keep going back to danger?

Those who knew Ashby describe a determination and a belief that such stories mattered and needed to be seen.

“Fearless . . . even though he admitted he was sometimes afraid — he kept going back,” Murray said.

He worked in environments where colleagues were killed, where risk was constantly high and unpredictable, yet he continued with purpose.

His images did not sensationalise suffering. Instead, they bore witness.

In places like Sarajevo, Rwanda, and Lebanon, he documented not just the violence, but its human cost.

The faces of those living through it. The moments between chaos. The fragile threads of normalcy that persisted.

Other former colleagues praised Ashby’s ability to connect with his subjects in a special way, balancing the ethical weight of photographing people in their most vulnerable moments with judgment, restraint, and empathy.

For Murray, Ashby’s standout image was captured in Sarajevo — an elderly woman crouching as she crossed a bridge under sniper fire.

“She was just trying to get her groceries, risking her life every day,” Murray recalled.

“In his image you could see her making herself as small as possible, it was just someone trying to live a normal life in a war zone.

“It was one of those pictures that says a thousand words.”

But to define Ashby’s body of work by conflict alone would be to miss something essential.

Beyond the tyranny of war zones, his photography unveiled a broader curiosity about the world.

He captured wildlife, culture, and the everyday lives of people far removed from headlines.

He sought out moments of humanity. Children playing, sporting highlights, family moments.

Those who worked alongside Ashby often point not just to his images, but his presence.

He was known for his calm nature, patience, and ability to connect with people in difficult situations.

“Tony was an kind guy, affable . . .. always quick with a joke, his nickname around (the newsroom) was ‘Seagull’, he was great fun to be around — but there was always another side to him,” Murray said.

In the 21st century, where images are constant and often fleeting, Ashby’s work continues to resonate.

His photojournalism sits as something valuable and deep.

His photographs invite the viewer not just to look, but to understand; to sit with an image long enough for its meaning to unfold, and continue to unfold the more you stare.

Ashby, who is survived by his wife Judi, had three children, five grand children and two great grand children.