“I walk through a low entrance, stepping over a large puddle while crouching to avoid the wooden beam of a door frame,” A. K. Kimoto wrote. “It’s dark. As my eyes adjust, I see a figure sitting in a corner as gentle wisps of smoke slowly dance across the room. … I’ve come to these remote settlements in Badakhshan, Afghanistan, to find out why so many of the inhabitants have become addicted to opium.”

In this brief description and in his photographs, many things about Mr. Kimoto are revealed. Foremost are his dedication, compassion and understanding. He spent years photographing families in the remote northeastern mountains of Afghanistan, controlled by the Taliban.

Mr. Kimoto was a 32-year-old Japanese photographer based in Bangkok. He died in March while traveling to Australia. His family has never disclosed the cause.

His determination to tell stories of untold suffering was part of his personality, and also his gift. His commitment was recognized by Unicef and a large group of photojournalists. Several of his closest friends have organized online tributes and gallery exhibitions. They have raised funds in his honor, to aid the families he worked with. [The tributes can be read on Lightstalkers (March 23), Lightstalkers (April 19) and Reminders – I Was There.]

“I don’t care about being recognized, and I don’t care if I go through life with no fame to show for my efforts,” Mr. Kimoto wrote to the photojournalist James W. Delano. “When was the last time you saw a 4-year-old sucking down heroin? Is it not a tragedy? If I can’t do anything to bring attention to their plight, and if nobody cares, then what am I doing with my time and, in fact, my life?  It was never about awards or anything like that. I thought it was about being out in the world, witnessing things that others don’t see, and sharing these stories with a larger audience. I always said that I do what I do because I only have two hands.”

The family he photographed in Badakhshan is unaware of his death.  The area is still too unstable for visitors, and they are awaiting his return and promises of aid.  The poverty in the region is so consuming that parents blow opium smoke into their children’s noses to soothe the pangs of hunger.

“There is a small bundle just to my side. Occasionally it moves, until suddenly, a tiny skeletal hand breaks free and I hear the muffled cries of a child,” Mr. Kimoto wrote shortly before his death. “I move closer to take a photograph, and his mother comes to comfort him. He is slowly unwrapped of the layers that protect him from the biting cold of the mountains and I am shocked by his condition. He is severely malnourished, and his skin hangs loosely from his bones.”

“I offer to transport the mother and child to a clinic. One of the elders cuts me off before I can finish my thought. He smiles gently as he tells me that the child would never survive such a journey in the cold rain, and anyway, this way of life and death have been repeated for centuries in these mountains.”