It is eleven p.m. on a warm night in May. Along the street, the light posts’ cables create a web cutting the dark sky, and the blueish neon lights refract blurring the details of the background. Humid mod frames the sidelines of the messy street, that is infested with half-used cigarettes and the accumulated rubbish that leans at the back door of a restaurant. All the tailoring and laundry stores are closed as if opening the floor for the nocturne life to awake.
And the signboards of the coffee shops and “sul-chib” (drinking houses), overwhelm the long-distance view of the narrow street. Mixed in the joy of the busy atmosphere, a young man lights his cigarette while others walk with their sights dug to their cellphones. On this very conventional night, and probably as always, everybody seems to be unaware of the unequal relations of power unfolding in that precise instant. But then, the presence of an old man that slowly walks against the multitude inevitably outstands to the eyes of the omniscient spectator behind the camera. The man hauls from his back a small cart full of recycles, that are tied up with a rubber string. His presence is anonymous as he quietly passes through, with an air of modesty and humbleness. He irradiates courage, hope, and effort. And still, everybody seems to be oblivious to the ugly reality that they are part of. A reality that dismantles on one hand, that human has lost their sense of social justice and empathy in the mundane of their daily life. And on the other hand, a reality that reveals through one’s daily late-night work, the eagerness of an old human, trying to survive in an unequal society. This man is not only at the center of the picture but at the center of our life. He is right at the core of our ignorance, right at the center of our regardless-ness; he stands alone, he observes and bares. He is right at the center of our comfortable world.
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