“I met him by a garbage can; he was shy, timid. It was obvious he was hungry, yet he was undecided whether to rummage through the trash or not. … His jet black eyes had dimmed, his shoulders were slumped, his lips were chapped. I offered him the ...
“I met him by a garbage can; he was shy, timid. It was obvious he was hungry, yet he was undecided whether to rummage through the trash or not. … His jet black eyes had dimmed, his shoulders were slumped, his lips were chapped. I offered him the first food I found from the trash; he hesitated, his eyes filled with tears, his throat felt tight. … As he bit into the cornbread I offered him, he was almost trying not to hurt it, he obviously knew the value of ‘nan’, he wasn’t ‘ungrateful’ in the sense. I pushed a few more pieces of food into his hand; he smiled for the first time, his snow-white teeth lit up his face. We couldn’t speak each other’s languages, but it wasn’t difficult to communicate in the universal language of kindness.” The street is the last refuge of the fallen, the exiled, the homeless, those for whom something suddenly snapped inside them, those who were ground in the gears of a ruthless wheel. There, the joy of being/staying human, of solidarity, of sharing a slice of bread is also experienced; the pain of being abandoned, of being slammed headfirst into the ground. We witness people at their best and at their worst. But the important thing isn't to listen to the "voice" of the street, it's to be that "voice" yourself. Because the street is freedom, freedom is in the street.
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