Manresa (Catalonia, España)
I don't know what I expected, probably more than I was offered. Somehow I assumed that we are in the West and the West is rich. That's what I was always told. At school and in the media. And although I never felt rich, which I never was, I was told that I was. Any contradiction was considered inappropriate.
I see more and more contradictions in this world. The stories from back then no longer apply. They are hollow phrases. They probably only applied to a few. And that hasn't changed. Perhaps it has even got worse, but I can't say for sure. But what I see does not correspond to what I was told.
But what does it mean to be rich? From the outside, for example, you can see a certain prosperity when you walk down the streets. Beautiful buildings. Clean streets. Neatly dressed people. Splendor and order. On a personal level, that you can afford things, that you own something and can move around freely. Yes, the movement, that's wealth.
I'm in the old town, the center. In this corner, the opposite is the case. Neglected and run-down facades. Graffiti and smearings everywhere. Clothes are lined up to dry on the balconies or the Estelada Blava is hanging. Four red horizontal stripes on a yellow background. A blue triangle on a leech and a white star. The silent cry for freedom.
Below them a stream of vehicles. The air saturated with exhaust fumes. Buildings without windows or with shutters that are barely held together. Windows with yellowed curtains or windows without curtains. A woman stands in her living room, dressed in a thick jacket. Luckily it's mild. How would she get through the winter?
Later, in another part of the city. Lively. Lively. Clean. But what the dogs leave behind remains here too. Still neat. Colorful. Baroque. No flags. Freedom already seems to be here. Far away from the desolation of the old town, which is less than 10 minutes away on foot.
There, a run-down dreariness in which people still live. Have to live. Who among the countless people streaming through these streets has the slightest idea of life over there, which is so close and yet so far away?
Far away from their consciousness, which remains untouched. Which also feels no need and generates no desire to want to change this. It's not me, so it's none of my business. How much am I such a person? Just because I see and recognize and feel the injustice doesn't make me a better person.
There is a reserved friendliness in people's faces, a floating lightness in their gait. Every now and then a smile appears when their eyes meet. At no time and in no place do I feel threatened or unsafe or uncomfortable or uncomfortable in any way. Neither here nor there.
Surrounded by the one language that defines this country. With accents of that other language that defines this region. It is a different culture and yet it is guided by the same forces as all the others. In the air, the sound of Christmas carols, drifting over us all. Light and gentle. The melody of the season. I observe. That's all I can do here.
Originally written in German. Translated with DeepL.com (free version)
I don't know what I expected, probably more than I was offered. Somehow I assumed that we are in the West and the West is rich. That's what I was always told. At school and in the media. And although I never felt rich, which I never was, I was told that I was. Any contradiction was considered inappropriate.
I see more and more contradictions in this world. The stories from back then no longer apply. They are hollow phrases. They probably only applied to a few. And that hasn't changed. Perhaps it has even got worse, but I can't say for sure. But what I see does not correspond to what I was told.
But what does it mean to be rich? From the outside, for example, you can see a certain prosperity when you walk down the streets. Beautiful buildings. Clean streets. Neatly dressed people. Splendor and order. On a personal level, that you can afford things, that you own something and can move around freely. Yes, the movement, that's wealth.
I'm in the old town, the center. In this corner, the opposite is the case. Neglected and run-down facades. Graffiti and smearings everywhere. Clothes are lined up to dry on the balconies or the Estelada Blava is hanging. Four red horizontal stripes on a yellow background. A blue triangle on a leech and a white star. The silent cry for freedom.
Below them a stream of vehicles. The air saturated with exhaust fumes. Buildings without windows or with shutters that are barely held together. Windows with yellowed curtains or windows without curtains. A woman stands in her living room, dressed in a thick jacket. Luckily it's mild. How would she get through the winter?
Later, in another part of the city. Lively. Lively. Clean. But what the dogs leave behind remains here too. Still neat. Colorful. Baroque. No flags. Freedom already seems to be here. Far away from the desolation of the old town, which is less than 10 minutes away on foot.
There, a run-down dreariness in which people still live. Have to live. Who among the countless people streaming through these streets has the slightest idea of life over there, which is so close and yet so far away?
Far away from their consciousness, which remains untouched. Which also feels no need and generates no desire to want to change this. It's not me, so it's none of my business. How much am I such a person? Just because I see and recognize and feel the injustice doesn't make me a better person.
There is a reserved friendliness in people's faces, a floating lightness in their gait. Every now and then a smile appears when their eyes meet. At no time and in no place do I feel threatened or unsafe or uncomfortable or uncomfortable in any way. Neither here nor there.
Surrounded by the one language that defines this country. With accents of that other language that defines this region. It is a different culture and yet it is guided by the same forces as all the others. In the air, the sound of Christmas carols, drifting over us all. Light and gentle. The melody of the season. I observe. That's all I can do here.
Originally written in German. Translated with DeepL.com (free version)