A Portrait of a Human Being

One day, a man found himself homeless and began living at a bus shelter. He lay down on a makeshift bed he had created for himself with a blanket and a duvet, and he didn't get up from there for days. After a while, his weakened body could no longer bear it, and he drew his last breath at the bus shelter he called home. This tragedy unfolded in London, the capital of England—a city grand in name, but a vast place where life is a relentless struggle. People who heard of this sorrowful end were deeply moved (!), offering their profound sighs and calling it a collective shame. Yet, hundreds, perhaps thousands of people passed by the very bus shelter where this man lived every single day. The homeless man would even look at them and smile. Still, neither the passers-by nor the local council did a single thing. Tell me, does anyone remember the names of the solitary souls who vanish in these crowded cities? This was not the first time, and it wouldn't be the last.

There were people who knew the homeless man... After all, he had lived through a lifetime in one way or another. He had arrived and departed from this earth. Many things were said about him. They said he did bad things, that he fell into dark paths. Nobody knew what the reason was or why it turned out that way; they just talked. Indeed, people prefer talking over understanding. In truth, because diving into these issues leaves you entangled with no easy exit, they simply choose to adopt the mindset of every man for himself.

This story began toward the end of the 1980s. In those years, many people migrated from Turkey to foreign lands. The reason for exile was almost always poverty—a path, a shred of hope to rescue their families. Some found what they hoped for, while others did not. Every story had its protagonist, yet life flowed through such dead ends that these individuals became unrecognisable even to themselves. Lives carried on without any inkling of what the years would strip away from them. The folk songs of the lands they left behind began to change meaning; they started weeping to the rhythms of lively dance tunes. The song Adana’nın Yolları Taştan lost its pulse on their tongues, listened to only with tears hidden behind glasses raised in sorrow. This homeless man, too, was originally from Adana.

When the homeless man first arrived in London from Adana, he started working as a labourer in a sweatshop factory. He learned various parts of the trade. His boss was both a fellow countryman and a distant relative. In those years, people looked out for one another, offering support; a sense of shared humanity still existed to some degree. Despite the minor frictions that arose among them, the factory workers loved and respected one another; they addressed each other with kind words, ending sentences with a gentle "please". They would compete to offer coffee and tea. Even if a few rough patches emerged from time to time, they knew how to stand as one when the moment called, even going on strike against the boss for better wages. The homeless man was a quiet soul; he would watch them, joining his footsteps with the rest of the workers.

Children used to visit the factory too... For those who missed their parents working overtime after school hours, the factory was a playground. When certain machines shut down early, nothing could match the joy of playing hide-and-seek among them. The homeless man was fond of the children too. Behind his stern and hardened exterior, his eyes held a profound warmth. With a broom in hand, he would wander through the massive factory floor. Cleaning up the remnants left behind by the machinists, the pressers, and all the other workers—that was how he spent his days. Nobody knew if he was married or single. Who knows? Perhaps there was a wound in his heart, left behind in the homeland long ago. Surely that sorrow hadn't touched his eyes for no reason.

How the years passed, what the quiet man went through, or what befell him remains a mystery. Every story has its character; some steal, cheat, defraud, and betray, yet the moment they throw on a suit and their pockets are full, everything is swept under the carpet. Others speak constantly of honesty, honour, courage, labour, and love, yet no one ever hears their voice. Still, many words are spoken once a person is gone. Societies are hypocritical. The loud cries of forgiveness at the funeral are replaced by entirely different sentences in whispered conversations. It is ugly! It is double-faced. There are far too many who choose to ignore the real villains walking among us. Wealth covers every flaw! It is incredibly difficult to piece together the quiet man’s story. He had reached a point where he even turned away extended hands, refusing to be beholden to anyone. In the end, he settled at the bus shelter right outside the factory where he used to work alongside his relatives in London, treating it as his final stop, saying, "Thank goodness death exists."

One morning, while everyone was rushing off to work or school, one of the commuters at the bus shelter—one of those who used to share a smile with the quiet man—noticed he had been unresponsive for days. They called for help. Then, a headline in the news: "Homeless man who lived at a bus shelter for months has passed away." They noted that a woman had offered him food and drink, but he had refused it. Clearly, whether consciously or not, he had surrendered himself to death.

A glimpse of a life, a human existence, summed up just like that. Compressed into a few paragraphs, turned into a tiny anecdote. How heartbreaking! For days, social media was filled with posts about a homeless man dying at the bus shelter where he had been staying. Of course, people feel sad about such deaths and share them with the tap of a button. They even question how, in this day and age, in such a supposedly "advanced" era, a human being can die on the streets. I, too, was deeply saddened. Frankly, seeing his photograph threw me into a sudden time travel back to the late '80s, to the factory where my mother used to work, and my grief deepened. I must say, I carry the sorrows of strangers in my chest too; sometimes it takes days to shake off the impact, and I live with constant questions about what can be done. Yet when you actually knew the person, when they crossed paths with your life, the grief takes on an entirely different weight.

Do you think this painful incident is the last? How many people truly extend a hand to souls like him? The state? Society? Social institutions? Solidarity charities? Mosques, churches, or Alevi temples? Who in this society loves, welcomes, employs, houses, or feeds those with empty pockets and tattered clothes? HOW MANY? The truth is, we have long since lost our emotions, and even our better nature, within this broken wheel. Everyone is consumed by their own hardships, their own frantic rush. And so the world keeps turning.