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Iraqi refugees in Turkey | by Landahlauts
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Iraqi refugees in Turkey

İstanbul, Türkiye

 

The Nobodies

Fleas dream of buying a dog

and the nobodies dream of getting out from under their poverty,

that some magic day

suddenly good fortune will rain upon them

that it will downpour bucket-fulls of good luck.

But good luck doesn’t rain today

or tomorrow or ever,

not even a little drizzle falls from the sky.

No matter how much the nobodies cry for it

and even when their left hand itches

or they get up on the right foot,

or when they start the year getting a new broom.

 

The nobodies: the sons of no one,

the owners of nothing.

The nobodies: treated as no one,

running after the carrot, dying their lives, fucked,

double-fucked.

 

Who are not, even when they are.

Who don’t speak languages, but rather dialects.

Who don’t follow religions,

but rather superstitions.

Who don’t do art, but rather crafts.

Who don’t practice culture, but rather folklore.

Who are not human,

but rather human resources.

Who have no face but have arms,

who have no name, but rather a number.

Who don’t appear in the universal history books,

but rather in the police pages of the local press.

The nobodies,

the ones who are worth less

than the bullet that kills them.

 

The Nobodies, by Eduardo Galeano

 

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Taken on August 26, 2014