I take photographs. Some I take because a certain sight strikes me as visually arresting, an arrangement that would make an interesting composition. Some I take so I can simply remember the details of a place—the colours, the textures, the objects—so when I look back on it, I have evidence of how things were. This Izmir neighbourhood is a place whose details I want to remember. And although I wish I had brought my Fuji XT2 with me and could make compositions at my leisure, I know that flaunting my camera as an outsider in an impoverished neighbourhood like this may make others uncomfortable. So I use my cellphone to discretely capture the layout of an abandoned building or a dog resting in front of a shop. A woman appears on the balcony of her apartment and is gently letting down a white bucket attached to rope. Below a man in a black jacket watches the bucket descend and then fills it with some content I cannot identify, and as the woman pulls the bucket back up, I covertly snap a photo of the operation and continue moving.

Commotion intrudes upon the space. Just like that. Sudden and robust. Yelling and arguing follow me. At a distance though. I keep walking. My cellphone safely ensconced in my pocket. This cannot be about me. So I move, face forwards, eyes directly on the street. How could it be about me? I am only a tourist a Turkey. One of millions. Ahead of me, a shopkeeper sweeps the entrance to his store.  When the shouting draws his attention, he looks back to the drama unfolding behind me and then points to me and back to the drama. I turn and see a man in a black jacket waving at me, imploring me to return to him. Like a dog. This I will not do. I ignore him and keep walking. So I took a photo. Big fucking deal. I made sure that the persons could not be identified. I wanted an image of the operation, the bucket ascending, not of those who operated it.  

I cross a street, turn left, and then turn right. The shouting subsides, and I wonder about his anger, whether justified or not, about my behaviour, whether ethical or not. A stranger with a camera is a difficult moral terrain to navigate. He might ask why do you take photos in my neighbourhood. To remember, you might respond. To remember what? The details. The man in the black jacket might then laugh. The details of what? The broken window? The chipped bricks? The shuttered businesses? The men and women going through the trash bins searching for recyclables? Theses aren’t details, he might then say. These are lives, and this is a neighbourhood. A proud one. And how should you know, stranger? Because I have tracked you down on this sunny morning. I haven’t let you go without imparting to you something valuable your camera could never capture: We have nothing, and we have everything.

A few minutes later, the shouting returns. Passersby look at the direction of the words and then at me, automatically making a connection between the two. I cannot outwalk this confrontation. His resiliency is impressive, if a little worrying, at least where my wellbeing is concerned. I turn and see him stepping towards me. He has been running and is dishevelled and out of breath. He is a big. I can tell he knows how to throw his weight around to maximize efficiency. If he is willing to chase down a stranger in the street for taking an unauthorized photograph, what has he done, or be willing to do, to people who have committed far more egregious offenses in his mind’s eye. I am calm as he approaches and remove my earphones as a sign of respect. I will listen to what he has to say, even though I will not understand. My ear catches one word in the torrent of Turkish he unleashes upon me: photo. He wants an explanation for my photograph. I know this, but I also know he will never get one. He is visibly angry, but I am surprisingly serene. I cannot explain why his aggression does not unsettle me more, but I do not fear him. Perhaps my cavalier attitude results from the sentence I am about to say: I am sorry, but I do not understand you. The words stop him in his tracks. Water over a fire. English diffuses him. Confusion settles over him. Where once a hot sun burned, now only light clouds hang. He takes stock of the situation, internally calculating whether I am worth the effort to pursue. I give him the seconds he needs to decide. Does he wish to escalate this? How does he wish to proceed? My look is barren. I am tundra. I am in his world, awaiting his response. And after all that—all that shouting and chasing and carrying about—he just mutters something under his breath, an insult likely, and waves me away. And away I go, without quickening my step