On: 'Less than human': how unhoused people in Atlanta are being treated during the...
The heat in Atlanta is no different from the heat in Delhi during the height of summer - thick, suffocating, a weight upon the lungs - but here the air smells of asphalt and desperation rather than spices and dust. I have seen cities dress themselves in their finest for the sake of visitors, but never have I seen a city so deliberately strip its own skin from its bones to present a polished facade. The World Cup has come, as it does every four years, and with it the ancient rite of hospitality turned inside out: the guest is welcomed, but the stranger who has no coin to offer is not merely ignored - he is erased.
In Timbuktu, when a traveler arrives without means, the people do not turn him away. They offer him a mat by the fire, a bowl of rice, and a question: What news do you bring? The value is not in what he can pay, but in what he can share. Here, the stranger is not a bearer of news - he is a stain upon the spectacle. The police do not ask his name; they call him less than human, and in doing so, they reveal the true nature of the hospitality they practice. It is not hospitality at all. It is theater.
I walked through the streets near the stadium, where the air hums with the sound of construction cranes and the distant roar of a crowd. The vendors sell jerseys and scarves, their prices marked in dollars that gleam like polished gold. A man slept beneath a bridge, wrapped in a blanket that had once been blue. No one disturbed him - not out of kindness, but because the spectacle had no use for him. He was not part of the story being told.
In Delhi, the poor are poor, but they are not invisible. The beggars sit at the feet of the temples, and the merchants curse them but do not drive them away. Here, the poor are not even allowed to sit. They are swept aside, as one sweeps aside dust before a feast. The feast is not for them. It is for those who can afford to forget that they exist.
The World Cup is a great gathering, but it is not a gathering of equals. It is a gathering of those who have been chosen to be seen, and those who have been chosen to be unseen. The irony is that the more a city tries to shine, the more it reveals what it has tried to hide. Atlanta shines tonight, but its light casts long shadows. And in those shadows, the world can see its own reflection.