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| Is this a metaphor or something? |
We drive by the Place St. Pierre, and I am surprised by the brown, compacted, desolate parts, where the people have been paid by the mayor to leave (and go where?). The occupied parts are as dense as ever, raggedly concealed from the street. Catching a glimpse through the outer barrier, I see a little open area with children and a woman, crouching down in her underclothes. It is starting to get hot again, but I wonder if she knows she can be seen, whether it even matters in the context of her situation. All these people, so tightly packed together, with crude doors that cannot be locked. Their privacy is violated on an hourly basis.
