Going Home – 8AM
When I awoke the next morning, I gathered my belongings and headed for the door. A tray of muffins were near the exit – I took one. This was my breakfast. Last night’s sleep was a bit unusual for me, because I am used to sleeping on hard surfaces now. Aside from a few groans of pain made by one of the occupants and the change from concrete to feather; I slept reasonably well.
Nevertheless, it was now time for me to go home. My project was successfully completed. To be more precise, only a part of this mission is now complete. The next step is to translate my entire experience into words and re-create what I saw, felt and heard. Making the transition from experience to language is a near impossible one, but I will do my best to convert reality into symbols.
I used public transportation to get home. Before boarding the bus, I pulled my bus-pass out of my pocket to show the driver. I am officially the old Nima Farzaneh again. I am not sure if the last statement is true, because this new experience gave me a new appreciation and perspective.
When I opened the door to my apartment, I sat down and started meditating. Not long into it, I broke down into tears. Why are some of the homeless mistreated for things they had no control over? And why are there so many injustices against the people who were nothing but kind to me?
Seeing people go through severe mental or physical pains every day of their lives, while accepting this mistreatment, disheartened me. They have come to accept this as their reality, but why does it have to this way? While we cause a lot of their pain and grief – due to our judgmental behavior towards them – this disease is easily preventable. The cure is to become more open-minded and accept people of all races, wealth status or disabilities – physical or mental.
Once I was able to control my out pour of emotions, I was thankful for being kept safe over the past seven days. I was in the right place at the right time. This perfect timing gave me the ability to write such a compelling story of the Downtown Eastside, one of the poorest communities in North America. After visiting my mother, I will contact all media outlets for publicity, because these stories and experiences can’t be kept silent.