WHOSE CITY
Debra Efroymson
I meet my Rastafarian orphan friend in Colombo outside of a shopping mall. As we stroll along the street I have walked along so many times, he repeatedly expresses his discomfort. He points at all the fancy shops and restaurants. “The beach is for me. This place, this is for rich people.” I point out a simpler restaurant but he shakes his head; he still does not feel that he has any right to go in, though he has not eaten all day. It is the first time I’ve seen the street through his eyes and finally the idea of “right to the city” makes sense to me—and how cities can send clear messages to many of the inhabitants that they simply do not belong.
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