“It’s been sometime that I’ve been in the camp,
or better, that I’ve been going to their camp.
I try to observe them, but without a mechanical eye.”
Nomads have been an interesting subject since forever, they represent an attraction, they stimulate our thirst for understanding and research. How much land did those men touch, how much more will those bare feet touch? Feet that do not cherist asphalt, that do not want a pavement. Feet that do not want designer shoes, nor water, nor soap. They do not want. Maybe. We will never know and it is certainly not up to us to seek the truth of a people that has decided to belong to the world. Stateless in their souls, going wherever the changing seasons give them an ideal weather, they are the masters of time. All of this twists conventions since it is difficult to understand, inconvenient to accept, convoluted to encode. Definitely it is unacceptable for the sedentary culture, complicated to handle for the Western governments. What do they hide, those faces who try to pose behind a camera, but instead get caught in their most intimate and truthful expressions? What are the houses, the everyday sense of duty, what is the sense of time passing by? What is that suspended time hiding through a people that made of time its own sword of liberty and of moving its own credo?
“ There’s a child who is following me.
He constantly observes me.”
Eyes watching. Everything. Eyes that do not ask. Hard eyes like rocks. Swift eyes like the wind. Eyes that have seen many worlds many cultures. Very close relatives of ours who did not accept and do not accept the rules imposed by the structured world made of borders and search for truth through the market laws. Eyes from ancient times which remember that we came from there too, from that remote place always changing from season to season: Central Asia, Aborigines, and Native Americans. We were Nomads as well, our fathers, our ancestors. Those same eyes that today frighten us since they surrendered too to the charm of the material world, losing their gipsy poetry by soiling their hands and passing the dark threshold of the illicit. But maybe it is not their fault: we reciprocally steal from each that which is most dear to us: they steal our material goods, we steal their freedom. Nevertheless, these people have codes, honor, ethics, and culture coming from their past, which made their sense of belonging to every landscape of the world their weapon of liberty: the earth is always the same. Maybe its color might change, its shade, its salt. But the earth is the earth.