Whispers Through Thin Walls Mar 9, 2024

20th November 2023

Privacy is a luxury we lack in the shelter where I live now. Tents huddle together, their fragile walls mere trampoline sheets or blankets. These feeble partitions fail to block sounds or even the rhythm of breaths. Conversations seep through, uninvited guests in our shared shelter. We know our neighbors’ lives—their plans, their quarrels.

The thin tent walls compel neighbors to know every detail about you: what you eat, drink, how often you visit the toilet, and even when you’re fortunate enough to take a bath. They are forced to listen to mobile conversations and are privy to all the details.

The act of changing my clothes became a nightly ordeal. I harbored a constant fear that unseen eyes observed me from beyond the flimsy trampoline sheets that partitioned our living space. To shield myself, I would nestle between layers of blankets and flour sacks, seeking a semblance of privacy. For the initial ten days, I clung to my unchanged clothes until the unmistakable scent of my own body forced me to confront the reality—I had become unbearably smelly, at least I thought so.

Once, a dispute arose with my two sisters, we prepared spaghetti. I contributed to the cooking, but washing the two plates remained someone else’s duty. My sister persisted, urging me to rise and clean them. I turned a deaf ear to her nagging. Then, from the neighboring tent, a voice cut through: “Will you wash them, or shall I do it myself?”