Daily life
The city stretched before him, a concrete jungle that both repelled and sustained Fred. His 67-year-old body, a roadmap of weathered leather etched with the harsh lines of hardship, ached with each step. Two hours. That’s what it took, a grueling, two-hour walk fueled by sheer will, to reach the sliver of civilization that offered him a day’s work. Car guard. A simple title that belied the grueling reality of standing for endless hours, a human scarecrow warding off imaginary birds from nonexistent crops.
Hunger gnawed at his insides, a constant companion. Malnourishment had etched its own map on his face, the hollowness of his cheeks belying the fierce spirit that still burned within. Scars, both physical and emotional, were another map on his body. Jagged lines on his legs, brutal souvenirs from past encounters with the underbelly of the city, whispered tales of stolen dignity. His hands, gnarled and calloused, spoke of a life spent clinging to survival, a testament to the battles fought and scars earned.
Yet, Fred walked. Every sunrise, fueled by a stubborn flicker of defiance, he set his feet on the unforgiving pavement. The walk back, another two hours under the unforgiving sun, mirrored the journey there. Each step a testament to his resilience, each groan of his body a silent scream.
Peace? Not in the traditional sense. There was no tranquility in his life, no haven from the constant struggle. But there was a quiet, unyielding determination. A fierce refusal to surrender, to become another faceless statistic swallowed by the city’s indifference.
Fred might be broken, his body a testament to a life of hardship, but his spirit, battered but not defeated, found a strange kind of solace in the quiet act of simply surviving. He walked, not for comfort, not for peace, but for the right to exist, another day, another sunrise, another battle won.
Physical and mental health
The concrete absorbed the heat of the day, seeping it relentlessly into Fred’s 67-year-old bones. Yet, the real inferno raged within. The border, a desolate wasteland stained crimson in his memory, haunted his every waking moment. Each sunrise brought a fresh onslaught of PTSD, a cruel general marshaling nightmares into firefights and filling his days with the ghosts of long-dead gunfire.
Dawid’s voice, a desperate yell cut short by a sickening thud, remained the most piercing echo. Dawid, his scout, not a childhood friend but a brother forged in the crucible of war, had taken a bullet meant for Fred. The image of him, shot in the back as he tried to warn him, was a brand seared into Fred’s soul. The guilt, a white-hot poker twisting in his gut, offered no respite.
Peace? Peace was a cruel joke, a foreign language Fred’s shattered mind couldn’t comprehend. The chirp of birds, a mockery of the staccato of gunfire, could barely soothe the storm within. When he closed his eyes, he didn’t see Dawid alive and laughing, just the lifeless body sprawled on the unforgiving sand.
Hope. It was a flickering ember, choked by the relentless wind of his trauma. Yet, a primal instinct to survive, the same instinct that kept him alive on the border, clung desperately to that ember. Every sunrise was a battle, every night a descent into a personal hell. But Fred, a broken warrior, kept fighting, not for peace, but for a single moment of quiet, a sliver of respite in the relentless storm.
a Soldier forgotten
The city lights bled into the inky blackness, a million tiny eyes indifferent to the ache in Fred’s 67-year-old bones. Each creak and groan of his body was a stark reminder of a youth sacrificed, a youthful innocence shattered on the unforgiving crucible of the border war. He’d marched off a bright-eyed teenager, fueled by a naive patriotism, determined to protect the future of his beloved South Africa.
Now, the future he’d fought for felt like a cruel joke. Here he was, an old, broken man, reduced to guarding cars for scraps in a city that seemed to have forgotten him entirely. The irony gnawed at him, a constant dull ache in his chest. He’d given up his youth, his innocence, even parts of his humanity in the brutal dance of war. Brothers in arms, the vibrant young men he’d shared foxholes and dreams with, were just ghosts in his memory – a constant reminder of the price he’d paid.
Peace? Peace was a luxury he couldn’t afford. The anger, the bitterness, they were a simmering pot threatening to boil over. But beneath the surface, a quiet despair had settled in. The feeling of being utterly forgotten by the country he’d bled for was a weight heavier than his weary limbs could bear.
Yet, in the quiet of the night, huddled beneath a thin blanket, a strange kind of peace would sometimes descend. It wasn’t a blissful peace, but a weary acceptance. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he wasn’t a forgotten veteran, but a young soldier again. He saw the sunrise paint the sky in hues of hope, the camaraderie in the eyes of his fellow soldiers, the shared dream of a brighter future.
That dream, fractured and tarnished, still flickered within him. It wasn’t enough to erase the pain, the anger, the feeling of being abandoned. But in those stolen moments, he found a sliver of solace. He may be forgotten by his country, but he wouldn’t forget the sacrifice, the love he held for his nation. It was a bittersweet peace, a reminder of what he’d lost, but also a testament to the enduring human spirit that refused to be extinguished. He might be broken, but he wasn’t defeated. He held onto the embers of that dream, a flickering testament to a love for his country that even neglect couldn’t fully extinguish.
Fred, The lost boy, The forgotten soldier, The broken man
Titles that resonated more deeply with each passing year, a bitter truth etched into the lines on his weathered face, his body a testament to a life spent fighting, both on the battlefield and against the indifference of his own country.
This is testimony to the rewards reaped by an inspired photographer, whose dedication towards his passion is absolutely inspiring to all perceiving it.
Continue on this road as it will also fullfil your own inner desire to be the best you can.
Amazing work! The photos are top top shelf and your style of writing is inspiring! I hope to be like you when I grow up!
Thanks man, I hope to add more to this project real soon