in South Central LA there is an intersection where around 380 people are killed each year, drive-by shootings. The windows of the MC Donald replaced with concrete and bullet holes, the graffiti on the walls an obituary, no trees, 18th street gang.

My clandestine Guinean friends in the Gambia could not pay for the light to shine from the single light-bulb in the ceiling. On the lookout for immigration police. Sleeping on a mattress on the floor, playing music, somtimes for no money and no audience in luxury hotels, I consider them lucky.

Working in front of a mosque in Saint Louise, my Senegalese artisan college lost his shipmates in an attempt to reach the Canary Islands by boat. Only eight survived. I didn’t ask any questions.

In one of Hong Kong’s street markets a man with no legs and hardly any arms left was crawling with a cup in his mouth. At least no one stepped on him.

Some say it’s because of previous actions, most don’t care.