Last year throuout the summer months, actually from April until October, our life was dominated by builders, by their noise, their dirt and their machines. One day they disappeared from our lives as quietly and sneakily as they arrived The scaffolding was removed, gone to the place where poles and rivets rest until their next work.
The voices of workers with their mixed tongues of german, italian, some french and arabic disappeared. The crows and the magpies returned. No longer were there metal objects such as nails and rivets laying between the grass blades in the lawn, it was replaced by grass seed and earth worms: nature returned to claim its rightful place.
One day I was in the garden, and what did I see? A crane was looming above my head. I could only see the top part from my garden. Were they returning, would they be back? No, it was in another part of the village. This was not a complete renovation of an already existing building as was in our case.
This was the building of a new building. The old one had served its purpose, had been demolished, and in its place there would be new, more modern, better isolated house, with the newest norms, because it is all due to the norms. Norm is the word of the future. I took a walk in the village, rejoicing in the cows mooing in a nearby field, welcoming the rural pleasure of silence and then I heard it. The drone of a turning crane.
As I turned a corner I saw it. Where there was once a nice house, not more than 20 years old, there was an empty space and a hole in the ground. The foundations were being laid for yet another new house, but this time a building containing 7 appartments. How do I know this? This morning I read in the local news that protest had been made about this new building. It was too big, too massive for our little village. A new house, perhaps with two appartments, would have been more appropriate. Neighbours living in the area have filed a protest with the local gods, but the local gods have turned it down, saying there is no reason to stop the building of this new block.
As I walked on further in my part of the village, I noticed one comfortable house after the other, populated by families of doctors, lawyers, businessmen and dentists, or just those that were born with what it needs. Each house has its own garden, a garage to accomodate the BMW and the wife’s mini. There might even be a pole holding a basket ball net, perhaps even a goal construction for the boy’s football practice. Every garden a neat little paradise in its own right. You might see a scaffolding here and there where the facade of the house was having a new coat of paint.
I belong to the lower class of inhabitants of the village, I live in an appartment house. There are 13 appartments alltogether, but newly painted and renovated. Life is good if you can afford it.