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Description
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The police chief told me that 25 dead bodies had been found in the streets in the last half year in this town of only 3,000 inhabitants. Every single night I could hear gunshots. Every morning there was a row of shabby individuals along the road who’d been knocked down and robbed of everything the night before and were now trying to hitchhike out of town.
But many never got out of this slave camp. What came to interest me most was not the dead bodies but the live ones—people in whom everything was extinct. These exhausted wretches, who’d managed to survive by working hard seven days a week, had slowly succumbed and were now just lying around waiting to die. At night they slept in the streets. One of them is squeezed in between the Pepsi and the Coca-Cola machines.
Immokalee, FL - April 7th 1974
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