New Shores says the sign over the entrance. Hard to see in black and white. Everything here is shabby. Even the name of the street sounds like dirt: Potse The word clings to the roof of my mouth, sticks between my teeth like old cheese. The area used to be gay, today it is veiled. I still remember, I lift the camera and attract disapproving glances. Contact lenses, Oriental textiles, the aforesaid other shores and the MobileHouse. Naked trees frame the misery. I did not come back gladly. Stayed standing on the other side of the street, didn’t dare to cross. Didn’t want to gaze through the window. To take a look at the winter suffering.

One evening, my colleague R., a cameraman I had worked with frequently, and I went into a gay café in S., a nightlife district of B. We were hungry and tired after work. We had a bite to eat, drank a beer and left. In front of the café we were addressed by a man, who presumably was of Turkish descent. First he asked us trivial questions about the quality of the coffee, but his tone became increasingly sharper, until he began mocking us as homosexuals. We told him that our sexual orientation was no business of his. At this, he pulled his knife and began thrusting it toward us. R., who was taller and stronger than me, was able to repel him at first. But the man wouldn’t leave us alone and started following us. He called some friends on his phone and threatened to kill us. We wanted to avoid a fight and fled. He got within a couple metres of us again and swung his knife. He cursed us and all gay people. Prior to this I had celebrated my 26th birthday.

T

On the street in B.-S., leaving a gay café together with R., a man presumably of Turkish descent pulls his knife and threatens to kill us, age 26