The ones we never see.

I noticed them yesterday. First their filthy clothes, then their tattered shoes. I noticed their sweaty faces and their bent backs. They had probably been walking the same path for years but this was the first time I really saw them. I instinctively reached for the button that retracts my side mirrors. Then I felt ashamed. Ashamed because they weren't even looking in my direction. Ashamed because they didn't seem to care who I was or what I drove. They didn't care what I did or what I looked like. Ashamed because I felt that even in their situation, they still looked down on me. Down on my privileged life. They trudged on like I didn't even matter.

But we have all heard the stories and read the papers. One moment, a person is innocently standing at a post and then someone came behind them and stole something from them. A side mirror, a wallet, a purse, a phone, maybe even a watch. So instinctively we assume it is the dirty looking chap crossing our path. But as I looked at these men walking past me, I realised, they were not like the thieves and the robbers. They worked hard. They pushed at life to live. They trudged on in hope. They had families to feed back home, children to raise. Every little they did mattered. The walk, the work, everything.

Their eyes told a story. A story of a life I could never be able to lead. A life of hardness and sadness. A life of hope and hard work. A life so deep that mind could not comprehend. They were not like mine or like the people I passed at the bus stop. They were not like the eyes of the motorist trying to bully them off the road. They were eyes that had seen more than any eyes should. More than my eyes could ever take. They were eyes that understood life and embraced difficulty.

My heart stopped, time moved slower. It felt like I should have paid them homage as they passed. Hard working people just going about their business. Like I should get out and walk with them. See what they see, walk where they walked, listen to the silence of their lives. It felt like it would help me understand the secrets of the universe. Their shoes were well-worn. They had walked. I felt ashamed about my clean shoes. Shoes that had not seen life. Shoes that I had sheltered from the elements. Shoes that I would toss away in a few months.

Their movements did not show the cares that I had. They did not care about fuel prices or landlords. They did not care about the crush of the economy or the budget speech. They did not care about the infrastructure and electricity. Their movements showed that they did not care about the clothes they wore or the shoes on their feet. They probably only had 2 sets of clothes. Work clothes and church clothes. And even then that was still too much. They cared about more important things. They cared about an honest days work. They made sure today counted. They understood the value of a shilling. They understood what it could do. Billions meant nothing to them. But the shilling.....that shilling......meant everything. They worked for it and they worked at it. It was never to be taken for granted.

They passed me like shadows in the evening dusk. Like mirages on the desert sand. Slowly, wearily, tiredly. The kilometres they'd walked could not be compared to anything I had ever done. The work I did could not hold a candle to their experiences. They passed me because they knew who they were. They looked down upon us in our cars, with our suits holding our thermo-cups, because they knew we could never understand what life was. They passed by because they knew, even though we may pretend not to see them, they don't care enough to see us either.