False occupations, whose main cause is chronic unemployment and deep-rooted poverty in underdeveloped countries (third world), have been plaguing our society for years; pseudo-employment that is neither a legitimate job nor has the support of organizations such as associations, unions, syndicates, etc. that can defend its members. It is neither a job with sufficient income to save its workers from poverty and deprivation, nor does it have the potential to provide a dignified minimum standard of living. It can only be called a temporary shelter. A job for people who struggle to survive in the chaos of a dysfunctional society. Street vendors and itinerant (false) occupations are lower class individuals who are the result of an unhealthy and non-competitive economic system that has created a horrific class divide. They are not responsible for creating this unnatural and unbearable situation, and their lives are tragically consumed by the struggle to make a living and meet basic human needs; unfortunate individuals who are crushed and destroyed by the social

Here, the question arises as to where the root of all these problems, deficiencies, inadequacies, and discriminations should be sought. Despite all the responsible parties for social, economic and cultural affairs, with all the wide and long institutions and administrations with large national budgets, what actions or programs do they have for the marginalized and vulnerable segments of society who have been pushed to the margins?

Generally, which department or institution is responsible for providing services to the large number of hungry people? Unfortunately, no institution has taken responsibility for these matters and each one is passing the ball to another. I go to a few of the itinerant vendors, who unfortunately are increasing in number every day; impoverished individuals who wander the streets and alleys with their pickup trucks, motorcycles with sidecars, and wheelbarrows. The loud sound of the pickup truck echoes through the alley: eggplants, tomatoes, potatoes… A young man wearing Kurdish pants parks in the middle of the alley, takes off his dirty white mask and wipes his face.

Hello; good evening. How is work and business? He says, “Not good. The income and expenses don’t match.” He takes a handkerchief out of his pocket, wipes his face. He introduces himself as Amir. He says, “Until a few years ago, I was working at a company. Unfortunately, it closed down. Ten of us became unemployed. I had to resort to selling and wandering around. The cost of the car is overwhelming. And this is just the beginning. The authorities don’t allow us to park in busy and suitable places. They have taken my scale a few times; they even towed my car from the parking lot twice. I have paid a lot of fines and parking fees. All my fruits and vegetables have gone bad.” A middle-aged woman leans out of her house window and protests to the van driver and says loudly, “We can’t rest because of you. The loudspeaker of your dead owner has taken away our sleep and rest

I am going to another one of the mobile vendors, this time an old man with a young boy standing behind the van. The old man introduces himself. He says, “All my possessions are in this van. I am going to the fruit and vegetable market. I will bring a few crates and my son and I will walk around the streets until late at night and if the city officials and enforcers don’t confiscate my car, we might make some money. I have to support a family of eight. The car insurance, maintenance and spare parts, gas and oil, etc. If I bring in these expenses, I am doing well. I have no retirement insurance, but car insurance is mandatory. This ironclad insurance wants me to pay, but with my age, no way!” The old man’s hand trembles. I don’t know if it’s from the cold or if he has Parkinson’s.

This time I arrive at one of the city parks. I see an old man who has spread some potatoes and onions at the entrance of the park. The old man coughs repeatedly. He takes out a spray from his jacket pocket and takes a few puffs. I sympathize with him. He says, “My children have gone to live their own lives. I don’t expect anything from anyone. They are also busy with their own livelihoods, they have wives and children. I am left with a sick and paralyzed old woman whose medication and treatment are very expensive. I bring a handful of onions and potatoes, which doesn’t even cover the cost of one meal for us. I have to wait here in the heat and cold for a customer, maybe someone passing by will buy some potatoes from me. I can no longer afford to take care of the sick and pay for their expenses…” He continues, “The relief committee gives us a small amount every month. It’s not enough with

This time I am going to one of the busy and main streets of the city. Part of the street has been turned into a pedestrian walkway and the municipality has placed barriers to stop the flow of cars. The walkway is crowded with street vendors. They have spread their blankets next to each other, each occupying a few square meters. They are selling all kinds of items such as shirts, pants, hats, gloves, men’s and women’s clothing, dried fruits, toys, glassware, cosmetics and hygiene products. Their voices echo in the sky. There is a constant buzz. People are moving slowly. A young woman catches my attention. I say “hello” to her. She is selling women’s underwear. She has spread her blanket on a plastic sheet. “Excuse me, how long have you been doing this?” I ask. She replies, “Two years, since my husband passed away. I have two children to take care of. I have to provide for them

A few women are gathering around a spread. I distance myself from them. I take a few steps up. A middle-aged man is smoking. He is standing by his tray. Some walnuts and almonds are scattered on his wooden tray. I greet and ask about his well-being. He flicks his cigarette filter under his foot. I inquire about his work and business.

He says, “Thank God I’m alive. If the enforcement officers let us be, we’ll be fine, but they only come to us once an hour. We have to quickly gather our belongings or else they’ll throw everything in the car and take us away. And if we try to run away, we’ll end up in the hands of the big police chiefs. If we get too close to the street, the traffic officers will catch us. The traffic police say we’ve caused roadblocks and traffic. God forbid, I’m not at ease with them for a day.” Under his breath, he says something. He shakes his head. He lights another cigarette and falls silent.

A young man with two bags in his hands arrives. He quickly tells one of the vendors, “This is my spot. I’ve been here for a few months now,” and they start arguing. The other one says, “Did your father leave it to you as an inheritance or did you buy it like a proper man?”

Their voices are gradually getting louder. They are becoming more united. Some of their colleagues are standing in between. They are hitting each other with their fists and feet. They are exchanging vulgar insults and throwing water at each other. I can’t handle this. I walk away from there.