I’m not from this neighborhood, no.  I’m not here to document or to understand what’s going on. There is magic and there is grief on the semi-rotten streets of this neighborhood. The ground beneath the everlasting trees and buildings of this place, now became invaluable. This place is called Tozkoparan. Named after the winds so powerful they rip off the dust from the ground. These are the same winds that always protected this neighborhood from demolition- until last summer.  Earth diggers came around. The police threw tear gas, they also cut the gas and the lights. Several streets have completely evacuated. Even they eventually managed to terminate this destruction, some of the residents - who are mostly middle-aged lost their lives during resistance. What’s done cannot be undone. Why am I here though? I became a long-time guest of this neighborhood. A guest of my boyfriend and his family, living here for three generations and waiting for the inevitable end. In the meantime, I wander around. As the legal alien I am, I wander and think about the resemblance between here and the Ship Of Theseus. Will this Tozkoparan remain the same Tozkoparan with all its original components replaced?  I am not from this neighborhood, but my pictures are. I’m leaving behind a family album to my hosts, an album of grief and love. I take a final look and ask myself, what will we become after all is done ; this neighborhood and this town?