THE UNWANTED ONES OF THE “PERFECT” STORY

The modern world resembles a vast, relentlessly flowing highway whose lights never go out. Everyone is in a hurry. Everyone must reach somewhere, achieve something, or at least appear to have achieved it. Right at the heart of this dizzying speed, Mary Douglas’s unsettling question echoes in our ears like the screech of sudden brakes:
“Whom does society render invisible?”

The answer is far more ruthless than we might expect:
Society renders invisible those who slow it down.

In today’s world, being poor, falling ill, or experiencing pain is not merely a misfortune—it is treated as a kind of offense committed against the system. The poor disrupt the view when they stand in front of that glittering display window. The sick represent a malfunction in the carefully scripted scenario of a “healthy and dynamic” life. Those who suffer are like unwanted spoilers in our cheerful Instagram feeds. In order to keep the grand success story we have meticulously constructed from faltering, we push everything that stutters, lags, or aches out of the frame.

When Mary Douglas states that “dirt is matter out of place,” she is, in fact, describing precisely this process of social cleansing. A homeless man standing at the entrance of a luxury shopping mall is perceived as “dirt” by security guards and customers alike. The issue is not that his clothes are unclean. He is considered dirty because, by standing in that shiny, fast-paced, affluent “place,” he betrays its story. He is not “where he belongs.” He is a disturbing footnote, whispering that the world is not quite as perfect as we pretend it is. And footnotes must be erased immediately—because they slow down the main text.

Here, the cold reality Jean Baudrillard warns us about in The System of Objects comes into play. We no longer relate to people, but to the statuses they signify. If a person is not “functional”—if they do not produce, consume, or accelerate that glittering cycle—they should be set aside like a malfunctioning household appliance. In a universe where objects are sanctified, fragile human beings are unfortunately treated as “outdated models” (a reality that manifests itself far more harshly in the academic world).

Think about it: why do we instinctively quicken our pace while walking through the busiest streets of the city? Why do we avert our gaze and cling to our phones when we see someone lying on the ground? Because if we stop, the story will be disrupted. If we stop, that person’s pain will tear away a piece of our comfort. Poverty and sorrow are perceived in the modern mind like contagious diseases. As if touching that grief would crack our simulation of happiness and slow us down.

Yet when we look beyond those shining shop windows with the eyes of truth, we see the real reality: they are the ones who polish those windows. They are the ones who mix the concrete of skyscrapers, sweep the streets, and shoulder the burden of that “perfect” life—yet are forbidden from entering the photograph.

What we call “story-breaking elements” are, in fact, life itself.

Ultimately, the order we have built is nothing but a grand illusion. We cannot eliminate pain, poverty, or illness by rendering them invisible or pushing them to the outskirts of the city. We only numb our own conscience. Because the true speed of a society is not measured by how fast those at the front are running, but by whether it reaches back, takes the hand of the slowest person—the one who stumbles and says, “Wait for me.”

If our story falls apart when we look into the face of someone who is suffering, then let it fall apart. Perhaps that story was a lie from the very beginning.

 

Asst. Prof. Emrah Tüncer