Sometimes, in the most unexpected corners, we encounter unusual people. Some we forget as quickly as we meet them, others leave a trace that time can’t erase. These people we cross paths with in the ordinary flow of life may carry extraordinary stories. But sometimes it's the reverse: people with unremarkable lives surprise us with depth that lingers long after we meet. After all, every life story is unique – no two are the same, and none should be judged. Whether grand or humble, each human story is real, rare and deserving of respect. Some, however, cry out to be told, and shared with the world. Mr. S., who wishes to remain anonymous, has one such story.

The weather in Istanbul has been fantastic lately. Last Saturday was no exception – cool, sunny and dry. The usually crowded streets were unusually empty. The reason was clear: we Turks are convinced that seasonal changes bring sickness, and when the weather suddenly cools, we retreat indoors, rescheduling all plans. As a result, Istanbul, a city of nearly 16 million, takes on a different feel during these transitions.

Mr. S.'s story unfolded on a Saturday like this. Quite by accident, we found each other in a part of Istanbul best left unnamed, to avoid stepping on anyone's toes. It was a posh neighborhood where alcoholics, punks, haters, weirdos and more alike roam. If you've visited the city, you can easily picture such locales – places that might feel both calming and jarring to outsiders, though perfectly familiar to those who call them home.

When we come across a curious story, some of us can't help but jump in. We feel compelled to engage, to say something. If you'd seen Mr. S., you'd understand why. From the first glance, it was clear he had a story worth hearing. I was sipping my takeout coffee when I spotted him, leaning against a railing, staring out at the sea. I approached, breaking the silence with a casual comment, "Isn't the sea beautiful?" His response to my shallow remark was a deep, silent gaze. He said nothing and turned back to the horizon. The next question came naturally, "We all need those sailboats out there for a bit of joy in life, don’t we?" That’s when Mr. S. finally spoke. "Riding a sailboat is classist, my friend," he said, "Riding a sailboat is classist."

After a few awkward minutes of silence, probing questions and his cryptic, wise responses, I finally managed to get Mr. S. – this enigmatic figure – to open up. It didn’t take long to realize that he was a hobo. Yes, a genuine hobo from Türkiye. A penniless, adventurous and fearless vagabond — living right here, in 2024, in the heart of Istanbul.

Hobo culture is very American. This sociological phenomenon, which emerged among the lowest strata of society in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, left its mark on an era. Since hoboism represents a way of life, it couldn't simply disappear from the world. Although it waned with increasing prosperity, the spirit of the hobo has remained.

In simple terms, a hobo is a homeless person, a tramp or a vagrant. These individuals spend their lives in search of work and adventure. The very culture, which peaked during the Great Depression, was characterized by those who roamed the country, often traveling illegally on freight trains. The number of hobos surged in times of economic hardship, injustice or sometimes just out of sheer adventurousness. Their influence on music, literature and culture as a whole was substantial.

Bob Dylan, for example, spent part of his youth as a hobo, and his early albums are infused with this culture. As he rose to fame, Dylan appeared to distance himself from his hobo roots, a shift that drew criticism from some fans. He later reconnected with his past in more authentic albums. To some, he is still a hobo, maybe simply because of the honest narratives in his early songs, like "Only a Hobo."

"A blanket of newspaper covered his head

As the curb was his pillow, the street was his bed

One look at his face showed the hard road he’d come

And a fistful of coins showed the money he bummed."

Mr. S. has memories as unique as the story told by the 22-year-old Dylan. Decades ago, he was a stowaway on the now-trendy Eastern Express, an overnight passenger train that runs from the Turkish capital of Ankara to the snow-covered east and back. At train stations, he tells, the curbs were his pillow and the streets were his bed.

Born in 1954 in a village in southern Türkiye’s Osmaniye, Mr. S. had a hardworking and intelligent childhood, despite growing up in poverty. As a young man, he attended high school, which in the late 1960s Türkiye was seen as a pathway to a promising future. However, Mr. S. never completed his education. After his father was murdered, he had to abandon his studies to support his mother and two sisters. Life was hard, and in a rural area in the south, it was harder. Thus began his working life – "a pivotal turning point" that set him on "the path to becoming a hobo." From that moment on, "nothing" in his life "would be the same," except for the unshakable emotions that freedom brings.

"Yes, dear Batuhan, you are speaking to a hobo. This hobo’s story is filled with pain and hunger," Mr. S. was saying. At a glance, hobos may seem to live an interesting life, but the other side of the coin is quite heartbreaking.

In Mr. S.’ words, this truth was expressed candidly. "Poverty and destitution know no race, language or religion. All the world's poor reflect a single social class. Suffering is both universal and unjust across all geographies," he said. You could feel the hardship he experienced.

Statistics back Mr. S.’s arguments. Poverty is beyond borders. In an October 2024 report, the World Bank revealed that 44% of the entire world’s population lives on less than $6.85 a day, and 8.5% – around 700 million people – survive on less than $2.15 a day, primarily in Sub-Saharan Africa and conflict zones. Since the coronavirus pandemic, economic growth has slowed, widening income gaps, especially in International Development Association (IDA) countries, where many are now poorer than before COVID-19.

In a recent report, the U.N. echoes the World Bank, warning that if current patterns persist, an estimated 7% of the global population from every continent could still be trapped in "extreme poverty" by 2030.

It was clear that Mr. S. was well aware of global poverty statistics. The more he spoke, the more similar details he provided, though those numbers didn't stick in memory. He discussed various statistics, from the total number of bank accounts to mortgage traps. As time went on, the sailboats we had been watching began to come closer. The weather was still beautiful, and Mr. S. started trying to steer the conversation elsewhere, and sure enough, the subject shifted abruptly to wars and refugees.

‘Refugees become hobos’

"Wars rage in distant lands," he said. "They spill into our lives. Refugees become hobos. Families are torn apart. Children carry their memories. They wander, searching for solace. Society turns a blind eye. We forget their humanity. They become statistics," he said.

These declarations were not surprising, but the calm and straightforward way he articulated such heavy truths, along with a bit of literary flair, was impressive.

He continued, "In Ukraine, bombs fall. Families flee. The war creates new hobos. They leave everything behind, searching for safety, for a home. Their stories echo across borders. Will they find refuge? Or will they face more hostility?"

"And," he said, "Let’s speak plainly. Don’t make me explain more – after all, you’re a journalist, and at Daily Sabah, you should know better." He paused, turning his gaze back to the sailboats. "Just look at Gaza. Period."

As I pondered whether I should be more surprised by his familiarity with Daily Sabah or by his association between Gaza and hobos, Mr. S. turned to me, irritation flickering in his tone. "Wars create economic turmoil. Nations collapse under the weight of conflict. The aftermath leaves cities in ruins. Streets become battlegrounds. Resources dwindle. Hope fades. The hobo embodies this despair," he explained.

"Look at that evil (Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin) Netanyahu. He’s one of the reasons I’m living as a hobo at my age," he was angry and said more I cannot print here.

Netanyahu was obviously just a symbol for him. Mr. S. was clearly pointing to what he called "the macro-level global political and economic order," which, in his view, was the root cause of his existence as a "miserable, orphaned old hobo." Then, with a bitter smile, he corrected himself: "Or should I say "disorder"?

Our conversation spanned continents – he jumped from Asia to America, from one thought to another. Just as the sailboats were about to return to the dock, he caught sight of them and remarked, "They now deserve a delicious dinner, don’t they?" And then, in a low voice, he repeated, "Everything is class, everything."

It was clear he was referring to "class struggle," a well-known term often used by Karl Marx and Mihail Bakunin to describe the conflict between social classes – succinctly put, the rich and the poor. It means a struggle arising from economic disparities and exploitation, a conflict that has shaped history and motivated masses to rise up for their rights. For Mr. S., this struggle defined his existence as a "simple" hobo.

Mr. S., as I quickly realized, was a man prone to leaping from topic to topic. His bold statements showed a hidden rebellion, yet beneath it all, he seemed oddly content with his lot. Then, almost as if to anchor his ideas back to reality, he shifted the conversation to Istanbul.

"Think about the streets of this city," he said, his voice firm. "Skid row is a battlefield. Lives shattered by circumstance. Mental health issues pile on. Substance abuse becomes a way out. But it also traps them deeper. They seek warmth in fleeting highs." Now, he was talking about youth in danger in the metropolis.

As we listened to his thoughts, the extraordinary elements of his life began to surface. He was, by all accounts, an exceptional man – an enigma, really. Yet he harbored a distinct disdain for journalists, which was hard to miss. When I told him I wanted to write about him, he laughed and replied, "Don’t use my name or photo. Do whatever you want. I don’t care."

Every life matters, and every hobo has a story to be told. Society must recognize Mr. S. At the age of 70, he is a survivor and teaches us how to find hope in despair. His story is our story. We are bound together by the same thread – the relentless cycle of poverty and war. All are related. As the famous saying goes, no one is safe until everyone is safe; it holds true for everything – simply substitute "safe" with another word. We must listen, and more importantly, we must act. For, in the end, we are all wanderers in this chaotic world.

I hope Mr. S. reads this article – wherever he may be, on whatever train he’s now riding. He must be somewhere on the road. Just like the last thing he said to me, "Never say goodbye on the road."