Someone Being Somewhere They Should Not Be
Abstract
<h2>Someone Being Somewhere They Should Not Be</h2> <p>A longtime acquaintance and former colleague called me in 2020, during the height of the Covid-19 pandemic. He had begun working on a piece exploring how journalists would continue their craft when stepping outside was no longer an option. His concern was specific and personal: how would those who write profiles—those who depend on presence, observation, and subtle human interaction—continue their work in isolation?</p> <p>I remember pausing before responding. He expected clarity, perhaps even reassurance, but I had neither to offer at that moment. Profiles, at their best, are immersive and deeply human. They require proximity. A journalist must sit with a subject, observe their gestures, listen to their tone, and absorb the atmosphere that surrounds them. It is not just writing—it is an act of careful attention, almost a form of empathy practiced in real time.</p> <p>He described it once as compassion in action: the attempt to step into another person’s perspective and reflect it truthfully. Yet now, he found himself confined, unable to access the very environments that gave his work meaning. He was, in every sense, somewhere he was not supposed to be.</p> <p>Despite his profession, he had always been somewhat of a recluse. The irony was not lost on him. To those who had known him growing up, it would have seemed unlikely that he would one day rely on conversations with strangers for a living. Yet, like many people, he had found a way to turn discomfort into purpose. Now, stripped of that purpose, he felt disoriented.</p> <p>What he missed most was not simply conversation, but unpredictability. There is something inherently compelling about being in the presence of another person—the uncertainty of their reactions, the subtle shifts in expression, the unscripted moments that cannot be replicated. No book or film, however powerful, can fully capture the immediacy of real human interaction.</p> <p>During that time, the world felt fragmented. People were separated not just physically, but emotionally. The absence of shared spaces created a silence that was difficult to articulate. For someone whose work depended on observing and interpreting others, this silence was especially profound.</p> <p>I told him that meaningful conversations were still possible, even within the constraints of isolation. Technology, while imperfect, offered a bridge. Interviews could be conducted through phone calls, video platforms, and social media. Skype, Zoom, and other tools could facilitate connection, even if they could not fully replace presence.</p> <p>He listened, but I could sense his hesitation. It was not a question of access, but of authenticity. Could a screen truly convey the nuances of a person? Could a voice over a call capture the atmosphere of a room, the rhythm of a gesture, or the weight of silence between words?</p> <p>In the end, he had no choice but to try. Like many others, he began to adapt. His interviews became shorter, more structured, yet strangely more reflective. Without the distractions of physical space, he found himself focusing more intently on language and tone. Something had been lost, but something else—something quieter—began to emerge.</p> <p>Perhaps being somewhere one should not be is not always about physical location. Sometimes, it is about the discomfort of transition—the space between what was familiar and what is yet to be understood. In that space, uncertainty becomes unavoidable, but so does the possibility of change.</p> <p>And maybe, in learning to work within that unfamiliar space, he discovered a different way of seeing the world—one that did not rely solely on presence, but on perception.</p>