When the Turkish officer recounted the story years later, it was still with a sense of disbelief. His ship had anchored off the west coast of British Columbia, near a stretch of shoreline lined with beautiful, posh summer houses. The evening was quiet, the sky dimming into that deep blue hour between sunset and darkness. Inside the cabins, crew members went about their routines. Some lights glowed through the glass of the portholes.
Then came the order from the Port Authorities: any porthole facing the shore must be covered. The only exceptions were the navigation lights required by international law at the bow and stern. The reason? Residents ashore did not want to be “disturbed” by the sight of light coming from the ship.
The officer asked his captain, “What sort of people are like that?” The captain’s answer was swift: “Rich people.” It was a demonstration of privilege born from wealth most likely, from being white. Not in the form of open hostility, but in the quiet rearranging of other people’s lives to preserve one’s own comfort.
From the shoreline, the request might have seemed trivial: what is the harm in asking for a few lights to be dimmed? But from the deck of that ship, it was a reminder that wealth has a reach. It can cross the water, override practical norms, and erase your presence entirely, without a second thought.
Photo by Roland Schumann on Unsplash
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