At the edge of the desert, far from the eyes of the world, a quiet suffering unfolds each day. It does not cry out. It does not bleed. But it weighs heavily like heat pressing against the skin, or dust settling in the lungs. It is the suffering of forgotten people, caught in a system that extracts their labor while erasing their dignity.
They come from far-flung places Yemen, Sudan, Bangladesh, Nepal driven by war, poverty, or the simple desperation of needing to feed their families. Many have fled conflict. Others have fled hopelessness. They arrive with silent expectations: to earn, to send money home, to build something better.
What they find is a life that consumes them. Twelve-hour shifts under a punishing sun. Two weeks of work for a single day of rest. Their meals never change rice and chicken, rice and chicken. Their beds are lined up in containers, their days scripted down to the minute. No holidays. No privacy. No sense of tomorrow.
They are not lazy. They are not weak. But their eyes no longer shine. Motivation that inner spark that moves people forward has been extinguished. Their present is unbearable monotony, and their future has been sold in exchange for survival. They do not dream anymore. They endure.
No one speaks of purpose. No one asks what they want to become. Their only role is to endure more than the day before. And so they do. Quietly. Mechanically. Without resistance.
The system praises efficiency. The labor force is interchangeable. If one man collapses from exhaustion, another is already waiting. A face. A name. A body willing to work. No more.
What is stolen from these men is not just time or strength it is identity. Pride. The belief that life can change.
And what remains is a brutal stillness. Not rebellion. Not protest. Just resignation a collective acceptance that this is how life will be, and how it will end.
It is easy to look away. To justify the system as necessary. To see only what is productive. But beneath the output are human beings each with stories, families, memories. Each with a right to more than this.
What we are witnessing is not merely labor. It is servitude without shackles. Slavery without chains.
And it demands to be seen. Not through pity, but through recognition. These are not shadows. These are people. And their pain should not be invisible.
Lajos
My Drilling book 