STEELWORKS
Dirk Weidema has been looking directly at Tata Steel for fifty-four years.
Across the North Sea Canal, he has an unobstructed view of steaming coke plants, smoking blast furnaces, a pellet plant with six chimneys continuously spewing thick clouds, and ships carrying coal and iron ore.
Black plumes rising slowly, the hissing of the quenching towers, the smell of tar seeping into the curtains.
“And then they say it’s steam. Yeah, right.”
In the neighbourhood, “the steelworks” remains almost sacred. Friends drifted away; online he was insulted.
“Get a hobby,” they told him.
He shrugs.
“This is my hobby.”
Then, more quietly:
“Most people just don’t want to know. Because once you know, you can’t look away.”
“Get a hobby,” they told him.
He shrugs.
“This is my hobby.”
Then, more quietly:
“Most people just don’t want to know. Because once you know, you can’t look away.”