In a personal text about the COVID-19 pandemic, researcher Susana de Noronha comments on the following news:

Liubchenkova, Natalia. (2020). “In pictures: Deserted cities as anti-coronavirus lockdowns introduced around the globe”. Euronews.
https://www.euronews.com/2020/03/18/in-pictures-deserted-cities-as-anti-coronavirus-lockdowns-introduced-around-the-globe

 
Maia, Ana Marques. (2020). “EverydayCovid: the perspective of professional photographers on the pandemic”. P3-Público, March 19.
https://www.publico.pt/2020/03/19/p3/fotogaleria/everydaycovid-olhar-fotografos-profissionais-pandemia-400788

 
No, the city isn’t empty, still, or quiet. A city isn’t just a sum of roads and streets, bridges, and avenues. It is made of homes, houses, and buildings, left and right, from the ground up to the tenth floor, beyond the facade, behind windows and walls. It is made of gardens and flower beds, terraces, and balconies, of verandas and freshly washed clothes, of cigarette smoke, of falling ash and snow. It is made from the smell of coffee, melting butter, burnt toast, charcoal grills, salty food, the scent that climbs the stairs, touching my nose. It is made of families, small and large, between roof and floor, above and below, voices that grow, footsteps and claps, here and there. It is the sound of heavy feet, boom, the kid running and playing in the hallway, free from school hours, no bells, no rules.

It is made of dogs without a leash, cats jumping, a broken vase, loud noises, slamming doors. A woman running without a starting point, to and from the corner store, buying bread, empty belly and pocket, counting cents, deducted from life, from the mouth of her daughter and son. It is made of people working in the living room, sitting on wooden benches and narrow chairs. Tables are turning, you know? You got to keep yourself straight, the world is changing, meetings are virtual, just strike a pose! The TV is on, the radio blasting, a man’s laughter, a song invented in the back room, a ballerina stretching on a carpet floor, the piano note that bounces and reaches the neighbour’s soul. It's a writer's notebook, late at night, it's a poem, perhaps lyrics, the beginning of a book, or maybe the end, you’ll never know. It's a guitar warmed by long hands and fingers, it's a broken string, with no gigs, no concert, no music hall, just a narrow corridor. A city is also made of dressmakers, teachers and salesmen without a shop, restaurants, and kitchens with take-away food, with no reservations, no money, no protecting laws. A city is also made of hospitals and infirmaries, of virus, disease, pain and care, no day off, no chairs for visiting relatives. They were dying, right here, right there, right next door.

I hear a ringing sound, someone’s calling, it is me climbing to my parents’ lap through my ear, through the telephone. This is what matters, older people, the ones we call our own, asking them to stay, don’t break the ties, hold me like a knot, just don’t leave, don’t you dare to let go! A city is made of embraces, warm beds, running water, a skin burning bath, a night of sleep, maybe eight hours or more. Open the curtain, there is always a morning after, the urgency of birds, the movement of trees, nervous rivers, rain and puddle, the sun rising at the right hour, telling the time without a clock. What is a city made of? Who is it made for? The city is made of people, just open the door, look inside, see how they live, see what they do. No, the city isn’t empty, still or quiet. The streets are still ours, of those who stay indoors, but also of the homeless, in the dead-end alleys, without a key or a lock, just a ceiling of wind, a cardboard floor. But it's not for the refugees, is it? Men, women and children, dodging bullets and bombs. Nor for the migrants, is it? With no rest, no passage, no entrance, in the middle of nowhere, with a barbed wire wall and door. It is our responsibility! You can’t look away. We the people, still lead, still rule! Multiply the number of every door, times three, times four. You have to count all of those who are out there, beyond the map, beyond the border. We are all here! We are millions and many more! (No, wait, let me make a correction. We are not numbers. We have names and faces and stories to tell. You must come to know them all!)

_{Fig. 1 Noronha, Susana de (2020) The Number of Each and Every Door [Photography]}

_{Fig. 2 Noronha, Susana de (2020) Beyond the Facade [Photography]}