Met a man who really knows the birds around the neighborhood.

He told me a story about an Egyptian goose family. The father had died from a disease common among urban birds. The mother and two young ones were left behind. He repeated several times that it was a very sad story and said he hoped I, as an artist, could help more people become aware of it.

He believed the illness was caused by pollution in the lake, spread by mussels living beneath the boats. But a woman nearby disagreed, and they fell into a long conversation. Sadly, my Dutch wasn’t good enough to follow.

Later, he offered to walk with me to Sloterstrand. He told me he had found a duck there just recently, probably dead from the same disease. When we arrived, we saw its swollen body lying among litter and debris on the artificial beach of this manmade lake.

He told me he could call birds to him. At first, he hesitated to show me—he said he didn’t have much bread with him, and worried they would be frustrated if he called them and couldn’t feed them enough.

But then we saw three geese in the distance. “That might be the mother and her two kids,” he said. “I want to show you. Maybe it could be useful for your art.”

He pulled out half a pack of toast bread from his brommobiel, the little microcar from his aunt, and said he’d give it a try.

He walked ahead while I stayed back. I watched as he slowly approached them with bread in hand. The geese came to him. He knelt on the grass like in prayer, hand extended. Then he looked back at me and gestured for me to come over.

“That’s the goose mother and her children,” he said. “They still remember me.” The birds didn’t seem to mind me getting closer. They stayed focused on the food in his palm.

“But look! She’s very sad,” he said, pointing to the mother goose.

I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t read a bird’s expression.

“Do you want to feed them too? I can film you feeding them.” “Umm... no, I think I’m good. I don’t want to confuse them,” I replied, surprised by his offer.

I’ve always found it hard to feel affection toward birds. And I was unsure about him feeding them with bread. I wanted to say something about it, but the words kept slipping around my tongue, and I swallowed them back.

I didn’t want to correct him. He seemed so happy, so gentle in his gesture, kneeling to the geese while most people passed by without even noticing. Instead, I invited him to join the goose game I made for Sloterplas, which will be shown at the upcoming film festival^*.

Maybe that will be a better time to talk about the bread.

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* I didn’t managed to do so. By the time the game was supposed to be hosted at the festival, my work had been damaged. I was in a terrible mood about it and had no energy left to approach him when I saw him there. And he didn’t recognize my face either. I still have the pack of raw oats I bought as the prize for the winner of the game. It would’ve been great if we’d played and if he had won. ↩