I've walked these dark streets a thousand times already. It is not until recently that I began fearing them. I remember the days of youth when we ran from side to side and laughed. The adrenaline was that of the game, not that of thinking that, any second, a thief may come out and wound us for our not-so-valuable valuables.
Years ago, the story that started it all was that a neighbour had been walking home when he was intercepted by thieves who wanted something of his. Nobody knows if it was because he fought back or because of any disagreement. He was found bleeding on the street and it took him months to recover. The source of the wound was what was called "un cachazo en la cabeza" (a strike with the bottom of a gun on his head).
I've never had to carry a light by myself. We can see the streets alright. The problem is that we don't see very far away because the streetlights are very far apart and very dim.
At first, we refused to accept that we could also be victims of crime. For some reason, we believed we were exempt or too lucky. Then we were mugged once, twice, three times, then four, and by the time we realised what was happening, we had nothing. A flashlight couldn't save us from an incoming car where three thieves come down wielding guns and screaming at the top of their lungs for us to get out of our car and leave our belongings inside.
It's these tales of terror that seemed so foreign to us until they happened. These facts awoke our ability to feel these stories when others tell them. Now we can feel an empathy that didn't exist there before. Now we can fear something new.