In the shadow of Osaka’s neon skyline, tucked behind the buzz of bustling neighborhoods like Namba or Tennoji, lies a place rarely spoken of in tourist guides. Airin Chiku—a district inside the city’s Nishinari Ward—has long been synonymous with hardship. In the 1980s and 90s, the area was infamous for its Yakuza presence. Local businesses were strong-armed into paying protection money, and the neighborhood’s fragile economy collapsed under the weight of organized crime. With rising unemployment and a disintegrating welfare system, Nishinari earned its label as “the slum of Osaka.”

But labels often fail to capture the soul of a place.

Photographer David Tesinsky first stumbled into Airin Chiku by chance. Backpacking through Japan at age 22, he was couch-hopping in Osaka after a brief love story in Tokyo. “I met a girl… and I didn’t ask her, but I tried directly to her, ‘we are moving to Osaka today,’ and she agreed.” After the relationship ended, someone mentioned a neighborhood that few outsiders visit. He took a train there and met a community that left a lasting imprint on his lens—and his life.

Tesinsky’s work is confrontational. He’s not drawn to polished beauty or curated aesthetics. He seeks out people living on society’s margins—“controversial and extraordinary destinies,” as he puts it. From exorcisms in Ethiopia to rap culture in Detroit and gang wars in Guatemala, his camera doesn’t flinch. It doesn’t romanticize, either. It captures.

Airin Chiku presented a different kind of challenge: a quiet kind of survival.

His first visit in 2013 revealed a community of mostly elderly men, many struggling with alcoholism or homelessness. Yet, what struck him most wasn’t despair—it was laughter. “Although each day was a blast, when I was leaving the place in 2012 after a few days, a man came to me and gave me his acoustic guitar as a present. I have that guitar at home until now and I played many Tinder girls on that guitar in the past. Overall, we’ve had tons of laughing each day, each hour.”

Ten years later, he returned. Some things had changed—foreigners were around now, for one. But the neighborhood still carried that same vibration. “Most of the people from 2012 pictures are dead,” he says. “But the person who gave me the guitar is the only survivor.”

Tesinsky’s images from both visits form a portrait of a forgotten corner of Japan. His subjects are not defined by poverty but by resilience, humor, and the stubborn will to exist on their own terms. Local efforts like food programs have since emerged to support the area, offering solidarity in a city that too often turns a blind eye.

Airin Chiku may not fit into the glossy narrative of modern Japan, but it belongs in the story. And thanks to photographers like David Tesinsky, it’s no longer invisible.