_ Vancouver's impoverished are Human

Brady Ehler, OP Opinions Editor

Anyone who has been downtown at one poirit or another has been accosted for change by
street people. We donate out of guilt, or for the feeling that we’ve done a good deed. We
refuse, or ignore them because it isn’t constructive to their well-being, or because we write
them off as invalids. Either way, we all ask ourselves at one point or another; why the hell are
these people on the street, anyway?

A few years ago, before I had spent much time in Vancouver, I lived in Turkey for a few
months. I stayed with my friend Dave, whom I'd met a couple years earlier in Kamloops. I we
lived in the industrial city of Izmit, just south of Istanbul. It was a great experience, but my
first impressions of Izmit were shocking, if not horrifying.

Directly after getting off the bus, Dave and I had to cross a pedestrian overpass to get into
town. All along the over pass were a dozen or so beggars, but not the sort you would see in
Canada. All of them were tragically disabled or disfigured in one way or another. They had
missing limbs, teeth, eyes, or other facial features. It was a grim sight to say the least.

One of the beggars was man in his mid-twenties, about the same age as I am now. He had
apparently had his leg blown off during his service in the Turkish military. In Turkey, a year of
military service is mandatory for all young men, so odds are this fellow never even wanted to
serve. Unfortunately for him, like the rest of the-beggars on the walkway, he will never receive
a lira of living allowance from the government. As a result, he, like the rest of his peers, must
rely on the charity of others to get money for food.

It may come as no surprise that when I came back to Canada and started spending time
downtown, I was disgusted at the Vancouver panhandlers. Sometimes I would ignore them
when I was asked for change. Other times, I would be more forward and simply tell them to
piss off. My reasoning was that the vast majority of beggars here in Vancouver have all of
their limbs, and are fit enough to work for money, should they choose to do so. Besides, there
are shelters they can go to if they are cold, there are soup kitchens they can go to if they are
hungry and there is the Salvation Army if they need clothes.

So why in hell would I give them my money, hard earned, or otherwise? These people are
on the street because they want to be. Unlike the beggars in Izmit, these people had a choice;
they didn’t have to beg for a living. Why would I drop coins into their paper cups when they
would just spend it on methamphetamine or crack? Wouldn’t it only encourage them?

Now that [I’ve established myself as wholly unsympathetic, this is the part of the article
where you'd expect me to admit that I’ve changed my ways, developed more compassion and

6 THE OTHER PRESS OCTOBER 12 2006

understanding, and come to realize that beggars have a legitimate place in our society. Well i
not; I still think that if you’re on the street it’s probably your own choice, or at least the resu
of your own decisions. I don’t subscribe to the idea of alcoholism, or any other type of dru
addiction as a “disease.” I believe in accountability. However, that said, I have developed moi
compassion for the down-and-outers.

My father, Walter, is a paramedic, and he used to work out of Ambulance Station 48, wk
covered the infamous “East Hasting” area. Riding 3rd with my father, I got to step inside tk
belly of the beast, and see what was happening first hand.

The majority the calls were for overdoses and mental observations (crazy people). Every
patient we had that had overdosed that evening had hepatitis, HIV, or AIDS. These people
were unnaturally thin, and visually malnourished. My natural reaction was to think of them
write-offs; people that were already dead. However, it hit home when after my Father gave «
of these overdose victims an injection of Narcan. Somehow, a splatter of blood had made |
way onto his pen. Dad just smiled, whipped out an alcohol wipe, and cleaned it off, as if th
was a common occurrence.

It struck me then how fast the course of one’s life can change. How many times has thi
happened to my Father before? How many times has he been threatened with the possibilit
being stabbed by an HIV infected needle? The answer to both questions is too many times.

I think it’s important to note that addiction is not a crime; it’s a weakness. I know this o:
microscopic level, as ’'ve been smoking cigarettes since I was 16. I just count myself lucky
I wasn’t born to a drug addicted mother in an impoverished part of town. I don’t deal with
addiction well, and if I was born in an impoverished neighborhood, my drug of choice mig
have been crack cocaine instead of nicotine.

Never mind the people out on the streets who have mental problems, drug related or ot
erwise. It’s got to be tough out there, whether they have all their limbs or not. Also, there is
significant amount of people on the streets that do less drugs than myself; travellers who ju
don’t have a dime to buy a slice of pizza.

I guess what I am trying to say is this: whether you decide to donate some change or nc
people on the streets have fallen on hard times, and even if they don’t have a terminal dise:
odds are they haven't had the opportunities you or I have had. So for God’s sake, even if tl
creep you out, remember that they are human beings, and the difference between you and
them could be as simple as the parents you were born to.