Reflecting on compassion and community

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 04/07/2025 (287 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

As many of you have, I often see tents — tucked along riverbanks, in vacant lots, or near city parks. They’re hard to miss. And since garbage pickup in those areas is inconsistent, they can look neglected, dirty, and — to be honest — unpleasant.

But there’s another look at these encampments that not many people get to take. A reality that often gets missed.

Most of us don’t slow down long enough to see the people inside the tents. Sometimes, we get caught seeing only what’s on the surface: the mess, the disorder, the discomfort.

I get it. I really do.

I understand why people may wish they didn’t have to see what often gets described as an eyesore. I, too, love clean parks and tidy streets. And I can relate to the discomfort that unkempt areas bring.

But as I spent more time thinking about it, I found myself pausing and reflecting on what that discomfort was really telling me — not just about the world around me, but about myself.

A common thought is, “Why don’t they just go to a shelter?” And at first glance, that seems reasonable — especially if we’ve never had to rely on one.

But I’ve come to learn, from listening to those who’ve lived it and from those who help them, that shelters aren’t always the solution we imagine.

Some are full or don’t feel safe — especially for women, two-spirit folks, or those carrying trauma. Many have rules that feel more like control than care. For people coping with mental illness, addiction, or just a deep need for personal dignity, shelters can feel more overwhelming than helpful.

With all their difficulties, encampments sometimes offer something people can’t find elsewhere: a sense of autonomy. The ability to stay with a partner or keep a pet. A bit of control in a life that’s felt increasingly unstable.

When kind helpers bring water, food, a blanket, or a tarp to someone in an encampment, it’s not about encouraging homelessness.

It’s about recognizing that, in this moment, they are human beings trying to survive. They need warmth. A little safety. A reminder that someone sees them — and cares.

Helping in these ways doesn’t mean giving up on better solutions. If anything, it’s a way of keeping our shared humanity alive while we wait — or better yet, while we work — toward something better.

When I hear harsh comments about people who are homeless, I often find myself returning to a quiet question: What kind of city do I want to be part of? What kind of responses do I want to support?

I believe most of us want to be good. To be kind. To live in communities that work for everyone. But sometimes, kindness gets crowded out — by fear or by oversimplified stories that miss the deeper truth.

People living in encampments, like anyone else, can be loyal, funny, generous, and thoughtful. Yet, many are navigating enormous challenges: childhood trauma, violence, poverty, mental illness, grief, or displacement. Some are living with the long-term, intergenerational impacts of racism, residential schools and other systemic injustices.

And, in spite of everything, many carry a remarkable strength — and a quiet dignity that may get missed unless we take a second look.

They haven’t failed. They are people who have fallen through the cracks of a system that has many areas in serious need of being addressed.

Helping doesn’t always mean fixing. It can mean listening. Offering water. Respecting someone’s boundaries. Supporting organizations and groups that take a human-first approach. It can also mean shifting how we speak, replacing judgment with curiosity, understanding and compassion.

Sometimes, helping means reflecting on what really matters to us — and how we find an answer to our desire for a “nice,” tidy city without letting that desire overshadow the wellbeing of those who live in it.

Over time, I’ve found that taking a “second look” — beyond the mess, beyond the discomfort — has shifted something in me.

It’s led me to wonder: What if I, or someone I love, ever found ourselves in a similar situation? How would I want to be treated?

And that’s all I really wanted to share: A quiet invitation to take a second look.

Thank you for taking the time to read this. I hope they open space for others to look at these issues with the compassion and care they deserve.

Carina Blumgrund writes from Winnipeg.