Homelessness

 A Humane and Cost-Effective Approach to Mental Health and Homelessness in the Kitchener-Waterloo Region

The first time I walked through Victoria Park a few winters ago and observed the tent community there, I was quite surprised by the size of the encampment.  I wondered why. How did we come to this? How do these people survive the weather conditions?  All obvious and superficial responses. Later, I had much the same reaction as I slowly drove past the encampment at Victoria and Weber Streets. At the time of writing, those tents remain in place despite the best efforts of the Regional and Provincial Governments to have the citizens removed. One enigma is the time and money the Region and the Provincial governments are willing to spend on eviction efforts.  My whimsical thought was that if only those same efforts were directed towards solving the problem rather than transferring it.

I have seen poverty in countries and regions where I have worked and travelled, such as the Middle East, China, and the Caribbean. The poor of China, Kuwait, and the Bahamas, for example, usually have simple homes as basic as they may be.  I felt that the shacks of Nassau, the peasants of rural China, or some of the marginal foreign workers in Kuwait all lived better than the people I have witnessed in the tent camps in my own wealthy region of Ontario, Canada.

I have given this homeless issue much thought as it is the anchor problem of so many other issues that flow from this epicentre. 

Mental illness and homelessness represent two of the most significant social challenges facing communities across Canada, including the Kitchener-Waterloo Region. While homelessness is often viewed simply as a lack of housing, the reality is considerably more complex. Many individuals experiencing homelessness struggle with untreated mental illness, substance use disorders, trauma, unemployment, or a combination of these factors. Addressing these interconnected issues requires more than temporary shelter or increased enforcement. It demands a coordinated, compassionate, and fiscally responsible strategy that recognizes both the dignity of vulnerable individuals and the legitimate concerns of residents regarding public safety and neighbourhood well-being.

Research conducted across Canada and internationally has consistently demonstrated that the most effective and economical approach begins with the principle of Housing First. Rather than requiring individuals to achieve sobriety or complete treatment before qualifying for permanent housing, this model recognizes that stable housing is the foundation upon which recovery can occur. Once an individual has a secure place to live, the likelihood of engaging with mental health services, addiction treatment, employment programs, and community supports increases substantially. Stable housing also reduces the frequent use of emergency departments, police services, shelters, and the justice system, resulting in significant savings for taxpayers.

However, housing alone is insufficient. Many individuals living with severe mental illness require ongoing clinical support to remain stable and independent. For this reason, supportive housing should form a central component of any regional strategy. Supportive housing combines affordable accommodation with access to psychiatric care, nursing services, addiction counselling, case management, life-skills coaching, and peer support. The level of assistance can be adjusted according to each individual’s needs, allowing many residents to regain independence while reducing repeated crises.

Equally important is timely access to mental health and addiction services. Long waiting lists often allow illnesses to worsen, leading to emergency hospitalizations or interactions with law enforcement that might otherwise have been prevented. Expanding walk-in mental health clinics, crisis stabilization services, and rapid psychiatric assessments would provide individuals with earlier intervention, reducing both human suffering and public expense. Mobile crisis response teams composed of mental health professionals working alongside paramedics—and, where appropriate, police officers—have also demonstrated success in responding more effectively to mental health emergencies while reducing unnecessary arrests and hospital admissions.

Prevention remains one of the most cost-effective investments available to municipalities and senior levels of government. Programs that help individuals remain housed through temporary rent assistance, eviction prevention, financial counselling, and mediation with landlords are considerably less expensive than supporting someone once they have become chronically homeless. Similar preventive measures should assist young people leaving foster care, individuals discharged from hospitals or correctional facilities, and those recovering from psychiatric hospitalization. Ensuring that no individual is released into homelessness should be regarded as a fundamental objective of social policy.

Recovery extends beyond housing and healthcare. Meaningful employment, education, volunteer opportunities, and social participation restore purpose and self-worth while reducing long-term dependence on public services. Supported employment programs that accommodate individuals recovering from mental illness have consistently demonstrated positive outcomes for both participants and employers. Investing in these opportunities strengthens not only individual recovery but also the broader community.

A coordinated regional response is equally essential. The Kitchener-Waterloo region benefits from numerous organizations providing housing, healthcare, counselling, addiction treatment, and social assistance. Nevertheless, these services can be fragmented, making it difficult for vulnerable individuals to navigate the system. Greater coordination among municipal governments, healthcare providers, community agencies, emergency services, and non-profit organizations would improve continuity of care while reducing duplication of services. Shared intake systems and integrated case management would ensure that individuals receive appropriate support without repeatedly entering crisis.

Public confidence in these initiatives depends upon balancing compassion with accountability. Residents rightly expect parks, sidewalks, public transit, and neighbourhoods to remain safe and welcoming. Addressing homelessness compassionately does not require communities to tolerate violence, vandalism, or persistent public disorder. Rather, successful policies combine robust social supports with consistent enforcement of laws protecting public safety. Individuals experiencing homelessness deserve dignity, treatment, and opportunity, while all residents deserve clean public spaces and secure neighbourhoods. These objectives are complementary rather than contradictory.

Ultimately, the most humane and cost-effective response to homelessness and mental illness in the Kitchener-Waterloo region is one that views housing as healthcare, prioritizes early intervention, expands supportive housing, improves access to mental health services, emphasizes prevention, promotes meaningful employment, and coordinates services across all levels of government and community organizations. Such an approach recognizes that investing in people before crises develop not only improves individual lives but also reduces long-term costs to taxpayers. Compassion, fiscal responsibility, and public safety need not compete with one another; together, they form the foundation of a healthier, more resilient community.

Under the Canopy Chapter 10: Introduction to Anthropology

 

Chapter 10

Change happens by listening and then starting a dialogue with people who are doing something you don’t believe is right.

Jane Goodall

Introductory Anthropology Class:

University of Toronto

    Mark was taking a double major in Anthropology and Primatology.  His parents reluctantly approved of their Mennonite son going off to study in a large secular city like Toronto. Not that they had much of a choice, and not like they actually tracked his academic career, but he did keep them in the loop out of respect. He found the experience electric and was enjoying the time away from home, but especially, the nerd that he was, the excitement of learning.  He had read everything the British paleoanthropologist and archeologist Louis Leakey had written about human evolution based on his pivotal discoveries of Australopithecus and Homo Habilis at Olduvai Gorge in Tanzania.  

    The lecture hall hummed with anticipation, that particular energy associated with the first week of university, a raw blend of nerves, caffeine rush, fresh notebooks and file folders, textbooks cracked open with more hope than plan.  Highlighters and pens at the ready, waiting for the arrival of the famous prof whose studies in Borneo and elsewhere had made him somewhat of a legend in academic circles and to the wider public.  He was one of those people who had the uncanny ability to take complex science and break it down so ordinary people could not only understand but also enjoy and appreciate it.

    The seats in the old lecture hall rose steeply in a crescent. Students slowly trickled in, in various stages of conversation; sounds echoed in the cavernous room as it filled with rustling backpacks, briefcases, and whispered introductions.  

    A man in his early forties stepped firmly onto the dais.  He was tall, lean, hawk-eyed, and dressed not in the obligatory university blazer but in a more casual faded leather vest over a linen shirt, open at the collar, with no tie. He had the week-long unshaved look of stubble over a tanned face, as he had just returned from a dig.  His eyes seemed to glint with the knowledge of untold stories that no textbook would ever contain. He moved to the dais like a man who had navigated more than academic hallways, more Indiana Jones than a typical University Professor. 

     Most students knew Mathias Gunther by reputation, his books, interviews and articles about his adventures in Borneo.  Female students openly gushed in Gunther’s presence.  Mark shook his head, as dictated by his Mennonite shyness and sensitivities, feeling completely awkward with their open forwardness towards their professor. Mark thought maybe I would never understand women in a truly anthropological sense. Mathias stood silently at the lectern, indulgently facing his audience of novice first-year students, his hands folded in front of him, as if patiently reading the room and assessing the challenges he would face as a future student. 

  

  “I’m sure you know me by reputation, or you wouldn’t be here. My name is Mathias Gunther, and I will escort you through the experience that we call Anthropology this semester.  It is an exciting academic ride from which you will learn to appreciate our ancestral roots as a species, our cultural legacies and why we should, in today’s modern world, value diversity.  If you now find yourself in the wrong room, stay anyway.  You might learn something.”

 

   Nervous laughter rippled through the crowd of young students as they stared up at their professor.

   

  He tossed his hat on the lectern, removed his coat with a rapid fluid motion revealing his rolled-up sleeves, a signal he was ready to work, and a leather band tightly wrapped around his right wrist.  Then he leaned against the dais with his arms crossed and stared into his audience for a moment of complete silence.  It was magical.

  

  “This course,” he began quietly and slowly, “although this session is termed an Introduction to Anthropology, let me call it more a story of beginnings. It is about our beginnings as a species, and it is older than you have ever been taught to remember. Contrary to popular Biblical belief, the planet is not 6000 years old, as that would be roughly the time when Sumerians had just perfected the use of adhesives on another continent, where Native Americans had used animal collagen, tree resins and bitumen as adhesives 50,000 years before the present. The first fermented drinks were created from wild grapes, honey, and rice in Neolithic China. For some of you religious types,” now Mark thought his professor was talking directly to him. “As we touch on these issues and others such as evolution, your sensitivities and your world may be rocked.”

   

I will teach you with anecdotes- I have many- and with pictures.  I will take you to the places I have been and let you see the things I have witnessed, so that, as young scientists, you can form your own insights, conduct your own analysis, and draw your own conclusions.  Above all else, you will learn how to receive data, digest it, analyze it and make logical, intelligent conclusions, unlike what often happens in the world outside these rooms.”

   

With that, the lights began to gradually grow dim in the cavernous lecture hall, as a state-of-the-art Kodak Carousel slide projector whirred to life.  On the large screen, to Gunther’s right, appeared an image of a weather-worn fossilized skull, a powerful, singular image.

   

“This,” he said, pointing with a well-used walking stick made from hardwood from the Belian or Borneo Ironwood, “Is Homo Erectus.”  There were a few giggles from the audience.  “He walked upright two million years ago on the Savanah grasslands of Africa.  Had fire.  Used tools. Buried their dead with care and ritual.”

   

He walked slowly across the stage as the next slide clicked into view. “Here, stone tools, rough and beautiful in their function.”  He added, “Every one of you is carrying their legacy.  You are their story written in bone and in their memory.  Life is a continuum of thought, word and action.”

    

More slides showing various stone tools, axes, adzes, scrapers, blades, arrowheads and spearheads, mortars and pestles for grinding grain, and hammer-stones for construction and tool-making.

   

Then, another slide.  This time, a shot of a Dayak longhouse stretched along a muddy riverbank situated in Borneo.  Followed by the Penan, a wiry, short figure barefoot in the forest wearing a loincloth, blowing a dart from a long carved pipe.  

    

“Fast forward a few millennia, just a few, and you’ll meet the Dayak and the Penan of Borneo, two of several tribes.  One settled, practiced ritual agriculture.  The other nomadic, foraging, forever navigating the forests without maps, compasses or fixed property.”

   

He paused during his introductory remarks on the first day of classes for a first-year group of students.  He examined the rows of half-intrigued and half-overwhelmed faces.  Some he knew through past experience would make excellent students, some would even major in Anthropology, but of the some 100 odd students present today in this auditorium, only a few would be intense enough to follow through, to live the life to publish, to add to the science.  Knowing this he calmly proceeded knowing his words would not reach everyone.

   

“The Dayak share many myths, which are very real to them, in which the jungle is alive, with voices and ancestors and rules. Animism is an almost universal Indigenous belief system, with regional variations in its application, that confers a distinct spiritual essence on objects, creatures, and places in nature, and holds that these spirits can directly influence human affairs.  Therefore, rocks, plants, animals, weather systems like the monsoons or El Niño, and trade winds are seen as animated, or personified and having agency.  They have a soul.  They have a spirit.  They influence daily life by being benevolent or, in some cases, malevolent.  It is not what you would consider a single unified religion, such as Catholicism or Islam.  

 

   Think of it more as a way of understanding the world and our place in it.  Not much different from the Christian or Western interpretations of heaven and hell, and from our belief in prayer. In essence, animism offers a unique and, I will add, plausible explanation of the separation between humans and the rest of the natural world, suggesting a deep spiritual connection to all things.  You may have heard stories of Indigenous hunters of North America who, after a successful hunt, thank the spirit of the animal. This, too, is a reflection of animism, showing deep respect and gratitude for the animals’ sacrifice, which provides sustenance for the hunter and his family. This practice is deeply rooted in the recognition of the interconnectedness of all living beings and the importance of reciprocity in nature.  Sadly, I will underscore here that these are values not often present or replicated in Western culture.  One might ask then who is civilized and who is Pagan?

   

“Further, the Penan have no word in their vocabulary for ownership; they believe in the concept of molong, which is to say, never take more than you need.  How many of us can say that, in our society today, we live based on consumerism, greed, and the wealthy class?  But enough of politics.”

  

  A few pens scratched in notebooks, a few hands scratched foreheads in puzzlement and bewilderment.  Some were uncertain if the man speaking before them was a professor, a prophet or just too radical for words.  Everyone gazed forward in attentive silence as Gunther continued his introductory remarks.  

   

Mark Penner, sitting somewhere about a third of the way to the back, was intently writing every word down that he could.  To him, this man was God-sent.  Never in his conservative Mennonite upbringing had he heard anyone speak with such candour in such a short space of time of basic belief systems, political implications, class structure and long-term historical legacy.  To Mark, this was a new beginning.

   

Mark was shaken from his brief reverie as Professor Gunther began to speak again.  “We’ll talk in this course about Borneo, of course, because that is the source of much of my own primary research and the basis of most of my publications. It is also the location of my research foundation in Kalimantan at Camp Fossey.  But we will also broach topics from Africa, Australia, Siberia, and Toronto because Anthropology isn’t just about people far away.  It’s about us.  All of us.  It’s about the bones in your body. The stories in your blood from eons past. It’s all about the constant lies your culture taught you to tell about human progress.  Yes, we will get somewhat political, and that may scare some of you, so it will be an interesting ride for those who dare. Think of this as a pseudo-paleo-political study as well because for those who think this will be a bird course, I suggest you fly.”

   

Another nervous chuckle from the audience.

   

“You’ll read Leaky, Geertz, Jame Clifford, George Marcus, Benedict Anderson and many more, and of course, my books will be compulsory reading.  You will also get stories that never made it into books.  On my travels, I’ve eaten Monkey stew in Kalimantan, watched initiation rites in Papua and chased a bear in the Yukon Territory.  I teach what I have lived.  With that, he clicked the projector off.  Lights up.  God-like, there was light, and the formal presentation ended.

  

  “I’ll see you all Wednesday,” he said, already pulling on his weathered leather jacket, his hat settled back onto his head with practiced ease.  “Your first assignment is simple.  “What does it mean to be human?”

   

And then he was gone, as if through a magician’s trap door.

   

A few students began to whisper and looked around as if waking from a trance.

        “That was insane!”

   

“No,” said another, eyes still fixed on the empty stage.  “That guy actually is Indiana Jones.”

   

Mark just smiled, thought about his intro to Anthropology, and was totally content. It was everything he had hoped it would be. He saw his future.

Under the Canopy chapter 9

 Chapter 9

Rising Tide

    The morning tide crept into the harbour like a thief, quiet and patient, and the brothers were already awake when the first boats nudged the docks.  Lim Tan stood behind their father’s spice stall, neat ledger open, brush moving in careful strokes, a perfectionist.  Beside him, Tait Tan leaned against a wooden post, watching the dock workers argue over sacks of rice and crates of dried fish.  Their father liked to say the sea fed honest men. But both men had learned early that honesty rarely paid for expansion.  Tait nudged Lim with his elbow.  “People don’t buy spices,” he said, eyes fixed on the crowd.  Lim didn’t look up. “No,” he replied softly.  “They buy hope they can afford dinner.”  Tait’s grin spread slowly.  “Then we should sell hope.”

    The strike came the year the rains failed during El Niño.  Ships arrived half-empty, and tempers filled the gaps.  Dockworkers gathered under patched banners, their voices rough with hunger and pride.  Most merchants kept their distance.  The Tan brothers did the opposite.  They arrived with sacks of rice and a borrowed loudspeaker that squealed before it worked.  The union foremen eyed them with suspicion.  “You speak nice words, merchant boy,” he said to Tait.  Tait stepped forward, sleeves rolled up, voice warm enough to melt doubt. “Not words,” he promised. “We will bring rice to the picket line tomorrow.”  Lim stood just behind him, expression unreadable.  “And we will remember who stood with us when this is over.” The foreman nodded slowly.  The workers cheered. Lim, unnoticed, was already making mental lists.

    Politics came next as naturally and as inevitably as the tide. Tait had the face for it- open, earnest- the kind people trusted before he finished a sentence.  Lim had the patience and the business sense.  While Tait shook hands in the markets and prayed loudly in the mosques, Lim built the quiet machinery: donor lists, favours owed, favours granted.  On the night Tait announced his run for local council, the campaign office smelled of cheap paint and ambition.  Tait adjusted his borrowed campaign sash in the cracked mirror.  “You don’t win by being loved,” Lim said from the desk.  Tait glanced back, amused.  “Then why are the crowds growing?” Lim finally looked up, a thin smile forming.  “Because they think you are one of them, brother. You have them fooled because the workers are fools.”

    After the election, the first envelope arrived on a humid evening thick with mosquitoes.  A port contractor- nervous, sweating through the collar- slid it across the table like something alive and fragile. Tait stared at it as if it might explode. Lim picked it up gingerly with two fingers and weighed it. “Development requires…lubrication, ”he said calmly. Tait’s jaw tightened. “And the workers?” Lim slipped the envelope into his jacket.  “Will get their rally next week.” Outside, the crowd was already chanting Tait’s name.

    By the time Tait ran for governor, the myth of the Tan brothers had become cemented into something close to folklore.  They were the merchants who remembered the poor, the men who brought rice when others brought speeches.  Union banners filled Tait’s rallies, bright and loud, patriotic, for the nation for their progress, and their leaders spoke as if victory were already written.  On the night the results came in, fireworks cracked over the capital while supporters flooded the streets.  The union chief found Tait celebrating and gripped his arm tightly. “You won because of us,” he warned.  Tait smiled, warm and reassuring.  “I never forget my friends.” Across the room, Lim stood very still, already planning the next steps.

    Power changed the air around them.  It came first in small decisions dressed as necessities- regulatory reviews, permit delays, quiet meetings with investors who arrived in dark cars at odd hours and left quietly. The unions began to notice the gradual shifts.  The confrontation came late one night in the governor’s office, Monsoon rain hammering the windows. Tait stared at the anti-strike bill on his desk as though it were written in another language.  “You can’t sign this,” he muttered.  Lim stood beside him, composed as ever. “Investors are watching what we do.” Tait’s voice dropped. “They carried me into office.” Lim slid the pen forward with gentle persuasion.  “And now they expect you to govern.”

    For along time, the only sound was the rain

    Then Tait picked up the pen and signed.

    Destiny changed direction that day.

    The real money arrived with the forest contracts.

   

  Kalimantan interior, vast green endless, poorly defended by the Indigenous, open to those who understand leasing and permits, growth and development better than principles. Lumber concessions multiplied.  Shell companies bloomed overnight.  Helicopters began to replace fishing boats in the brothers’ schedules.  At the grassroots, they were still folk heroes; scholarships still bore their names, and sacks of rice still appeared during floods.  But in the backrooms, the price of access kept climbing.  One evening, as they looked over a map dotted with new leases, Tait let out a low whistle.  “Fast lane now,” he said.  Lim closed the folder with quiet satisfaction.  “No,” he corrected. “Now the road belongs to us.”