From Winnipeg but it could’ve been anywhere: Yesterday was day two of a reported ten-day zero-tolerance approach to open drug use in downtown Winnipeg. What happened last night sits directly in the middle of a toxic drug supply crisis, housing instability, and the enforcement approach unfolding in our city right now, while supervised consumption services continue to face delays. Victor and I, along with our toddler, were on our way to Alleyways Market in the Exchange District. It was one of those beautiful Winnipeg summer evenings where the city felt alive. Patios were full. Sidewalks were busy. Cars lined the streets. It felt good to see our city like that. As we were walking down Bannatyne Avenue towards Main Street, just outside Across The Board Game Café, Victor noticed someone slumped over on the corner. At first glance, a lot of people probably assumed he was sleeping. There was a half-empty two-litre bottle of alcohol beside him, so it would have been easy to tell yourself he had simply passed out. But that is exactly why you do not make assumptions. As usual, Victor did not hesitate. He knows what a drug poisoning can look like, and he knows every minute matters. He walked over and asked if the man was okay. No response. He asked again, louder. Still nothing. He shook his shoulder, then performed a sternum rub. Nothing. Victor carefully lowered him onto his back and checked his breathing and pulse. I pulled out my phone and asked if he wanted me to call 911. I dialled. Busy signal. I tried again. Finally got through. While I was on the phone, Victor clipped the naloxone kit from his belt and administered the first dose. The man was breathing, but only about seven breaths a minute. Far too slow. He remained completely unresponsive. 911 instructed rescue breaths, and Victor immediately began while preparing a second dose of naloxone. Still no response. A few minutes later, I heard a fire truck turn off Main onto Bannatyne Avenue. For a moment I thought they were coming for us. They were not. There was another emergency nearby. Eventually his breathing became more regular. But he still did not wake up. Later, while we debriefed, Victor explained something that has stayed with me ever since. This is increasingly what people on the front lines are seeing. Naloxone reverses opioids. It does not reverse the tranquilizers now contaminating the street supply. The opioid effects can be reversed. The sedation remains. And I have not been able to stop thinking about one thing. He was found because he was visible. It was a busy corner on a Friday night. People were walking in every direction. Cars were passing constantly. He was wearing a bright red shirt. He was not hidden. And somehow, nobody had stopped. I do not write that to shame anyone. I write it because I know how easy it is for a moment like that to be missed entirely in a busy city, or to assume someone else will step in, or to simply be caught in your own direction and not realize what you’ve passed. And I keep coming back to that. Because if he had not been visible, I do not know if he would have been found in time. That is what I keep thinking about when I read about what is happening downtown right now. Over the past two days, I have been reading reports of people experiencing homelessness being searched, detained, having harm reduction supplies confiscated, and being pushed out of the places where outreach workers, harm reduction teams, and healthcare providers know to look for them. And I cannot stop thinking about what that changes. Because when vulnerable people are pushed further from public spaces, further from outreach teams, and further from the supports they rely on, we have to ask what else we are pushing out of sight. We cannot confuse making suffering less visible with making people safer. And during a toxic drug supply crisis, isolation can become deadly. I keep hearing people say they are tired of seeing open drug use in Winnipeg. I understand where that frustration comes from. But I think we need to ask what we are actually reacting to. And maybe the truth is this. We should be angry. But not at people whose lives have been shaped by trauma, substance use disorder, homelessness, poverty, or all of it together. We should be angry that so many people in our community are suffering with nowhere safe to go. We should be angry that people are using substances in public because there is no private place where they will be safe if something goes wrong. We should be angry that the drug supply has become so toxic that drug poisonings often require multiple interventions and people can still remain unconscious afterward. We should be angry that visible suffering is treated as the problem instead of what created it. Mayor Scott Gillingham recently said, “I’ve grown tired of looking out my office window and seeing the same thing.” And I cannot stop thinking about what it means when frustration with visibility becomes the driving force behind how we respond to crisis. Because in Winnipeg, we also need to be honest about who disproportionately carries the weight of these failures. Indigenous people are vastly overrepresented among those experiencing houselessness, among those struggling with substance use, and among those most impacted by systems that continue responding to trauma with punishment instead of care. We cannot talk honestly about this crisis without acknowledging generations of colonial harm, family separation, displacement, systemic poverty, and policies that continue to fail Indigenous communities today. Because if our anger is pointed in the wrong direction, nothing changes. We need to make sure people have support long before crisis becomes survival. Housing. Mental health care people can actually access. Trauma-informed care. Addiction treatment without impossible wait times. Detox. Safe supply. Drug checking. Supervised consumption services. Recovery supports. Connection to community and culture. And prevention for youth long before trauma turns into addiction. This is not about choosing one approach over another. This is not harm reduction or recovery. It is both. People cannot recover if they are dead. Harm reduction is often the first point of connection. It keeps people alive long enough to access housing, healthcare, treatment, or recovery when they are ready. And recovery itself requires systems that are available when people ask for help. We need all of it. Because different people are at different points in survival, and no single approach meets every need. Last night reminded me of something our city needs to understand. Visibility can save lives. That man received help because he was seen. Because he was in public. Because someone stopped. And I cannot stop thinking about what might happen when policies push vulnerable people further away from the places where intervention is possible. We cannot confuse making suffering less visible with making communities safer. Because pushing suffering out of sight does not solve suffering. It simply makes it easier for the rest of us to stop seeing the consequences of our collective failure. The question facing Winnipeg right now is not whether people are tired of witnessing addiction and homelessness. The real question is this: Will we be the kind of community that responds to suffering with care… Or the kind that simply demands suffering disappear? #Winnipeg #DowntownWinnipeg #ExchangeDistrict #AlleywaysMarket #Manitoba