Two nights ago I was
coming home from a group meditation and I experienced something that almost made me come
undone. It was 10pm on a bitterly cold winter's night, teeming with rain, and
there was a homeless man on his knees proffering a paper cup to the thighs of
dallying drunks and harried corporates rushing by for shelter. I crossed the
road to give him $5 and, in a soft, gentle voice completely incongruous with
someone who is living a hard life, he thanked me and said he hoped I got home
safely. I have never felt more guilty for having a home to go to. I had to turn
away because my eyes were leaking for reasons that had nothing to do with the
rain.
There are so many
homeless people around Sydney – particularly noticeable at this time of year,
when it’s so cold – and sometimes walking to work in the city past so many people
hiding under tattered blankets is to run an emotional gauntlet. I do give money
to a few of them on a regular basis, but there are so many that I have to limit
it to only two people, and I have to admit I do find myself subsiding into a state of compassion fatigue.
Basically, I become
so used to seeing people in these wretched conditions that it has become normal
to me. Which means I do nothing to help, despite my life of extraordinary
privilege. Note to self: there is nothing normal about this level of human
suffering.
I know people who
refuse to give money to homeless people on the assumption that they will only
spend the money on ice (that’s the drug Americans know as meth, and New
Zealanders know as P). I have always thought that it’s not my place to judge
someone for what they do with their money, and frankly, if someone is on a
street corner dressed in rags and reeking of urine, they need my gold coins
far, far more than I do. There’s nothing I can do with that meagre amount of
money that will hold as much value to me as it will for someone living in the
depths of despair, whose entire existence depends on the kindness of strangers.
That said, I have no judgement towards people who opt not to give their money
to homeless people. Your money is your own, and you’re certainly not obliged to
give it to anyone.
I think I
harden my heart against the homeless sometimes out of a fear that it will
upset me (for good reason). For that reason, my response typically goes one of two ways: I’ll hurry
by and distract myself so I don’t look (which makes me feel guilty). Or I’ll
give money but practically throw it at them, speeding off before I can hear
them speak to me. I know logically that I can only give so much (although I
could certainly do with giving more than I have been) and I can’t help
everyone, so my guilt is misguided – not to mention unhelpful. I also know
that, in truth, kindness isn’t really kindness if I’m giving begrudgingly or
defensively. It would probably be more valuable to actually have a conversation
with homeless people, ask them questions and listen to their opinions, to
remind them that they matter (we all need to be reminded of that, actually), and
perhaps bring them a sandwich, a banana and a newspaper. This is one solution I’m
considering.
It’s pretty clear by
my increasing discomfort levels that I need to change my approach to this morally
complex situation, and I don’t think money is the answer.
The ‘how’ is
probably less important than the ‘why’. And the ‘why’ is because compassion is
one of my fundamental beliefs. Mother Teresa knew a thing or two about kindness
so I’ll throw to her now: “I prefer you to make mistakes in kindness than work
miracles in unkindness.”
Quite.