There’s a quiet crisis unfolding across Canada that few people are talking about — the collision between private property rights and the reality of homelessness. Take the case of a Saint John woman who recently found herself in a desperate situation: an encampment had taken root on her land, and she was at a loss for how to handle it. Her plea for help wasn’t just about removing people; it was about navigating a system that seems to offer no clear answers. This isn’t an isolated incident. It’s a microcosm of a deeper societal fracture, one that reflects our collective failure to reconcile compassion with practicality.
What makes this particularly fascinating is how it exposes the absurdity of our current approach to homelessness. On one hand, we’re told to be empathetic, to see the human face behind every encampment. On the other, we’re expected to enforce property laws that feel increasingly outdated in a world where economic instability is the norm. Personally, I think this tension is the fault line of modern urban policy. We’ve created a system where people are literally stuck between a rock and a hard place — literal rocks, in some cases.
Let’s talk about the landowners. They’re not villains. Many are sympathetic, caught in a no-win situation. One woman in Saint John might be asking, ‘How do I protect my property without becoming a monster?’ This isn’t just about legal technicalities; it’s about morality. What does it mean to own land when that ownership can be weaponized against people in dire need? A detail that I find especially interesting is how often these conflicts arise in rural or semi-rural areas, where zoning laws are lax and social services are sparse. It’s a reminder that homelessness isn’t just a city problem — it’s a national crisis with local consequences.
Now, let’s shift focus to the people living in these encampments. They’re not just ‘occupants’ or ‘squatters’; they’re individuals with stories, trauma, and agency. Yet, the way society often frames them — as problems to be solved — strips them of their humanity. This raises a deeper question: Are we solving the symptom or the disease? If you take a step back and think about it, the real issue isn’t the encampments themselves but the systemic failures that create them. Affordable housing shortages, mental health crises, addiction — these are the root causes, not the people living in tents.
The government’s role here is equally fraught. Policies often swing between two extremes: heavy-handed enforcement or naive idealism. What many people don’t realize is that there’s no one-size-fits-all solution. In some cases, relocation programs work. In others, they simply push the problem elsewhere. I’ve seen reports of encampments being moved to industrial zones, which sounds like progress but is just a Band-Aid on a broken leg. The real fix requires investment in long-term solutions, not temporary fixes that make politicians look good in the short term.
Looking ahead, what does this say about our future? If we continue down this path, we’ll see more of these conflicts — more landowners in despair, more people in limbo, and more political posturing. But there’s another way. Imagine a system where property owners aren’t forced to choose between their rights and their humanity. Imagine a society that treats homelessness as a public health issue, not a criminal one. It’s not impossible, but it would require a radical shift in priorities. This isn’t just about encampments; it’s about redefining what it means to be a neighbor, a citizen, and a community.
In the end, the Saint John woman’s story is a call to action — not just for her, but for all of us. We need to stop seeing homelessness as a distant problem and start recognizing it as a mirror held up to our values. The question isn’t whether we can afford to help; it’s whether we can afford not to.
