The Progress of Family

By Stuart Harris

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The man I only know as Zach is waiting just outside the front porch when I approach his semi-detached house. He wears the outfit of someone involved in athletic training: a grey hoodie and matching sweatpants, a half-zipped blue windbreaker, and a pair of sneakers.

“You came on time.” He smiles as we greet each other with a handshake. I am invited through his front door. He tells me not to worry about taking my shoes off as we make our way past his kitchen and dining room table to the living room. I find my place on the edge of the sofa closest to the curtained window, a Bible emblazoned with gold Amharic text lying next to me on the armrest. He grabs a chair and sits on the other side of the coffee table that separates us. Behind him is a contemporary flat-screen TV with a detached antenna, and a PS3 console that likely belongs to his son Ammanuel, who is off at elementary school. As we settle in, his wife, Meseret, descends from the second story to greet us before disappearing into the kitchen.

I thank Zach in advance for his time, and for the care he has provided for my grandfather, Tony. His work means a great deal for our family.

A simple “you’re welcome,” and then he begins.

Zeleke Guduru was 50 years old when he, his wife, and his son arrived in Canada in 2007. His English was not in the greatest of shape. The language was a teaching staple in his home country of Ethiopia, but in this new land it only served as a barrier to continuing in his profession of accounting. If his family were to settle down in Ottawa, he would have to find a means of support. On recommendations from friends, he set his sights on a career as a personal support worker. After seven months of training at Algonquin College, he found a new means to help others and himself. This was all he wanted.

He became a regular staff member at Robertson House, a nursing institution on Richmond Road serving the Bells Corners area. It is the final living quarters for many, a six-floor house where the walls are painted a light tan and the plumbing protrudes from them, the floors are carpeted, and the air is a pungent mix of sanitizer, perfume, and urine. The second floor, the wing for residents with Alzheimer’s or dementia, requires a code for access. He routinely helps these residents, showers them, dresses them, toilets them, shaves them, clips their nails, usually without thanks, sometimes with the bitterness an ailing senior cannot control. With enough repetition, however, some do recognize his work.

Zeleke has a full-time position on the third floor of Robertson House as well. Tony Antonello, my grandfather, is a resident who has always stood out in his eyes. A 92-year-old WWII veteran, he is surprisingly cogniscent, even though he suffers a mild dementia. He is rarely seen without a smile on his face, or his trademark RCAF jacket and baseball cap.

Zeleke loves Tony. Whenever he offers him assistance, Tony is more than willing to cooperate. The two share a similar big heart, and are quick to help each other as well as others who need it. Zeleke enjoys every moment he can spend with Tony, taking him for a walk or reading to him.

On one of his visits, Tony asks, “How did you get here, Zach?”

Soon, Zeleke and Tony are deep in conversation about pre-WWII Italian forces and the Horn of Africa.

In the late 1800s, the Italian invasion of Eritrea, a country bordering the north side of Ethiopia, marked a new age of war and civil unrest for both African countries. Prior to WWII, starting in 1935, Italian forces made their push into Ethiopian territory. The Ethiopian military fought back and took up arms with them in the Eritrean stronghold, now a province of Italian East Africa. After the Italians were finally expelled by Commonwealth armed forces in 1941, the fate of Eritrea was left in the balance. The British administered the territory until 1951, and one year later it was annexed by Ethiopia under the forceful rule of Haile Selassie I. Ethiopia’s disregard for the Eritrean population led to the formation of an Eritrean independence movement, which sparked a 30-year-long conflict with a succession of Ethiopian governments.

When Zeleke was still a student, living with his family in Ethiopia’s capital city of Addis Ababa, the monarchy of Emperor Haile Selassie I was uprooted by a military junta known as the Derg in 1974. This marked the beginning of an Ethiopian civil war, and the largest centre of the resistance was the province of Eritrea.

It was a period of utter turmoil for Ethiopia. From 1977 to 1978, the Derg’s Red Terror purged an estimated 30,000 to 500,000 people, many suspected as enemies of the new rule. Brutal resettlement of the Ethiopian people began in the 1980s. Shortly after, a hard period of drought and famine affected roughly eight million civilians, killing one million and forcing many more to relocate to surrounding Somalia or Sudan. The clash of Eritrean forces for independence continued against the junta.

In 1981, Zeleke was 25 years old, working as a junior accountant on UN government state farmland. He decided to quit Ethiopia for the sake of his own survival. It was disheartening for him to leave his parents and seven siblings behind, a family that he would have to pay travel money to see again today, setting out into an uncertain future, alone. In the unity of other strangers, deportees, and emigrants, he travelled by bus beyond the border of neighbouring Somalia.

He was greeted with another turbulent power struggle. Numerous tribes, many with physical arms and each with their own ideas of how to rule Somalia, fought tirelessly in a futile battle for supremacy.

Zeleke only stayed in Somalia for seven months. The refugee camp that the UN tried to maintain was disorganized and broken in the conflict that took place. When he had nowhere else to go for shelter, he stayed at a corner teashop he frequented some nights, a small establishment constructed from chip wood and a simple tarp for a roof. He would lay down a bed of cartons to sleep on. He did not know the owner well, but he was allowed to stay at the shop so long as he cleaned up after himself, which he always made sure to do.

Life could not continue like this, and Zeleke had one other option. He had heard stories of emigrants who had made their way to Yemen via the Gulf of Aden. It would be a risky proposition, but he had saved enough money to pay the illegal ferry to get him there.

Between the Red Sea and the Indian Ocean lies the wide, connecting channel of the Gulf of Aden (when Zach tells me this, it sounds like “Eden”). On the other side of the channel lies Yemen, where the southern border is on high alert, keeping their eyes open for smugglers of illegal immigrants who might boat across. A person who wanted to go unnoticed would have to make the journey across under the veil of night.

At the northern border of Somalia, Zeleke paid the ferryman 100 American dollars.

The boats they used were old and rather small, certainly not big enough to cram 200 men, women, and children bound to settle in a more peaceful land. Each and every person who could hold a bucket was given one.

The night of Zeleke’s first venture across the channel, the waters churned and rocked without remorse. Waves higher than two-story rooftops, veritable walls of water, smashed and heaved against the tiny boat where so many were bundled together, cold and seasick. Many began to vomit. Women were in tears, huddling to protect their children. The tiny vessel was perpetually on the verge of capsizing or sinking from the constant influx of water, and passengers had no time to rest in bailing out as much as they could with their buckets.

The ride only lasted an hour. The ferryman realized that it was too dangerous to continue trying to make headway, and the boat was forced to turn back to the shores of Somalia to cross on another night.

It would be another 15 days in Somalia before Zeleke would get another opportunity to cross. The second attempt was nothing like the first. The water was much more calm and welcoming, and the night was still. Within twenty-four hours, he had reached the southern shores of Yemen. From there, he would settle in Aden.

Compared to the hostilities in Ethiopia and Somalia at the time, Aden was a relatively peaceful city on the southern border of Yemen. It was an established British colony, and there was much less violence.

Zeleke was finally able to find a steady home there, sharing a small apartment space with  roommates. To keep up his rent, however, he still had to work tirelessly. He worked days and nights as a hotel receptionist, earning about 50 dollars every month. This was only just enough money to pay his rent.

When he entered Aden, he was broke. He had spent whatever money he had on the ferry. Thankfully, the UN was able to supplement his resources every month with a litre of oil and 50 kilograms of flour, but it still wasn’t very much.

Zeleke joined the Anglican Church after arriving in Aden. There, he met the woman who would be his wife, Meseret, who had flown into Yemen directly from Ethiopia. The two were married in the church, and their son, Ammanuel, was born soon after. (As he explains this to me, Meseret goes to fetch the wedding photos that preserved this point in their lives. She discovers that not the whole album survived the move into their new home, but she did salvage a small stack of the colour prints that were left. A number of them depicted the common image of the bride and groom, he in black suit and she in white wedding gown, hand in hand, smiling. They stood against a backdrop of exotic floral greens.)

Zeleke’s new family lived a total of 13 years in Yemen. Meseret’s sister, a member of their church in Canada, would sponsor them to immigrate to Canada.

The job of a personal support worker is difficult and tiring. Often there is a disconnect between the person who provides care and the resident who is being cared for, each unaware of the experiences of the other. But Zeleke respects these residents. He understands that, someday, he may find himself in their place.

Under his care, Tony is alert and aware, traits that Zeleke has always admired about the man. During their reading sessions, Tony is able to read without the aid of glasses and retain what he has picked up from the page. Whenever Zeleke asks if he is feeling tired, he typically responds “no”.  Zeleke does his best to reflect this simple statement of will, and in this way the two help each other.

On one of his visits, in 2011, Tony asks, “When was the last time you saw your mother, Zach?” And Zeleke tells him that he hasn’t seen his family since he left Ethiopia, when his pilgrimage began.

Just as Zeleke wants nothing more than to help Tony, Tony wants nothing more than to help Zach. He provides Zach with funding to travel. After our family finalizes the arrangements, Zach receives the opportunity to reunite with the family he left behind in Ethiopia, something he is forever grateful for.

It is the first time he has seen his family in 17 years. 

When Zach finishes his story, I thank him again for his time. He insists that I stay for a bite to eat. I tell him that I appreciate the gesture, but that I had already eaten before I came to visit. Still, he wishes for me to stay. He is just like Tony; if it means he can provide help or hospitality, he won’t take no for an answer.

He gestures for me to take a seat at the dining room table, and I oblige without another thought. Meseret emerges from the kitchen with our meal and joins us. She puts a small salad bowl on the table, which is then dwarfed by a spaghetti casserole with a toasted cheese layer, baked in an oven pan the size of a large drum. This is followed by a saucer of butter, and a loaf of bread so thick that it could be used as a weapon once it goes stale.

Zach and Meseret bow their heads to say grace, and I join in. The words that come out of Zach’s mouth are completely alien to me. I realize he must be speaking in Amharic, his mother tongue. When he is finished, we pick up our forks to eat, and for a short time, we are silent. I inquire about the prayer.

“I am thanking God for the food on this table,” he says to me. “And that I might have this opportunity to meet my family.”

When he says this, he is looking directly at me.  

Finding the Right Ingredients

By Mia Maloney

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The new Elmdale Tavern remains nearly the same as it once was: long and narrow and lit only by a slit of windows at the front of the bar. Even the sign outside remains virtually untouched. But owners Joshua Bishop and Peter McCallum have given the tavern a new life. Tucked into the freshly varnished wood of the bar that runs the length of the room, one of the Elmdale’s chefs, Eric Bimm and I are chatting over a few craft beers and some freshly shucked oysters. While the tavern itself hasn’t been dramatically overhauled, a big change has taken place in their kitchen. It’s the reason Eric says he works for these guys — something that started years ago in smaller joints not unlike this one, but today, has grown so much, it’s been adopted by food giants like Sobeys and President’s Choice. The change is that restaurants, suppliers and grocery stores are sourcing their foods primarily from local farms and making that a transparent selling feature. Foods come not only from a close radius, but consumers can know about the farmer and what they farm.

Eric and I agree that this movement represents positive change. Getting away from the mass produced or genetically modified foods as the only choice will affect the food system at all levels. But while the local farmer might be cashing in, diners might be losing out. Despite our love of local, we like to branch out now and then as well, and we suspect other diners do too.

Both Eric and I are lifelong locavores (consumers of local food and product), a route chosen by proximity rather than by trend. For Eric, becoming a chef was a birthright. Despite his best efforts to branch off, at 16 he began his career in the dish pit of his grandmother’s patisserie, Le Faisan Gourmand, in Wakefield, Quebec. There, Eric trained beneath his mother and grandmother in the art of French cuisine, an internship any classically trained French cook would die to have. But what he gained more than inherited knowledge was a passion for locally sourced, quality foods. It’s no accident that Eric has over the years worked for a number of restaurants, including the Elmdale, that share his passion for not only locally sourced foods, but foods that adhere to rigorous ecological standards.

My introduction to local foods came a little differently. I was raised in Lanark County, Ontario where I can remember one evening our family piled into our butter-coloured Dodge Caravan and drove to a farmhouse not five minutes from my dad’s garage. We’d been invited to dinner by a friendly older couple, and along with the modest serving of mashed potatoes and meat, there was a non-stop flow of fresh, cold milk. When we left dinner, bellies full, they handed us a few litres of their farm’s milk. The milk was great, maybe even the best I’ve ever had, but what really stayed with me was that it came from a real, local farm. My dad worked in a garage fixing and selling farm equipment, so he relied on the farmer’s business for his own. It is an important cycle; without the farmer, there’s no need for a farm equipment mechanic, and with no one to repair the farm equipment, fields are left unplowed and grains are left unsold. The food we bring to the table not only feeds us, but it can feed our communities as well.   

The transparent choice sometimes goes by a few different names: locavore, local food systems, the 100-mile diet. But for world-renowned chef Jamie Oliver, “naked” best serves the movement. When I was 14, The Naked Chef appeared on our Bell Satellite guide. Both intrigued and terrified that I might wind up tuning in to see a naked man cooking bacon or a naked man cooking bacon, I tuned in anyway. As it turned out, The Naked Chef was neither naked nor cooking bacon. The “naked” referred to a cooking style that involved “stripping down” recipes sourcing fresh, seasonal and readily available ingredients. Oliver even went so far as to serve his food directly off his butcher-block table, giving his guests only a fork and a bon appetit to eat with. The show lasted only three seasons, but Jamie Oliver became a household name and his “naked” approach spoke to my already burgeoning interest in the culinary arts. I eventually found my way into culinary school, worked as a chef, started a small catering business, and a recipe blog. My love of food, cooking and the “local” mantra even propelled me into becoming a writer. But while Eric and I look into the mugs of our rapidly disappearing Carling Avenue beer, we begin discussing the other side of this trend.

Local food systems do present a positive change in the way we approach our food. They promote human rights, animal welfare, sustainability, environmental impacts, and health and food safety. Buying from a source as close as an urban garden can even influence the way global foods are transported, or the way farmers globally manage the fair-trade market. However, local foods may not always represent the highest quality, most sustainable or even the most nutritious choice: “local” does not necessarily encompass all of these things. The argument for GMOs is science and standardization, and the argument for global, is: Who are we to deprive the Ugandan farmer of his right to prosperity? Just because a menu reads like a wonderful list of happy local suppliers doesn’t mean you, the consumer, are getting the best bang for your buck. In fact, some restaurateurs have capitalized on the marketability of the term “local.” 

Eating out one night, after reading a menu that appeared to be a brag-list of suppliers: O’Brien Farms' beef, Le Coprin mushrooms, and Upper Canada Cranberries, things not only became convoluted — I’ll have the steak and mushrooms with cranberry jam — they became disappointing. As I looked down at the three meagre — but local! — ingredients on my $35 plate, I thought “this stripped-down approach has gone too far.” While I was happy to support the local farms from which my ingredients were procured, I felt ripped off by what wasn’t on my plate. The reality is that your run-of-the-mill GMO foods would have filled my belly, and at a fraction of the cost.

However, this doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t choose my dad’s garden tomatoes that pack so much punch you barely miss the bacon in his bacon-less BLTs, or that Eric wouldn’t prefer his grandmother’s perfect crumbly-crust pie, with its mounds of thinly sliced, local orchard apples, over a store-bought one any day. What it does mean is that being a knowledgeable consumer is key. “Knowing where something came from,” Eric says, “how it is grown, is nothing but beneficial for the consumer.” 

There can be a comfortable medium between local and global; it’s just a matter of finding the right ingredients. It’s where places like the Elmdale Tavern arrive at happy terms. While Eric says they source all they can from local suppliers, their primarily seafood menu must come from a little farther. That doesn’t mean that Eric or owners Joshua Bishop and Peter McCallum will compromise on their ethics. The ocean-wise seafood they source is only chosen because of its high standards; the same standards they demand from the local items that accompany them. You will never see them source Albacore tuna just because Albacore tuna is sustainable, nor will they only sell carp because it’s a protein available in the Rideau Canal.

I can say, finishing up the last of my beer that was brewed down the road and the oysters that have travelled from Prince Edward Island, that I'm happy places like the Elmdale give me choice. I can have local and global and feel good about both.

The Heart of Hintonburg

By Dave Didylowski

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I showed up early to speak with the owner, but that’s not the point. The fact is I had a fine cheeseburger (with mandatory sautéed onions) and a cold quart of beer as I killed time in my favorite tavern. Damn, I missed this place.

Fifteen years ago, while employed at the Tunney’s Pasture complex on the edge of Ottawa’s Hintonburg-Mechanicsville area, I would go for walks through the working-class neighbourhood and down the then gritty Wellington Street West. Other days I would have lunch with my co-workers at the Carleton Tavern (the CT) on Armstrong and Parkdale. It was then that I met the Saikley brothers: Simon, Sam and Billy.

The building dates back to 1935 and was then known as the Carleton Hotel. Beginning in 1962, their father owned the restaurant next door and supplied food to the “hotel.” The family of eight worked at the restaurant and lived upstairs in a small apartment. In 1989, the owners decided to sell and the Saikley family was given the first chance to take ownership. The family asked Simon if he wanted to manage the new establishment and, although hesitant at first, he accepted. After nearly a quarter century, he is still running the place.

The tavern remains one of the few touchstones to the old neighbourhood. It’s not a restaurant or a bar, although they serve food and drink. It is a tavern, and embodies everything that term conjures up.  

The interior of the white, pre-World War II building is covered in wood panelling and decorated with swag from breweries, big-screen televisions and pictures of Carleton-sponsored sports team from years ago. There is also a pool table and a jukebox for your amusement. The beer is cold and served in quart bottles, which only adds to the tavern atmosphere.  At small wooden tables, older men discuss sports and politics as they drink. Even when I was younger, I loved places like the Carleton and would gravitate towards them.

The polite term for what the Carleton has is “personality.” Like with people, its character can be judged as good or bad, but not indifferent. The heart of the tavern’s personality lies with the brothers. Sam and Billy take care of the kitchen, while Simon handles the day-to-day business of the tavern.

The most visible and vocal of the three is Billy. He is usually running food from the kitchen and empty plates from tables. In between his duties, Billy can be found talking trash about the Montreal Canadiens and defending his beloved Toronto Maple Leafs. Dishing out good-natured insults with the frequency of chicken wings is his way of thanking you for your patronage and telling you that you belong at the CT. It feels good to be appreciated by the establishment you help support.

Over the past decade, the Hintonburg area has changed. Re-development throughout Ottawa has meant that working-class neighbourhoods have become increasingly upscale. Simon recalls the neighbourhood was “a blue-collar area surrounded by factories” but that is the past. The area is now known as Wellington Street West and advertised as a “Creative and Eclectic Urban Shopping District.”

The instigating factor for this change is the replacing of houses and small buildings with luxury condominiums. This is especially evident on Holland and Parkdale Avenues and Wellington Street West.  Simon agrees and believes that the area has “gone away from being blue collar.” Considering his long history with the neighbourhood, he would know as well as anyone.

The owners of these condo units are generally well-off and have a lifestyle that reflects their wealth. Businesses that suit these tastes have become commonplace. This is exemplified by a number of art galleries, fitness studios and eclectic restaurants that have popped up over the last few years. On a positive note, I see this as a reminder of the bustling hub that this area once was.

Some restaurants have at least attempted to preserve the personality of the old neighbourhood. Earlier this year, the Elmdale Tavern was purchased by the owners of the Whalesbone Oyster House on Bank Street. By keeping the interior similar to the way it was and bringing in sustainable seafood, they have tried to reach the middleground of being an “upscale tavern.” Reviews have been mostly favourable, but people expect more affordable fare in a tavern setting.

I wondered how a place like the Carleton has managed to survive during thesetrying times.

Not only has there been a change in the clientele in the area, but also increased competition in attracting those customers. Coupled with these concerns over changes in the urban landscape, people talked a few years ago about the effect of federal government job cuts on businesses near government offices. Simon sees the effects as give and take. Lunches are slower, evening crowds are larger and they are still in business.

After some pondering, and another quart, I concluded that The Carleton is what it has always been, a place for people to gather, drink, eat and have some fun. It’s nothing fancy and you might be overcome by the feeling that you are in someone’s rec room. It was retro before retro was cool. It doesn’t pretend to be something that it isn’t. It’s a dive bar and that isn’t a bad thing. Love it or leave it.

The Carleton is a fixture in this changing neighbourhood. It reminds me of the way Simon says it used to be, the neighbourhood as one big family. The Carleton’s annual Christmas dinner for the less fortunate conveys this feeling well. For the last 10 years, in conjunction with the local community association, the Carleton has provided Christmas Day meals for those who are “homeless, home alone or people who need to be with somebody on Christmas Day,” says Simon.

A sure sign of the times is the Carleton’s presence on social media.  Their Facebook page has 587 Likes and reports 2270 people having been there. They are also featured favourably on the food and drink sites Yelp and Foursquare. This is the Carleton’s way of growing with the changing times and getting their name out there. As Simon says, “advertising isn’t in a phone book or a newspaper anymore.”

In terms of the future, Simon has no plans of retiring any time soon but concedes that he isn’t the only deciding voice in the tavern. They have been approached by developers, but are too busy making a living to consider that option. “Who knows what will happen as time goes on,” says Simon wistfully. With a laugh, he concludes “it’s better not to know.”

At the end of our conversation, Simon mentioned that he had passed me on the street a few times towards the end of my stint at Statistics Canada and that I didn’t seem to be my normal self. He was so right: I was miserable at my job. We agreed that my old self was back and he was happy to see that. Much like the Carleton, I’m the same as I ever was. It’s amazing how simple words can make a person feel good—and I always feel good when I’m at the Carleton.

Footing The Bill: On Tackling The Offensive

Will high bill attached to the controversy over the Nepean Redskins put financial strain on players’ families?

By Alex Scantlebury

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On September 19th the Nepean Redskins Football Club gave in to pressure to change their name. Ian Campeau, a local Aboriginal DJ, filed a human rights complaint against the organization stating that the name is demeaning to Aboriginal people. The Nepean football team was named the Redskins in 1981. The team originally operated under a private owner, but handed the reins over to the community in 1996. Now, 17 years later, the organization and all the families involved are suffering for the decisions of those who came before them.             

I am of Aboriginal heritage, but I think Ian Campeau is out of line with some of his statements. One of his arguments is that he doesn’t want his daughter to grow up hearing the term “redskin.” Strangely enough, Campeau’s music group, A Tribe Called Red (which could be considered offensive as well), has a song titled “Redskin Girl” and the song doesn’t have any lyrics at all, let alone lyrics to justify the title. This is a publicity stunt, and is hypocritical on an epic level.

Changing the name may be a step in the right direction in the fight to establish equality for all Canadians, but was it done for the right reasons, and was the price too high? The final number for the name change is $100,000. The families whose children play within this organization will bear the brunt of the cost for many years to come. The Nepean Redskins are an organization that relies heavily on funding to provide recreational football at an affordable cost. Now, families will have to supplement for the rental cost of field time and for their children to have access to proper equipment, not to mention the extra activities in which players, coaches and community members participate.

As a former football player, I never played outside of my high school teams in any sport; the cost of community sports was just too high for my single mother to afford. There is already enough of a challenge getting our young people, regardless of ethnicity, into organized sports, and this has just compounded the problem for one part of our city.

If you want to change the world, even in the smallest of ways, make sure you are willing to lead by example, and that you understand all of the consequences of your actions, both the good and the bad.

 

Safety First: A New Approach To Addictions

Proposed safe injection site has locals up in arms, but would have its merits.

By: Pierre Corbett-Roy

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Residents of Ottawa’s downtown core are well aware that drug use in the area is rampant, and this has been a source of concern for many years. On September 30, 2013, a mock injection site was opened to give residents a chance to see how such a site would operate if one were ever allowed to be opened in the city.

Currently, there is only one such site in all of Canada – the Insite Facility in Vancouver – but many groups, such as the Drug Users Advocacy League (DUAL), are applying to open similar sites in the capital. The safe injection site would provide clean needles and a safe, supervised environment for those who are addicted to heroin and other hard drugs.

Many residents are up in arms over the initiative, claiming that providing a safe area for addicts to inject would only promote and potentially increase drug use in the downtown core. Some claim that opening such a site would decrease residents’ safety, and could end up costing taxpayers more money in the long run.

I do not believe that having a safe injection site would promote or increase drug use. It seems farfetched that people who normally wouldn’t inject heroin would be inclined to do so simply because they could do it in a safe environment. Addicts will continue to buy and inject their drugs whether they can do it in a safe, clean environment or not.

It is my opinion that having a designated area could actually increase safety to the downtown residents. As a resident of Lowertown, I’ve often come across addicts in my backyard seeking refuge from the crowded streets to inject. Instead of sneaking around, users could simply head to the designated area to inject. This would definitely decrease the number of loose needles found in public places.

According to many reports, Ottawa also has one of the country’s highest HIV rates, second only to Toronto. Unfortunately, a large number of those affected are addicts. Ensuring that users are using clean needles seems like a logical way to reduce the number of people affected by this disease. Also, unsupervised injection often results in overdose. Allowing users to inject in a supervised area could theoretically decrease the number of heroin overdoses. Decreased cases of both HIV and overdoses may actually save taxpayers a few dollars. A healthy society inevitably means taxpayers are paying less money towards healthcare.

The implementation of a safe injection site will continue to cause much debate among residents and non-residents of Ottawa’s downtown core, but it must be discussed nonetheless. The city has turned a blind eye to the issue and has maintained the status quo when it comes to drug use. I’ve often heard the expression, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” but in this case, I believe some fixing is in order.