From where I stand, this feels like a war.
Not the kind with soldiers or official declarations. The kind that happens quietly, in plain sight—until one day it’s right in front of you.
Last week, a man died on Main Street in Mission.
Out in the open. In a community where people still like to believe, “that doesn’t happen here.”
But it does.
And it’s spreading.
Frontline workers are raising concerns about people showing up in unfamiliar towns—out in the Valley, in places like Surrey and White Rock—disoriented, unsupported, and at risk. There are reports of people being given money and put on buses, ending up far from whatever fragile support system they had.
Think about that for a second.
What happens to someone already struggling when they’re dropped into a place where they know no one?
Now add a toxic, unpredictable drug supply.
This is how people die.
And while this is happening—
Land values keep rising. Luxury towers keep going up. Older buildings are left to decay, then cleared out. Rents climb higher and higher. Communities like the Downtown Eastside are pushed, reshaped, displaced.
We’ve seen these patterns before.
Neglect. Displacement. Erasure.
Over 18,000 people have died in British Columbia since this crisis was declared.
That’s not random. That’s not small. That’s not something we can normalize.
So yes—from where I stand, it feels like a war.
A war on the poor. A war on the vulnerable. A war that doesn’t need weapons you can see.
You can argue about the wording.
But you can’t ignore the reality.
People are being poisoned. People are being pushed out. People are dying in our streets—from Vancouver to Mission and beyond.
And too many are still looking away.
This is about priorities.
Profit over people. Investment over community. Silence over accountability.
We need to start asking harder questions.
We need to start caring about each other again.
Because this isn’t just happening “somewhere else.”
It’s here.
And it’s not stopping.
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