“You know they only use it for drugs?” said a friend a few years ago when I opened my car window to give R10 to a young woman asking for money at a traffic light.

“Perhaps,” I answered. “But what if she really needs it to feed her children or to get a place in a hostel or to buy food?”

My friend threw her eyes heavenwards, clearly thinking that I’m too gullible.

As we drove on in silence, I thought about my first boyfriend at school. We were both 15 years old – and it was the sweet innocence of first love. His parents were lecturers at the University of Stellenbosch as were mine. He went to the posh boys’ school, I to the girls’ school across the road. He brought me big slabs of chocolate and sweet notes declaring his eternal love and devotion.

However, as it goes with young love, it did not last long. We kept in contact through our final school years and university days.  After graduating, he went on to become a journalist at one of the big Cape Town newspapers. I went into politics.

A decade later when I launched a big Irish property development in St Georges Mall as South African Ambassador to Ireland, he came over to say hello at the press conference and we promised to stay in touch. 

We didn’t.

About a year later, my mum called. “You haven’t perhaps heard from him?” she asked. To my shock, she told me that his parents had shared the news that he had been homeless for a while. Apparently, his mental health had deteriorated to such an extent that he could no longer hold down his job, and despite his family’s offers of help he ended up living on the streets. Initially, they had contact with him, but no one had heard from him in months.

“Hi, are you there? I’m worried”, I emailed him, hoping to get a response.

There was none.

Back in Cape Town, homeless people became visible to me as I would look intently at them, hoping to spot his face.

I never did.   

Two years later, I received an invite to his funeral. Bones had been found in the mountains outside Cape Town and dental records proved that they were his. It looked like he had gone for a walk and fell – leaving us to agonise about how long he had been lying alone before he died.

 At his funeral, I thought about the bars of chocolate and love notes, about how he once ran from the Strand to Gordon’s Bay to see me, and all the conversations we had about what we wanted to achieve in life.

 “How many other homeless people had big dreams that were destroyed through a wrong roll of life’s dice?” I wondered sadly.  

 A few weeks ago, I thought about this again, when I heard Cape Town Mayor Geordin Hill-Lewis on the radio, talking about additional resources that the Cape Town City Council is making available to address the homelessness crisis in the City.

 What really caught my attention were the words that Hill-Lewis used. “Cape Town must be, first and foremost, a caring city that demonstrates respect, dignity, and inclusivity in dealing with complex social problems like burgeoning homelessness,” he said. Not often that one hears words like these from politicians.

 In Cape Town, presumably like in all other cities, the extent of the homelessness crisis has become a lot more visible since lockdown. Those living in the suburbs often throw their hands in the air arguing that “these people” have moved into “our” (!) areas since COVID. Yet, people who work in this field argue that homeless people have just become more visible since court judgments made evictions illegal during the State of Disaster. This meant that the homeless were no longer hiding out of fear of eviction or arrest.

 Hill-Lewis and the City are now trying to help through programmes of reintegration and providing additional spaces in shelters, as well as by providing more psychiatric and addiction assistance.

 This can only be welcomed.

 South Africa’s homeless crisis will grow as economic pressure increases on - particularly- the most vulnerable in society. On a personal level, it is important for all of us to fight compassion fatigue. Although I don’t always succeed, I try to remember that behind every person on the street there is a story of loss and pain.

 When I am now asked why I give money, I answer: “I give because I have more. I give because it could have been my high school sweetheart. I give because somewhere there is a mother hoping for some kindness from a stranger to her lost son or daughter. I give because that is what it means to be caring and compassionate.”

 Yes, perhaps the money is used to - for a short while - numb the horror of being exposed to the elements, but perhaps it is used for food or a night in a warm bed in a shelter.

 We need the big resources and plans like those of Hill-Lewis and the City of Cape Town, but on a human level, we also need to really grapple with how we respond when we are asked for help.