Almost a decade ago, I visited San Francisco for a developer conference. I got off the train and walked straight into the crack district. Before me were some of the most retched people I have ever seen, most passed out, limbs arranged unnaturally, as if they had just dropped. Some had soiled themselves. Those awake and conscious enough, were staring. At. Me. Clearly a tourist. It made me nervous, but having entered, I couldn’t turn back. So I kept going, dragging my giant bright red suitcase as quickly as I could up the hill towards my hotel. Other than being cornered briefly by a man holding a rock, who wanted to know if I could see Jesus’ face in it, I made it through without incident.

Once my safety was assured, I took a moment to process what I had just witnessed. I’ve felt unsafe before and am no stranger to the ravages of substance abuse, having lived in Melbourne’s more drug-addled suburbs and even with a not-quite-recovered heroin addict in the sharehouse days of my youth. In Edinburgh, too I have plenty of passing interactions with those suffering from addiction. What struck me about those in the Tenderloin, however, is their complete and utter loss of human dignity.

Societies often resist directing support to those with addiction, worried that no good can be done. The differences we see in outcomes from one community to the next are, however, telling. Not only for those struggling but also for their wider communities. It is essential that we never give up on our most vulnerable.