This morning on my way to work in Central Warsaw a man lay passed out at the bus stop. Crutches leaning against the bus stop wall, while he was sprawled on the cold concrete.
I did not see his face. Didn't know who he was.
This isn't a rare sight. Rather, an every day occurrence. A continuing problem in Warsaw.
Sitting on the bus 517, passing Ochota, an older woman, maybe in her sixties, maybe older, it's difficult to tell these days. Kneeling on the hard ground, a tin for money placed at her knees, hands held in front in prayer position, eyes shut, begging for a few measly groszy. Where was her family? Where were her friends? Her brothers, her sisters, sons and daughters, grandchildren. How did she happen to end up in this position, on the side of a busy street at 8am.
This is reality. It's not a one off. There are hundreds of homeless people on the streets of Warsaw, passed out drunks old begger's dropped off in flashy cars, and mothers with babies scouting the trams for generous and naive souls. It's big business, and I'm wondering who's raking in the profits from these innocent individuals who have lost their way in life.
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