Saturday, 23 January 2016

Missing documents and Schubert: losing and finding your identity in the Ukraine and Slovakia


Beside Kiev railway station there is a space the size of a small waiting room and on this dank December evening the first homeless people are filing in, some a little hesitantly as this is a new destination; until recently they were sleeping rough outside and in derelict buildings or tunnels – anywhere to escape the vicissitudes of the harsh Ukrainian winter.  

The room has been made habitable through the installation of benches by Depaul International in response to an urgent request from the beleaguered railway authorities, struggling to cope with the hundreds of destitute people living rough in the vicinity of the station. I and fellow trustees from the London Housing Foundation (LHF), a grant-making charity providing financial support for Depaul’s work in the Ukraine and Slovakia, are visiting to witness at first hand the homelessness situation in these countries and the impact of Depaul’s work.

Svetlana shows no reticence in talking about her situation. Following the loss of her identification documents she has been sleeping rough for a number of weeks. Despite an itinerant lifestyle Svetlana has been working regularly, but now the loss of her papers has rendered her unemployable. Given that the night ahead will require her to sleep sitting upright squeezed between other bodies, Svetlana is unnervingly cheerful though her chirpiness, she explains, is due to relief at not having to sleep outside in sub-zero temperatures.  

In the Ukraine the consequences of being without the right documents cannot be over-emphasised.   This is not an issue akin to the temporary inconvenience suffered by a UK rough sleeper awaiting the arrival of a replica birth certificate to have a benefit claim authorised.  In the Ukraine there is an incessant requirement for papers to be presented and stamped. Documents are essential for securing accommodation, medical care and legal employment and the result of being without documents is invariably homelessness and destitution. 

Throughout our visit it was reported with depressing consistency that often more than a year will elapse before lost documents are replaced and from support staff working with the homeless we heard that, astonishingly, some people had been without documents since the time of the dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991.  We may rhetorically speak of homeless people being invisible, but in the Ukraine it seems there is a group of destitute people who are essentially stateless, non-persons.

In the last few years Depaul has worked with tenacity and imagination to provide basic services to a vast number of homeless people in the Ukraine and Slovakia. In Slovakia’s capital Bratislava we visit a former warehouse, upgraded with financial assistance from the LHF to shelter the homeless of the city.  By UK standards it is rudimentary. The cloying, sickly-sweet smell of unwashed bodies hangs in the air.  The year before the shelter opened, 26 people died on the city’s streets during the brutal winter months. This figure fell to zero the year the shelter became operational. 

An hour’s drive from Odessa in southern Ukraine, Depaul has built two houses, one for men and another for women.  At the women’s house we meet three women determinedly re-building their lives. They have bleak stories of violent relationships, addiction and children taken into care and speak with quiet dignity about their hopes and dreams and the benefits of being away from the city and its tensions.  Here, they agree, ‘it is a fairy tale’. 

Then one of the women who has spoken movingly about her former life as a musician opens up a battered violin case.  Tenderly taking out the instrument she embarks on a beautiful rendition of Schubert’s Ave Maria.  Somehow, the importance of identity, self-worth and hope is perfectly encapsulated in the aching melancholy of the piece; we are stunned by this special moment.

We spent three days witnessing the struggle of people painstakingly attempting to rebuild lives from the rubble of traumatic pasts in conditions that seemed at times unremittingly bleak. Systems, especially those requiring documentation to negotiate them, appeared designed to create barriers rather than to offer hope or encourage initiative.  The resilience and unquenchable spirit of many of the homeless people we met in the face of such obstacles was remarkable. 

We are, of course, committed to assessing the impact of all the services we fund.  But, in truth, I have no idea how Depaul’s essential work can be given a real numerical or financial value. What is the worth of preventing 26 people dying on the streets of Bratislava?  Measure that my friends – measure that.         
         
This blog was originally published in Inside Housing on 22nd January 2016      

          


Wednesday, 23 December 2015

Passion and outrage are essential but not enough - In memory of Chris Holmes

This blog was originally published in December 2015 as one of a series of essays to commemorate
 the life of Chris Holmes who made an extraordinary contribution to tackling homelessness. The complete set of essays can be found at http://bit.ly/1O1TFxT



The speaker is in full flow and has the audience at the homelessness conference in his grip. He is a powerful speaker and his controlled anger is palpable as he jabs the air with his forefinger. It is a familiar litany of observations about how the poor are under attack and the homeless are in the firing line, their lives blighted by a series of brutal government policies and incomprehensible funding decisions taken by local authorities. Welfare benefit cuts are castigated, unimaginative local commissioning of homelessness services ridiculed and the inadequacy of the housing safety net laid bare. 

The congregation of homelessness sector representatives have heard this type of denunciation before. It is well articulated and impassioned, ending with a call to action to resist at all costs the stripping back of services to the homeless and vulnerable. We cannot forever go on papering over the cracks he concludes and, in truth, who could disagree with the substance of his speech? The applause is loud and sustained.

Yet as I file out of the auditorium with my uplifted colleagues my mood is pensively downbeat. It is an unexpected feeling, which I explore on the train journey home. What is certain is that there is no shortage of passion within the homelessness sector. The recent Conservative election victory has not blunted the outrage provoked by what many colleagues regard as a calculated onslaught on society’s poorest who are expected to bear a disproportionate share of the burden of austerity. There is a fervent commitment to protect services and defend the homeless. The rhetoric is of the broadly oppositional, unspecific and authentic. Phrases that littered the conference included “we must stand shoulder to shoulder”, “draw a line in the sand to prevent the commissioning of services on the cheap” and “fight tooth and nail against any more benefit cuts”.

I’m old. The language of determined opposition takes me back to the 1980s and 1990s. There are perturbing similarities with our own times; a triumphant Conservative government determined to reduce spending and roll back the state, a Labour opposition weakened by defeat and disunity and, of course, an inexorable rise in the numbers of people sleeping rough on the streets.

As a young outreach worker in my 20s walking the streets of streets of central London, the relentless growth in the rough sleeping population was monstrously debilitating.  For each person for whom we were able to find a hostel bed, a far greater number came on to the street for the first time. Benefit restrictions imposed on young people had a direct and rapid impact on the numbers under the age of 25 sleeping rough, which, when it struck, was a new and disheartening phenomenon.

And then there was Lincolns Inn Fields, a park in central London inhabited by a vast population of rough sleepers, incongruously encircled by barristers’ chambers. Every night we visited this cardboard city of the homeless, trying to find a way out for the inhabitants, some of whom had lived there for months, even years. Living in Lincolns Inn Fields was a dangerous and unpleasant experience. Assaults on rough sleepers by members of the public were a regular occurrence, as were fights between those sleeping there. The common view was that the rat population of Lincolns Inn Fields probably exceeded the human.

Apart from my sense of despair, I was aware too of another competing feeling. It was one of moral superiority and righteousness in the face of the deteriorating situation for the homeless in London. We were the foot soldiers, out at night doing what we could to pick up the pieces in response to government wickedness and incompetence. A peculiar sustenance could be acquired from glory in defeat. Oddly we, like the other services working with the homeless, operated largely in an organisational bubble. Occasionally we would meet another outreach team on the streets and there would be a courteous exchange, a nod to indicate camaraderie, and then we would walk on and away.

Visible rough sleeping creates a potent picture. Images of bodies huddled on the street leave an indelible impression suggesting that all is not well in a country and with a society. Eventually the imperative for a Conservative government to seek help to quell the increase in rough sleeping, hounded for its failures by a homelessness sector that, in time, sought to collectively and pragmatically campaign to address the remorseless rise in numbers, led to change. The result was a progressive and effective programme, the Rough Sleepers Initiative, which funded outreach work and the building of some 3,800 units of accommodation, mostly self-contained, for rough sleepers.  Numbers sleeping rough peaked and then gradually fell.

Homelessness organisations were embracing pragmatism in other ways. The sense of passionate rightness was being blended with a grim determination to reduce rough sleeping, not just around the edges but comprehensively. The unremitting cull of people sleeping rough, with many found dead in circumstances that we studiously avoided passing on to families and friends when attending their funerals, imbued us with cold-eyed resolution.

Above all we wanted to dismantle the cardboard cities, the squalid encampments where rough sleepers lived in appalling conditions. At Lincolns Inn Fields a dilemma arose for the outreach teams. The council had decided to call time on the park as a place for rough sleepers to congregate. It proposed the introduction of a by-law to ban rough sleeping and there was a deal to be struck. The council was prepared to offer permanent accommodation for each person sleeping in the park to enable them to escape rough sleeping for good in return for support from the outreach teams to rehouse Lincoln Inn’s Field's inhabitants.  

There was an additional element to the offer that we couldn’t ignore. The initiator of this approach was the Director of Housing at Camden, Chris Holmes. Chris had formerly been the Director of CHAR, the campaigning organisation for the homeless. This made it difficult to view our engagement as a case of ‘supping with the devil’. As one of my colleagues delicately articulated it at the time, “he’s not one to shaft the homeless”. There was some opposition to the forced closure and an article was published about how the homeless ‘community’ at Lincoln’s Inn Fields was going to be transplanted elsewhere against their will. This had the unintended impact of hardening our support for the proposed by-law. We had spent too many nights at Lincolns’ Inn Fields witnessing the mayhem and hearing stories of assaults and robbery. What we saw was not a mutually supportive community but a disparate and wretched group of people forced together through circumstance, in need of a better life.

Over the next three months individual needs were assessed and offers of accommodation made. I accompanied numerous rough sleepers to view bedsits and flats. Their astonishment at the chance to have a place of their own will forever remain with me. In time, other cardboard cities were tackled at the South Bank, Waterloo (the notorious Bullring) and elsewhere with the same broad offer of accommodation or, where required, access to support for an alcohol, drug or mental health problem. Each closure included an element of compulsion in that there was not, ultimately, an option to remain sleeping rough at the site.  By the end of the century, the cardboard city was no longer part of the London landscape.

In 2015 rough sleeping is a very different phenomenon. Today outreach workers spend more time seeking out rough sleepers in isolated areas including parks, derelict buildings, riverbanks and multi-storey car parks. A ‘hotspot’, the term used for a congregation of rough sleepers, can comprise three individuals.  Despite the continuous increase in rough sleeping numbers over the last ten years, cardboard cities with the permanence of yesteryear have not returned.  But there are new challenges.  Remarkably, the latest annual figures for London show that of the 7,581 rough sleepers met over the year by outreach workers operating in the capital, 57 per cent are non-UK nationals including 36 per cent from Central and Eastern Europe; men and women who have come to London as economic migrants seeking work. With limited rights to claim welfare benefits that would enable them to access accommodation, the options available to non-UK nationals are very limited and the levels of destitution amongst rough sleepers now being witnessed are as extreme as those seen in the 1980s.

In the face of the steady rise in rough sleeping numbers we remain resolute but disconcertedly hidebound. Again, echoes of the challenges of 30 years ago resonate. There appears to be no difficulty in people expressing outrage about the situation of rough sleepers. Twenty-first century communication in the form of Twitter and Facebook can lead to the dramatic multiplication of indignation as witnessed during 2015 in response to some businesses and landlords placing ‘spikes’ outside their buildings to dissuade rough sleepers bedding down. Some outreach workers on the frontline expressed disappointment that distress about spikes did not transfer to a similar collective concern and call for action on behalf of actual people sleeping in shop doorways.

But the numbers sleeping rough continue to rise and my gloom stems from a belief that there will be no respite whilst solutions are piece-meal, responses lack focus and, above all, we lack ambition driven by an icy determination to end rough sleeping, once and for all. We seem incapable of making the substantial step that was achieved in previous years which brought to an end the cardboard cities.

Let me return to Chris Holmes, Director of Housing at Camden and later Chief Executive of Shelter. I was privileged to have known Chris in his days at CHAR, Camden Council and Shelter. Indisputably Chris was passionate about ending homelessness and his working life exemplifies a furious commitment to achieving this goal. Most importantly, so do his accomplishments, the ending of the use of bed and breakfast accommodation for homeless families whilst at Camden and the extension of a statutory right to housing for more people through the Homelessness Act during his spell at Shelter.

But the special alchemy that defined Chris Holmes was based on a pragmatic approach to securing outcomes as well as the need for the fervent call to arms. Here was a man who sought to understand the different motivations of apparently competing interests in order to close a deal. In the case of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, he recognised that it was unreasonable for a public space to be blighted by a sprawling cardboard city of the homeless and that the third world conditions experienced by those living there were also unacceptable. He believed its inhabitants deserved the chance of something better. To achieve this Chris was prepared to face unpopularity, including from within his own ‘tribal’ group; the left of centre activists who comprise the great bulk of people working in the field of homelessness and housing. 

Are we brave and imaginative enough to collectively find a solution to a similar 21st century rough sleeping phenomenon?  In parks in central and outer London mass rough sleeping could conceivably emerge again. Today we are witnessing significant numbers of central and eastern Europeans sleeping rough in tents and encampments, taking this step so they can undertake below minimum wage work, primarily car wash, building site and gardening jobs. Chillingly, in the last two months we have lost two rough sleepers on our streets, both Polish, men who suffered ignominious deaths many miles away from their families. We have to do better than this.

Expressing outrage is easy and directing it at the full range of potential wrongdoers – government, rogue employers, landowners and local authorities – can be especially cathartic, if ultimately futile. We must seek a new approach, which means working with a range of partners including local authorities, the police, landowners, the immigration authorities, local businesses and employers. We have to understand the motivations and aspirations of those who have come to this country to secure work and a better life and address the reasonable concerns of local communities who experience public spaces becoming, for them, out of bounds. It will require compromise, imagination, negotiation, persistence, planned co-ordination and hard-nosed delivery.  We will need solutions that are currently far from obvious and will certainly be contentious, imperfect and unpopular. We must be driven by an uncompromising belief that homelessness, especially in the most extreme forms that we are now witnessing, is an obscenity.

 The story of our achievements over the last 30 years and the examples of the exceptional people that delivered remarkable outcomes for the homeless is that passion and outrage are, by themselves, not enough.   

Saturday, 31 October 2015

Homelessness - an event, not an imposed identity


“Where have the homeless moved to? Can you help us find them?” asks a woman on the phone. It’s a bad line and there is traffic noise in the background. “We are seeking out junkies, winos and vagrants.”  It occurs to me that perhaps she is being deliberately provocative by using such pejorative terms but no, after a few questions it is clear that she is sincere.
She is with a church group which has travelled into central London, moved by “the plight of the homeless”. Central London is overburdened with vast numbers of visiting soup runs, so I don’t offer directions but refer her to Housing Justice which does an excellent job working with faith groups to ensure their important contribution is coordinated and effective.

Then I muse over her language and what it tells me about how people who are homeless are perceived. I am influenced by @bullringbash who tweets in an illuminating way on homelessness issues, a man who by his own admission spent destructive years in the 1990s at the Bullring near Waterloo Station, London, one of the most notorious rough sleeping encampments.  He has strong feelings about the phrase ‘the homeless’; its dehumanising impact and the impression it gives of a homeless tribe. In a recent tweet he went further, commenting: “No such thing as homeless people, only people who are homeless.” 
This notion that the homeless can be defined and analysed in the way that we might an ethnic group is enhanced by research that seeks to establish an average age of death of a homeless person. The age currently favoured is 47 but has, at different times over the last five years, been announced as 40.2, 40.5, 42 and 44.

Delving into this research a little further it becomes evident that the problem is definitions of the homeless varies considerably, which is hardly surprising given that homelessness covers so many situations. The range can include not only rough sleepers, families in bed and breakfasts and hostel residents but squatters and even, in a piece of research surely straining the definition beyond breaking point, someone who has had to leave ‘a negative home environment’ to sofa-surf for as short a period as a week.
The public perception of the homeless, embraced with insouciant condescension by swathes of the media, seems to be of a badly dressed man with a beard, a sort of hipster with a grubby collar and poor dress sense. This is how The Daily Telegraph reported on Cristiano Ronaldo disguising himself as a homeless man, before showing off his football skills in the centre of Madrid: “Real Madrid star dons fake beard and fat suit before posing as a tramp.” And when on social media people describe themselves as looking homeless as they frequently do, they mean looking unkempt, a bit rough. 

The legitimate concern of @bullringbash is that the concept of ‘the homeless’ carries with it a stigma that can continue to blight a person’s life well after their homelessness experience should have dimmed to an uncomfortable memory.
Surely homelessness should be regarded as an event and not given the authority of an imposed identity? I share his concern about the implications of propagating this ultimately toxic view of the homeless as a homogenous group. There is something gratifyingly comforting about the concept of helping the homeless. I fear that it brings out the worst kind of paternalism in us. That sense of personal fallibility in the individual leads inexorably to the next conclusion; that the homeless, rather like the poor, will always be with us.
Recently walking through the West End, absorbed in my own thoughts, I found myself confronted by a man who claimed to remember me from the time when I was working with rough sleepers 30 years earlier. Looking up, I could immediately remember his name and even where he slept rough. I braced myself to hear a story of a fall from grace, an incident that had brought him back onto the street and, rather insensitively, I asked if he was back sleeping rough. He looked puzzled but then burst out laughing.

“No, no,” he exclaimed. “You got me the flat, then I got a job. I work in IT now and own my home.”  We talked briefly about when he slept on cardboard in a shop doorway. “Bad days,” he said, momentarily looking grim. Then he shook my hand and strode off towards Leicester Square tube station, not one of the ex-homeless, but someone for whom homelessness was a shocking, unpleasant aberration.     


With special thanks to @bullringbash

A version of this blog was publish in Inside Housing magazine, October 2015.

Saturday, 12 September 2015

Rough sleeping: Facts, fables, fatalities


Ex-services personnel make up 25% of the rough sleeping population’ stated a business leader to me at a recent event with what a colleague caustically referred to later as ‘the unerring certainty of the terminally ignorant’.  His pronouncement came to mind as I was reading the latest CHAIN annual rough sleeping figures for London which show that 9% of the rough sleeping population were formerly in the armed services; 3% in the UK armed services and 6% in the armed services of other countries.

I spend an inordinate amount of time talking to groups and individuals about rough sleeping and invariably the conversation will coalesce around two questions: who and why? Around both swirl myths and misconceptions. The antidote to the plausible but unsubstantiated anecdote upon which, distressingly, policy decisions are occasionally based is the CHAIN report and data which is unique in terms of the richness of the information and its reliability. The data is compiled cumulatively by outreach teams and is ‘real time’ data, inputted by individual outreach staff during a street shift. Over the year a remarkably full picture of the rough sleeping population is built up.
 
CHAIN figures show that there is an extraordinary flow of people onto, and from, the street. In 2014-15, 5,107 people were found sleeping rough in London for the first time. Over the same period 2,624 men and women were helped into accommodation or to return home, a big figure we seem coyly reluctant to highlight.  

Curiously, a prevailing myth is that outreach workers only stick to areas popular with rough sleepers. From this a further assumption emerges, that certain sub-sets of the rough sleeping population who seek to sleep on their own in out-of-the way places remain hidden, overlooked, perhaps disregarded. Young people and women are often mooted as examples. This is based on an anachronistic picture of outreach teams working with cardboard city-size congregations of rough sleepers in parks or huddled together in shop doorways, which is how it was when I was an outreach worker in the 1980s.
 
Nowadays, a ‘hotspot’, the term given for a visible site where rough sleepers can be found as a group, can comprise as few as three people. Instead, outreach workers frequent derelict buildings, tunnels, night-buses, tower blocks, car-parks, canal boats, tow-paths, riverbanks and woods. The dispersed nature of rough sleeping is one of the most significant changes witnessed over the last decade.
      
Yet some things don’t change. The latest figures show that 45% of rough sleepers have a mental health support need, a figure that has been consistent for over ten years. There are around 600 people sleeping rough in the capital with severe and enduring mental health problems who have been on the streets for at least a year. Why this large number does not create outrage is difficult to fathom. It may be because of another enduring myth; that people with mental health issues are eccentrically choosing a street homeless life-style and should be left alone to get on with it. 

The endearingly whimsical notion of the ruggedly independent rough sleeper certainly fits the fable which grew up around the legendary Anne Naysmith, who slept rough for many years. The mental health professionals I have spoken to who knew Anne well see things very differently, believing that the psychotic episodes she endured were brutally debilitating. Anne feared that malevolent spirits would punish her if she left the street and occasionally her anxiety was such that she would be found weaving amongst the traffic on busy roads. Earlier this year Anne tragically lost her life when she was hit by a lorry.       

Beyond dispute is the remarkable change in the nationality profile of rough sleepers. The latest figures show that 57% of London’s rough sleepers are non-UK nationals. With limited rights and fewer options to escape rough sleeping, non-UK nationals are especially vulnerable and sleeping rough brings enormous risks.

And, when the numbers have been pored over and the reports compiled, there is ultimately only one justification for this obsessive scrutiny and that is to make rough sleeping in 21st century Britain a historical abnormality which, in time, will seem as incongruous as our ancestors’ sufferance of bear-baiting. Last month, a Polish rough sleeper with severe alcohol dependency problems which led him to persistently reject offers of assistance was found dead on a dirty mattress on a canal tow-path. The mattress has already been requisitioned by another rough sleeper. Acquiescence is not an option.       


This blog was originally published in Inside Housing on August 14th 2015  
  





Wednesday, 10 June 2015

An affront against humanity



In those most desperate of weeks that crossed Christmas and the New Year I was getting daily updates on the Somali couple living rough outside TK Maxx on a busy south London street.  A mother and son both with severe and enduring mental health problems, exhibiting delusional behaviour and severe self-neglect. They had been there for months, resisting all offers of accommodation or hospital treatment.  Engagement with mental health specialists, our outreach workers, the police and members of the Somali community had all been in vain.  Over the months their belongings blossomed around them. Carrier bags within carrier bags, suitcases, bedding, food cartons: the detritus of the destitute.  Around the corner and out of sight of passers-by stood buckets in which they defecated.

With Christmas approaching and the temperature falling the plight of the Somali couple became a shared obsession.  Multi-agency case conferences took place to consider their mental capacity to make decisions and the last resort option of a compulsory admission to hospital using the Mental Health Act, was mooted.  By now we were visiting daily, all of us dismally remembering a woman rough sleeper who, in similar fashion, resisted leaving the streets and was eventually found dead.

It was a period of bitter weather; low temperatures and prolonged rain, the killer combination for rough sleepers, a time to increase the number of outreach shifts and when the vigilance of the public in spotting isolated rough sleepers and contacting us on their behalf is crucial. 

Around this time, a rough sleeping story broke. Outside a complex of up-market flats in south London the developers had set metal spikes into the concrete to prevent rough sleepers bedding down.  On Twitter, outrage at this callous response to rough sleepers burst into life and fed stories that appeared in the national press. Further spikes were discovered outside Selfridges and other stores.  Campaigners described the spikes as ‘an affront against humanity’.  Petitions were signed and journalists put out the call to be informed if further spikes were spotted in order to ‘name and shame’.  
Bumping into a haggard outreach worker who had just completed an early morning shift, hands wrapped around a cup of tea, I was shaken by how inconsequential he regarded the spikes furore.  ‘They’re appalled by spikes stopping people sleeping rough but indifferent to the people actually living on the street’, was his bitter assessment.

Turning this comment over in my mind later, I began to see it from the perspective of an outreach worker, out in all weathers searching for rough sleepers, the most vulnerable of whom will be in hidden places.  Around them swirls the humanity of the city with the vast majority of people apparently oblivious to their work, yet accustomed to the homeless figure lying in a doorway.  The anaesthetic of familiarity is a most powerful drug. 
When yet another Tweet circulated, this one from a journalist I know well, a committed and compassionate person, requesting to be alerted to further sightings of spikes I responded by asking if she had ever rung the StreetLink number through which outreach teams can be notified about a rough sleeper who is of concern.  She had the good grace to acknowledge that she never had.    

Next, a linked story emerged with a theme of how much better rough sleepers are treated in Vancouver, Canada.  In Vancouver, to make it easier for people to sleep rough, an ingenious contraption has been designed which creates a temporary roof over a park bench.  An article in the Daily Telegraph urged London to take inspiration from Vancouver. 
Far from being inspired, the roof-over-the-bench solution left me dispirited.  We are adept at finding ways of mitigating the worst aspects of sleeping on the street.  Over the years creative people have sent me intricate designs for pop-up tents and pod-like living capsules to make surviving on the street easier.  Kind members of the public and corporate supporters regularly offer coats, sleeping bags, mittens and hand-warmers. 

But how can these be the solution?  The brutal truth is that such responses which seek to help people live more comfortably on the street have cataclysmically failed.  Vancouver offers clear evidence of this failure on a mega-scale.  The 2014 Vancouver homeless count found 2,777 people sleeping rough or in shelters.  Vancouver has a population a third of the size of London but with 957 rough sleepers on the street on any single night the city has 30% more rough sleepers than London.    
As spikes stories multiplied, in a parallel universe the determined partnership which refused to accept that the Somali couple should die on the street got a breakthrough when, in early January, they were admitted to hospital.  Encouragingly, we were assisted by supportive individuals from the immediate neighbourhood and by a local journalist, all deeply moved by the couple’s plight and giving every impression that they regarded their unresolved, distressing predicament as - well - an affront against humanity.  Sadly in April, having refused all offers of accommodation, they returned to the street, providing yet another reminder that ending rough sleeping would be considerably easier if all it involved was finding someone a home.
The latest quarterly figures for London show that 44% of rough sleepers have mental health problems and we estimate that at least 600 people in poor mental health are, like the Somali couple, long term rough sleepers.  These are people who commonly have disturbing life histories and often unfathomably obscure reasons for not accepting help to come off of the street.  The challenges are enormous. 

Rough sleeping remains one of the great outrages of our time. Our failure is to enthusiastically focus on piece-meal responses, strong on ameliorating the immediate suffering of the poor and destitute, evidentially ineffectual in changing their situation permanently, for the better.  We desperately need a programme to end the disgrace of people with severe and enduring mental health problems living and dying on our streets.  It must be a properly resourced, multi-agency approach involving mental health professionals committed to working on the street to assess and support, outreach workers, the police and local authorities.  I believe it is the kind of initiative that local communities and the wider public will back.  It must be a programme within which roofs over benches do not figure.


A shorter version of this blog was published in Inside Housing magazine on June 5th 2015

Saturday, 28 March 2015

Sleeping rough, working rough - with the Roma in London


5.00am. Dawn light is beginning to streak an indigo night sky. The battered caravan seems deserted. A brisk rap on its door by my colleague Ben breaks the silence. This is the early morning outreach shift in an outer London borough. In this road adjacent to a park there are a line of assorted vehicles, most of which appear to be derelict.  My two outreach colleagues, Ben and Helena, between them speak Czech, Romanian, Hungarian, Russian and English.

Eventually there is a rustle from inside and the heads of a man and women emerge. There follows an amiable conversation with Ben who has met the couple before. They are Romanian and working to earn money for their extended family back home. Previously the caravan was located beside another park nearby, but they were required to move from there by the police. The couple paid a vehicle removal company to transport the caravan to this new site. Ben asks after the child who was previously living in the caravan with them and they explain that he has been taken into care by the local authority. The couple are in close contact with social workers and hopeful that the child will be returned to their custody shortly. 

The man has been working regularly, mostly on building sites for small contractors at below minimum wage rates. This type of unregulated labour is part of the vast ‘informal economy’ based on cash-in-hand payments. Every morning he gets up at 5.15am and joins a line of men waiting patiently in a car park nearby, ready to be picked up by a contractor’s van.

Along from the caravan is a car and its two genial male occupants are pleased to converse with Ben in their own language. The police, they tell him, know of their presence and they proffer documents as proof that they are working legally. Beside the car is a large plastic container full of water. As I pass by later, they are using the water to give themselves a rudimentary wash.

Entering the park, we follow the light of Helena’s torch to an encampment hidden away in scrubby undergrowth behind a small copse of trees. In the mouth of a tent sits a balding middle-aged man, his shirt unbuttoned down to the waist despite the temperature hovering close to zero. There follows an animated, finger-jabbing debate with Ben. At one point he interrupts Ben and turns to me, thrusting his face forward and stating emphatically - ‘me no drink’, slapping his chest in time to each carefully articulated word.

Ben informs me the reason for this animosity is that the man is frustrated by the authorities always seeking to move him on. He believes they should be more welcoming and provide some basic accommodation for people like him who are undertaking work that the lazy English won’t do themselves. He has disdain for the poor work ethic of Londoners. In his view they are happier living on benefits and drinking alcohol. His diatribe seems uncannily similar to the florid descriptions of Romanian migrants delivered by certain politicians opposed to current levels of EU migration.   

As we scrabble through the undergrowth back to the main path I reflect with Ben and Helena on the challenges of working with this particular group of rough sleepers. Most are Romanian Roma. The Roma, an ethnic group scattered across central, eastern and southern Europe, suffer very significant discrimination.  In stark contrast to the lurid media stories of Roma entering the UK to beg and claim benefits, the people we have met this morning are proudly self-sufficient with a strong work ethic and few support needs. They are prepared to work to earn a wage that is exploitative by UK standards but considerably more than they would earn in Romania.

Rough sleeping associated with economic migration is a contentious, politically sensitive issue and it is rather easier to generate feelings of dismay and condemnation than to offer solutions. There are aspects of what I have witnessed this morning which are deplorable. Parts of the park are out of bounds to the public because of the encampments and encircling detritus and it is understandable that local authorities will seek to recover public space, working alongside outreach teams who can support people slipping into destitution to return to their countries of origin whilst urging and assisting those who can work to legitimise their employment situation in the UK.  

But for people who have little, the financial reward for undertaking unskilled work in this country is considerable. The cost of even basic private rented accommodation would eat significantly into their earnings and the temporary hardship of sleeping rough is, they conclude, worth enduring. Yet I ponder the heavy price being paid by the couple in the caravan whose child has been taken into care.  And meanwhile, the flourishing informal economy provides a troubling backcloth to this transient way of life, undercutting wages and creating an environment where exploitation can thrive.

Recently the UK government announced a package of proposals designed to deter EU migration, including the imposition of a four-year period before in-work benefits can be claimed. This will reduce the already slim chances of working migrants finding affordable accommodation and increase the disincentive to legitimise their employment status. The proposals are highly likely to increase the number of migrants sleeping rough. They will also, of course, deliver a barrow-load of votes.



A version of this blog was published in Inside Housing on March 27th 2015

Monday, 4 August 2014

Put a dog in the picture

 

My colleague Dean is telling me about his day, his harrowing day. Most of it has been spent at the hospital supporting Samantha.  Samantha is 31 and she has been addicted to heroin since the age of 15. Her weakened immune system has led to the onset of septicaemia. Dean found her in her usual rough sleeping spot lying in he own faeces and called an ambulance. 

Samantha has lived the life of a homeless drug addict for the last decade. All her friends are from the street. Today she was visited in hospital by her boyfriend who is also a heroin user. He is found by her bed with a syringe, surreptitiously trying to inject her. There is uproar. Nurses and security are called and he is bundled out of the ward. Dean arrives at the height of the commotion and succeeds in calming Samantha, preventing her, dressed in a hospital gown, following her boyfriend out of the building and back to sleeping rough.

The usually imperturbable Dean is dejected. ‘She has lost the will to live’ he says and I ask him why he thinks that is. ‘It’s because of her life’ he replies, ‘she was raped by her father at 13’.  ‘That’s terrible’ I reply weakly, reflecting that this is information to which no response can be adequate.

Later I find myself thinking further about the conversation with Dean, ruminating on the thanklessness of his task and the challenge of explaining to others the complexities of the heroic work undertaken by colleagues like him. Dean is aware that his appearance at the hospital is observed with weary apprehension by the hospital staff.  Samantha has had many admissions and for over-worked nurses it is difficult to view the arrival of a disruptive homeless woman as anything other than bad news. Yet there is ambivalence in their reactions as they respect the tenacity he shows in not giving up on her.

We work with many people like Samantha, men and woman who have suffered childhood trauma after which they have drifted into drug and alcohol misuse and petty crime. By early adulthood they are afflicted by extremely poor physical and mental health. Not all, or even most, of the homeless people we support have this type of history, but there are enough for us to view this grimly inexorable early life journey as unexceptional. Consequently we are identified as an organisation specialising in helping the most vulnerable and chaotic which can, of course, translate into the most damaged and repugnant.

These extreme representations of homelessness are visible and, as such, influential. For many of the public they are ‘the homeless’, even though homelessness affects a great range of different people in a variety of ways.  Eliciting public support for the homeless can therefore be an enormous challenge. Even convincing my relatives and friends has sometimes been a struggle. A few years ago at my mother’s 80th birthday celebration she asked guests to give a donation to either her son’s homelessness charity or a children’s charity with which my father had an association stretching back to his youth. During the celebration a number of people felt obligated to explain how it was that the children’s charity was their preferred choice. Their reluctance to give to the homeless charity was based on a suspicion that some of the homeless had ‘brought it on themselves’.

It’s a phrase that neatly encapsulates the public’s diffidence and occasional hostility towards homeless people. The innocuous rough sleeper in the shop doorway is viewed with pity, sympathy but also bewilderment. ‘Don’t some of them want to sleep out on the street?’ is a question that has been put to me with unerring constancy over the years.  At the extreme end of the spectrum, the inebriated street drinker or visibly mentally distressed homeless person can provoke disgust or fear.

Of the attributes most likely to attract approval and support it seems to me that innocence is the most advantageous. The innocent have brought nothing on themselves, instead things have been done to them. And nothing is more innocent than an animal, at least of the cute, cuddly, furry and fluffy variety.

As a new, callow Chief Executive I remember expressing dismay at the pathetic financial return we had achieved through our Christmas fund-raising advertisement to the Chief Executive of another homelessness charity who kindly advised me to ‘put a dog in the picture’. His pragmatic analysis was that, whilst vast swathes of the public are largely unmoved by the plight of the homeless, many more people do have sympathy for the dogs that typically or, rather, stereotypically accompany rough sleepers. His experience was that the addition of a dog in the marketing material substantially increased donations.

In 2006 his view was corroborated when, to complement a series of programmes commissioned to show how the public can help homeless people, a BBC opinion poll dispiritingly found that twice as many people would feel sympathy for a homeless dog than for a homeless person with mental health or drug problems.

More recently, a supporter working in a senior position for one of the major supermarkets told me about the dilemma the business faced when they developed a fund-raising challenge requiring customers to select which of two local charities should receive a donation from the supermarket at the end of the month. On each occasion when an animal charity went head-to-head with a charity where the beneficiaries were not animals it won comprehensively. Eventually, the initiative was restructured so that animal charities were only allowed to compete against one another.            

Earlier this year we experienced directly and unexpectedly the impact of the cute and furry on the public psyche when Thames Reach was bizarrely beset by a brief squall of animal-related publicity. One evening my colleague Kate Jones, a member of our London Street Rescue team which works on the streets with rough sleepers every night of the year, came across a distressed cat identified by her name tag as Freya.  She took Freya home and cared for her overnight. In the morning she contacted the owner who was revealed to be a certain George Osborne of 11 Downing Street. A large car duly arrived to transport Freya home in style.

If Kate had been so inclined she could have filled the whole day undertaking interviews on television and radio. Probably wisely, she chose not to.  An article describing her experience ran in the Guardian and the accolades poured down on both Kate and Thames Reach. ‘People like you Kate are the reason why there is still some hope for this species’ ran one comment, favourited by 147 readers.

We were pleased to have helped Freya but also aware that in the week she rescued a cat, Kate and the team had been working tirelessly but with limited success to help off the streets 25 individuals bedded down in a shopping mall in east London, people with few options consigned to sleeping rough in distressing circumstances for weeks, even months.  It felt like a bleak week for homeless humans.         

But it is time for me to stop bemoaning our lot. Whilst we know that in terms of public sympathy donkeys will always trump homeless people, we are grateful to the many individuals who loyally support our work, especially the people who were, or are, homeless and prepared to tell their tale; explaining, educating, inspiring.

And, of course, everything is relative. I am at a House of Commons function, speaking to another Chief Executive. It is our first meeting. We are affably talking about the challenges of attracting funding and I ask him what his organisation does as it is not immediately obvious from its title.  He hesitates. It is almost imperceptible but I can sense that he is quickly weighing me up. ‘We work with sex offenders’ he says briskly. ‘How’s the public fund-raising going?’ I ask. He laughs ruefully, knowing that he doesn’t need to answer.