I see many homeless people “sleeping rough.” It is said that accommodations are available, but many of the destitute do not want to take advantage of the shelters open to them. Pride, addictions and mental illness probably factor in. The fact remains that sleeping rough in this weather is a flirtation with death. But enough with the words – I’ll insert the photo that I took.

It wasn’t the homeless sleeper himself that drew my attention; in general, it was the sleeper’s juxtaposition with the dumpster; in particular, it was the writing, “commercial waste” written on the dumpster. I found the juxtaposition so compelling that I got off the bus and went back to snap a picture. True enough, the man sleeping rough is commercial waste. 

 Commerce and our global economy has a lot to answer for. I bought a cotton camisole with a “hidden shelf for added support and adjustable straps” at Primark yesterday. Primark is a Spanish company which is not to say that the garment was made in Spain. I looked in vain for the place of manufacture. Spain may have 25 percent unemployment, but my guess is that they outsource their manufacture just like the rest of the developed world. My purchase cost 2 pound 50. I shouldn’t have bought it, but… in truth, I’m no more high-minded than the next guy. If there is a bargain to be had, I’ll find it. But I’m feeling soiled. My bargain was at someone else’s expense. Lots of people paid for my cheap camisole top. England paid in that it was not manufactured here, and from the cotton farmer to the factory where the garment was outsourced, the workers paid too.

    Cheering stops

It is New Year
A girl is crying
I can’t help her

            She stops

I am so tired
Newspaper rustling
Sleep don’t come

                They stop

to feed me

poem © copyright Brian Shirra 2012

Sleeping Rough

I wonder what your first thought was when you looked at this image: were you evaluating the quality of the composition and the processing like you normally do? Or were you thinking: what’s the story behind this image?

This is the dog of a homeless person, maybe even of someone forced to sleep rough because there was no room at the cheap B&Bs, hostels or other temporary accommodations.  Data published yesterday classifies 44,160 households in England as ‘Homeless’. In London this Christmas, ‘Crisis at Christmas’ is braced for its busiest Christmas with more than 3,000 people expected to seek shelter at its centres across London.  And it’s reported that nearly 4,000 people have slept rough in the capital alone in the past year, an increase of 8%. Those are shocking statistics. But they are likely to be far worse in some other countries.

It’s a sad fact that the Christmas and New Year period only further polarizes the divide between the rich and the poor.  At one end of the scale there is the conspicuous over-consumption, excesses, celebrations and partying with friends of the ‘Haves’. And at the other end there are the ‘Have Nots’ whose plight is amplified by the shut down of all the essential day-to-day services on the High Streets of our towns and cities, that isolates them further and makes their already grim existence even harder – and all at the coldest time of the year in the northern hemisphere.

So what do you do when you spot a Homeless person, sitting against a wall on a busy street, wrapped in a sleeping bag? Do you pretend not to notice, ignore him/her, or walk by on the other side? I confess I’m as a guilty as the next person of doing just that. Maybe you don’t consider giving because you think that person is likely to be an alcoholic or a drug addict, and by giving you are just paying for the next bottle or fix? Maybe you reason it’s not your problem? Maybe you wonder: is this even a genuine Homeless person? There will be times when some of those concerns could be justified. But increasingly these are ordinary folk – not unlike you and me – fallen on bad times: victims of the recession; a combination of debt, unemployment and eviction.

Would anyone be out there on the streets in all winds and weathers of their own volition? I have no idea where the owner of this dog was when I passed by, or how he came to be there. Maybe he’d gathered up the few coins thrown his way and gone down the road to buy a hot drink or a snack.

What can – should – we do? We can empty our pockets of loose change: will we really miss it? If we are uneasy at fuelling an addiction we can offer a coffee from Starbucks or a pastry from the Bakery instead. Or we can donate to charities for the homeless.

There’s a guy I pass regularly, camped outside Milton Keynes station – I’m committing myself to emptying my pocket onto his sleeping bag before Christmas Day. What about you in your neighbourhood?

Have I pricked your conscience? I know that by writing this I’ve actually pricked my own. Please do something to help.

I recently interviewed Revd. Yates about the issue of homelessness and rough sleeping in Cornwall.

“Cornwall has a lot of hidden poverty…”

In the first part of the interview, we spoke about the physical and psychological impact that sleeping rough has on Cornwall’s homeless population.

“The cuts…have had a bad impact on people sleeping rough…”

In the second part, Revd. Yates addressed the effect that cuts in front-line spending have had on those sleeping rough in Cornwall.

MORE FROM THE HOMELESSNESS IN CORNWALL SERIES:

Homelessness in Cornwall – Part 2

Homelessness in Cornwall – Part 1

Are cuts to frontline services having a negative effect on Cornwall’s homeless population? Is there an alternative solution? Use the comment form below to give us your opinions on the issue.

(Photo Credit -  Levi Szabo – http://www.flickr.com/photos/szabolevi/)

That is what I love about John Partington.  He is a man from Wigan without pretense.  This combined with his love for people and passion make him an incredible asset to the ODAAT (One day At A Time) Drug & Alcohol Rehabilitation Programme.

He is a man who will openly admit his dislike for the term, “independent living” showing his belief in our need for one another.  These are qualities which help to make ODAAT, the family that it is.

John, has been married now for 38 years and has been involved with HOPE worldwide UK from it’s early inception.  Helping to set up Two Step after having experienced sleeping rough for one week with Walter Evans in 1989.

John was the chap who interviewed the ODAAT Project Manager Toby Dodson, before both proceeding to Philadelphia, where they stayed in the ODAAT house, and brought the work over to the UK.

Today, John works with ODAAT in developing the 3rd Stage of the Programme.  This is the final stage clients reach after their 6 month residential.  Currently there is space for 13 residents in one of the three 3rd Stage houses.  Stage Three, provides supported accommodation with an individual support plan to help each client get to where they want to be.  This support plan will involve help with finances, housing, training, work and relationships.

I asked John, why he works with HOPE worldwide UK.  He shared that “as a Christian, I have a belief that people get in a mess, but deep down there is good in everyone.” And that he has a desire to help people live a fulfilled life.

When I asked what he liked about the organisation, he explained that it is, ” motivated by real concern for people, not making money or keeping afloat”.  He also appreciates the team spirit of mucking in and helping others.

John’s desire and vision for the ODAAT programme is to expand what they do so that they can reach more people, which involves taking more faithful risks.  He would like to see a Women’s ODAAT Programme start, to see a job creation scheme and to see ODAAT reproduced in other major cities.

John has first hand experience of the benefits of the ODAAT Programme, seeing 25 year heroin addicts studying for a degree in Counselling.

I would love to hear and see more of that throughout the UK.  There is no doubt in the need for this.  Please do your part,  talk up and share about the great news you hear.  Champion and work toward seeing this happen in your city if you are outside of London.  Share in John’s joy of seeing peoples lives transformed.

A few months ago, the Merton Street Pastors’ team that I am part of made some new friends.  Four people sleeping rough in a bin cupboard.  Some, like us, helped them but not all were so generous – neighbours complained to the police and council and tried to have them moved on.  As well as providing tea and food, our team of Street Pastors did what we could – we tried to refer them for emergency shelter but were told it wasn’t cold enough.  We spoke to council officials about their situation but discovered there was little they could do.  They all came over from Eastern Europe and initially found work with accommodation.

When the work dried up they were asked to leave and made homeless but because they had not registered with the authorities on arrival they are not entitled to any help now.

In January they had to move on as someone let off a firework in the bin cupboard that had been their home.

Our friends' new home

Their new location is some residential car parking bays by some flats.  They have three bays, one has a mattress, the middle bay has a desk and chair with a clock on the wall and the third bay has another mattress.  They have made it as comfortable and as much like home as it can be.

One of the guys recently got a job and the first thing he did when he got paid was to buy food for them all.  This is what the kingdom of heaven is like, one person working and taking care of the others.  It reminds me of the model in Acts 3 where the early believers shared everything they had.

Our new friends constantly thank us, but for what? We have provided cups of tea, the odd meal and referred them to agencies who have not been able to help them so far.  No, we are the ones who should be grateful to God for allowing us, through them, to see what kingdom living really looks like.

Westminster council says soup runs provide a magnet for homeless people and encourage crime, begging and antisocial behaviour. It tried to ban soup runs in 2007. Daniel Astaire, Westminster council’s cabinet member for society, families and adult services, said he accepted the ban was “sensitive” but said the council had the same aim as the protesters: to get homeless people off the streets and into services that would help them turn their lives around. “Those who give up their time to help rough sleepers should be applauded, but we believe they can make a far better impact if they look for other ways to help the homeless and put their energy to good use, without delivering food on the streets.”

but then…

Figures to be published next week suggest that government spending cuts will lead to the closure of around one in six of England’s 44,000 homeless hostel beds from April. According to Homeless Link, which represents 480 homeless charities, the authorities where most hostel bed spaces have been earmarked for closure are Rochdale, Kingston upon Hull, Kensington and Chelsea, Lewisham, and Nottinghamshire and Nottingham city. Homeless Link says a survey reveals that its members expect a 25% average cut in local authority funding, with over a quarter saying they will have to reduce the number of homeless clients they work with.

There’s a great companion piece to this one, in which some journalist goes and talks to a bunch of homeless people living in Cornwall (which has the highest rate of homelessness in the uk and where it is extremely difficult to buy a house because so many rich arseholes have holiday homes there) here

Westminster council’s crackdown on soup runs for homeless sparks anger | Society | The Guardian.

We left Mauritania prepared for the 40-hour drive through Western Sahara to Agadir, Morocco, one sleep in a taxi, one on a bus. We weren’t prepared for landing in Cairo five showerless days later.

Now sat on our bags in the stairwell of a concrete building in down town Cairo listening to and watching the traffic 20 floors below, we have time to reflect on our journey to Egypt. It’s past midnight, a fact we just realised when our couchsurfer host for the night told us that he was at work covering a night shift. Great start. Or rather great end. Because it all started in Nouakchott, capital of Mauritania, stuffing seven people into a ‘grand taxi’ at 2am. Two more taxis, a broken engine, a flat tire, one hitch-hiker and a bus ride later we arrive in Agadir, Morocco. Our 5am flight means a night in the airport. No problem….until an impromptu visit to an Internet cafe drops an unfriendly email into our collective lap that stamps a big fat CANCELLED over our plans. Four hours of phone calls to Orbitz in New York and Royal Air Maroc in Maroc later we are no better off and, once again realising the hour, turn to the cafe manager to ask if we could maybe, possibly, if it’s no trouble….stay with you?

That was our third showerless sleep and our first on a rooftop, his house being in the middle of construction. No complaints here – fresh air, warm night and stars. We light a candle for chats en Francais and come morning our new friend brings us home-made treats to munch. A new day, a new flight: 5.30am the following morning. Sleep at the airport -why not? Ok, so by now it’s getting a little grating, we’re all a little weary, and looking forward to a friendly indoor floor and that elusive shower. We must smell…we really must. But we can’t tell. Onto the flight we clamber, new country, new day. And then….

Our fifth night sleeping rough, this time in Cairo, again not really our fault.

The stairwell isn’t so bad. There are strange noises and stray cats occasionally stop by to check on us. There’s a smell of urine I ignore and the ground chills just the parts of my body that rest on it. The things we do for camels. Our airport nap being just a few hours, dreams lock us in sleep till 9am.

We wake above the smog lines of an immense sludge brown city, the traffic sounds are a tape on repeat. Mauritania’s silent desert nights and city of one million has been replaced by Africa’s most populace city of 30 million.

It looks just like China, we say as we taxi down the highway; it’s so like India, we coo, as rickshaws zoomed past juice bars and CD stands pumping out loud music; doesn’t it remind you of Hong Kong, we ask as we walked the streets, air-conditioners dripping in-between endless construction. Cairo is probably a little of everything: Middle Eastern food, African geography, European colonial buildings. Frustrated and tired we swing through emotions but it’s hard to be miserable in a city where there’s another country around every corner.

Big toothy smiles string my endless list of similes together. Before we meet the con man and the thief common to every city in the world, Egyptians show us beautiful smiles and a helping hand uniquely their own. Bus, taxi, rickshaw, metro and 30 million smiling faces are going to help us get to that shower.

Lots of feelings as I contemplate my next move and muse over the last six months.

I am really proud of myself for having done this. I made it to Kings Cross, immersed myself in life and lives here, just as I had dreamed of doing. I made it happen. I did it.

I walk around these streets, aware my lease is days from running out, and feel very nostalgic. I love the beautiful old buildings in my street, the plane trees against the sky, and the people I have come to consider as my community.

They know I am here and by and large they accept me. They know I will help them if they need it. And they have helped me. In many different ways…

A hug from the old guy who has a cleaning contract with the strip clubs. He gave me a rose one day when I was here on holidays, like in the ads, randomly ran and bought a rose while I paid for my coffee and gave it to me. We have been friends ever since. He has bought me coffee, invited me to the clubs (which I refused), invited me home (which I also refused) but has always given me  a  friendly smile, a big wave from across the street and an occasional bear hug.  A friendly face can be quite a gift in the big city.

The boys in the alley, who often have a kind word for me. And always a smile and a wave. And the occasional crush!

Some of the women, reaching out, making sure I’m OK. “Sister”.

The other day, Rosie, an indigenous woman of great dignity who is often out on the street and is a voracious reader, looked out for me.

She saw me watching,concerned, as the police and ambulance tried to restrain a fighting, screaming, kicking Sissy, attempting to get her to hospital for medical treatment.

She stopped, came up to me and said: “Don’t you go worrying about her. She takes pills. She shouldn’t take pills. She needs to go to hospital. She be OK”.

It meant a lot.

I stayed and watched anyway, always the witness. And I prayed for Sissy, wild, screaming, swearing, scared shitless Sissy.

And I rescued her shoes.

They finally had her in the ambulance but had left her joggers on the street. I grabbed them, took them to the young police officer, who promised to take them to the hospital and give them to Sissy.

Australia Girl still sits on her stair, still wearing her Australia jumper, still staring at nothing, nobody, still disengaged, lost somewhere.

But I got to see Australia Girl laugh, engage, hug, have her hair tousled, kiss passionately, come alive. It was one morning, she walked arm in arm with an aboriginal man with a wild beard. He reached up, rubbed her hair playfully, she looked at him laughing, and then they kissed. It was in the park. I had never seen her there before. She was alive, free, happy, engaged, for a moment in time and I got to witness it, just before she and he disappeared into the public toilets.

At first I was horrified at this, but a couple of my dear Maleny friends helped me to understand that she had been happy and it didn’t really matter what her boudoir looked like. Now I feel grateful that I got to see Australia Girl so alive, it was definitely a miracle witnessed.

Alive. Radiantly alive. Aware of the beauty. Birdsong, feel of pavement beneath my feet, sun’s rays reaching me, glorious shades of blue, shifty wind, and the big smile of my mate.

“Morning!” His boisterous shout.

He has one of his pals with him this morning, an old grey haired cobber, short grey beard.  Having a spot of moselle for brekky, from a plastic cup.

“You always have the most beautiful smile. Every morning.” This from my mate.

“Thanks.”  I am touched.

“And I love ya hair.”

He said this to me once in the early days, in my first few weeks here.  Back then he was being cheeky.  Now he wants to give to me, be generous, show me he appreciates our friendship.

Mission accomplished.  I feel absolutely chuffed.

Walking home just after dark, I spy Rosie sitting on the step of a shop entrance.  She is reading.  She needs the light to see.

Patrons step past her into the shop, eager to buy  dinner from the wide range of dishes in the deli window.

She doesn’t look up, intent on the plot, making the most of the shop’s light before it closes or she is asked to move on.

It’s the simple things, a lamp to read by, that we housed people take for granted.

It’s the lack of the simple things, that makes life on the street that much harder for the Tribe.

And so they improvise.  Find ways to bring some normalcy to lives that are anything but normal.

It’s not only cold on the street, it’s also dark. Very dark.