“This is the first time I feel like someone has listened to me”
The relationship between bereavement and homelessness The relationship between bereavement and homelessness Catherine and Karita both work with clients who are dealing with death; someone else’s, or their own. It’s often the first time in years clients have been asked what they want. Karita Razzell Everybody deserves a good death, everybody deserves to be treated with dignity at the end of their lives, to be able to die peacefully according to how they choose – just as you’d hope someone you loved would. My role is to help clients get the care that they need as they approach the end of their lives. I remember as we started encouraging clients to start thinking about their future wishes, some said, “What’s the point? It’s never going to be listened to. Nobody is ever going to care what I want.” People experiencing homelessness are not used to having their wishes respected. So the theme that runs through both our jobs is allowing our clients’ voices to be heard and listening to them. One thing people don’t realise about homelessness is that it ages you. The average age of death for people experiencing homelessness is the early forties: as I get older as a stably housed person I’m likely to experience frailty, falls, incontinence or memory difficulties – fingers crossed I’ll be at least 80 before that sort of stuff comes my way. But our clients experience those things a lot younger in life, perhaps in their forties, even without a life-limiting illness like cancer or kidney disease. Clients often die from a complex health condition they don’t know they’ve got. A smear test is not high on your to-do list when you’re struggling with all the other things associated with homelessness. My role is pretty rare. No other homelessness organisation has a role dedicated to helping people die well. People either think my job is depressing or that I’m an angel. Neither is true! But supporting people to experience a good death while being looked after, respected, with their friends and not on the streets, that’s what makes me feel good at the end of the day. “My role is pretty rare. No other homelessness organisation has a role dedicated to helping people die well.” Karita Catherine Hedges I think it’s important to acknowledge the link between homelessness and bereavement. I’m a trained counsellor and help clients process their grief. They’re often historical losses that they haven’t managed to come to terms with, which is often a contributing factor to them losing their home. It might be that, for example, the parents have the house in their name, pass away, the son is living there and has no right to that property, so they’re made homeless that way. Or it might be that they lose their home because of the emotional fallout of grief, where they’ve not had the funds or mental capacity at that moment to pay bills. I’m working with a woman who was in that situation. Slowly her water, gas and electric got turned off and eventually she was evicted. So loss and homelessness are closely intertwined. As far as I know, we’re the only homelessness charity that offers this service. A lot of our clients who have grief use alcohol to block it out. Dates and anniversaries of deaths are often crucial to relapses, so having this kind of support is really helpful to people and their recovery. Often if someone they know has died because of drug or alcohol use they think, ‘I can’t believe it’s not me’, or ‘What if I’m next?’ There’s a lot of survival guilt. One client sticks in my mind. He was in his sixties, and his 19-year-old son passed away. He couldn’t cope, didn’t pay the rent and got evicted. He slept rough for a couple of weeks on Clapham Common before he was found by St Mungo’s and supported. In our sessions, he said “I haven’t grieved or processed it. I was taught you don’t talk about your feelings.” We talked about how he could process his grief and he was adamant that he wouldn’t. But two sessions before we were due to finish he said, “I’ve had a lightbulb moment: It will always be sad and that’s ok.” Then he moved out and was suddenly really hopeful about life in a way he hadn’t been before. His emotions weren’t scary anymore. I think it’s important to acknowledge the link between homelessness and bereavement.” Catherine Our clients have rarely felt heard or listened to, and their opinions aren’t often considered. 85% of our clients have experienced severe childhood trauma, so having anyone listen to and take you seriously and allow you space to process it can be very powerful. They often say “This is the first time I feel like someone’s listened to me”. Other articles from this issue
How gardening helps recovery
How gardening helps recovery from homelessness How gardening helps recovery Clients spend two years in the Putting Down Roots program, tending the garden a few days a week – and the results are astonishing, says Gardener Trainer Rubyjo Narbey. I feel I’ve got the best job at St Mungo’s. I’ve been a Gardener Trainer for the past 9 years, during which I’ve supported 180 clients. That may not seem like a lot, but it’s one of the longest recovery programs: they stay for two years, learning how to garden two or three days a week. Once they finish, they don’t want to go! Putting Down Roots is about bringing people together, bringing them out of their home situations whether they’re in hostels, their own flats, or in recovery in dry houses, they can come and just be themselves. It’s a very non-judgmental group. Really great friendships have formed; there’s so much peer support. The first thing we do is ask what they like to eat; we’re not going to grow brussels sprouts if they don’t like them. They choose, sow the seeds, grow them and eat them. Cucumbers and tomatoes are popular choices, spinach, chard – sweetcorn is always really popular. When we get a good crop we pick it, boil it and eat it right there. Everyone goes wild for it. “Putting Down Roots is about bringing people together.” Rubyjo I absolutely love seeing how people change. When people first come they’re shy and anxious. Often they haven’t laughed for a long time, haven’t been able to let go and be themselves; but nobody has to be anything but themselves here. Sometimes it takes a while to learn that. We see how their confidence grows, the anxiety lessens, and we have fun. A lot of them have worked, they may have been bricklayers or accountants, and for whatever reason they’ve become homeless, so it’s about bringing people’s different skill sets out from their pasts. People’s mental health improves from being outside and having structure back in their lives, and people in recovery can sustain their abstinence better. If they do relapse, we phone them and say, “Come on back, you’re not going to be judged”. I think the biggest thing is they feel part of a community again. On the streets you’re ostracised and ignored. But here they’re creating something from seemingly nothing and they’re so proud of it – and they’ve got every right to be. The fact that it lasts two years is important because you get two years of growing seasons, you see the cycle of life and the bulbs coming through, and every week you come back and see what’s changed. And when a plant fails, that’s life. We had one client referred to us from our men’s crisis house; he had a professional background and something happened in his family that led to a complete breakdown. When he arrived he was like a mouse, he would hardly speak. He came back every couple of days and then started being a bit more open, talking, taking an interest in other people. After about 18 months we asked if he’d like to be a volunteer. He was brilliant, so empathetic and took on all the new clients and taught them what he’d learned. He now works full-time as a support manager at a mental health service here in Bristol. One client was living in a tent when he started with us. He’d be early for every session and take stuff back to his tent to cook. They come away with a certificate in horticulture. Some have gone onto gardening jobs, or their own allotments. But mostly, the change we see in people’s confidence is what makes this such an invaluable program. People are like little closed buds when they turn up, and leave fully blossomed. Wilkins, 62, takes part in the London Putting Down Roots programme and says, “The joy of planting tomatoes and witnessing their growth, knowing I’ll eventually harvest them, instils a profound sense of achievement in me. Engaging in such meaningful activities alongside others fosters a sense of camaraderie and support, turning what could be solitary moments into cherished opportunities for connection and encouragement from the facilitators and colleagues.” “Engaging in such meaningful activities alongside others fosters a sense of camaraderie and support, turning what could be solitary moments into cherished opportunities for connection.” Wilkins Other articles from this issue
Laser’s story
Laser’s story Laser’s story Laser* had to leave her family home after suffering honour-based violence. Like the majority of homeless women in Britain, she avoided rough sleeping at all costs, and resorted to sofa-surfing before she was referred to St Mungo’s. I suffered honour-based violence, and left because I couldn’t deal with it. I don’t think anyone deserves to deal with that. I found myself on my best friend’s floor, lying on a blowup mattress thinking, “What am I going to do?”. I never had to sleep rough thank goodness, it’s quite scary to be in the situation of even thinking of doing that. I have really supportive friends who understood what I’d been going through at home, so when I made the decision to leave they supported it. If anything, the decision to couch surf came from them. I said “What am I going to do now?” and they’d say, “What do you mean? You’re going to sleep exactly where you’re sitting. And if you can’t come to my house you’ll go to so-and-so’s house.” So for about two months, four or five different friends let me couch surf. But they have kids, so I couldn’t stay long. Which is how I found myself in a Hackney service centre, sitting with all my bags and again wondering what I was going to do. That’s when Michelle Chapman walked in. I’m a proud Muslim, and I couldn’t believe it when this Scottish person greeted me with, “Saalam alaikum”. I said, “What did you say?!” It turned out that Michelle was Muslim too. Michelle introduced themself as being from St Mungo’s, and I told Michelle that I’d turned up to the service to present myself as homeless and that they’d told me to come back the next day, but I had nowhere to go. Without hesitation Michelle said, “Let’s get you sorted”. I’d never met this person before in my life, and they fought for me like they’d known me from birth. We didn’t leave that place until I got a set of keys. They put me in 24-hour accommodation, and then in the accommodation I’m in now. At first I was scared in the new place because it was mixed-sex. I slept with a knife under my pillow. The only way I could sleep was to call one of my friends and fall asleep on the phone to them, so that when I woke up I could just say, “Hey, are you up?” My friends are great people. Often I would try to get things sorted on my own, and end up calling Michelle because I was being dismissed. Michelle would call them – sorted. I’m five foot nothing and my voice doesn’t have much grit, I have PTSD (which was undiagnosed at the time), severe depression and anxiety so I can’t really speak as loudly or as quickly as I want to. Michelle fought for me. “I’d never met this person before in my life, and they fought for me like they’d known me from birth.” Laser Domestic violence of any kind leaves you with guilt, as if it’s your fault. But it isn’t. Even if you have done something wrong it should not equal that behaviour, and the only reason you feel guilt is because you would never do that to somebody else, so you automatically think you must deserve what’s happened. But you don’t. Now, that guilt and shame has grown to acceptance. No one can inflict pain on me because they have something going on with them. That lesson came from Michelle, although they insist they just brought it out of me. In a few weeks, I’m starting a new job in a hotel in Shoreditch, doing reception and admin work. I can say without Michelle I have no idea where I’d be. Michelle never closed the door, and I always knew they’d pick up the phone. I know Michelle would now if I called. Other articles from this issue
The life of a St Mungo’s Outreach worker
The life of a St Mungo’s Outreach worker The life of a St Mungo’s Outreach worker Imagine it’s 6am, and instead of being tucked up in bed you’re on a chilly pavement, crouching by a sleeping bag, calling to the person inside to wake up to see if you can help them. This is the life of a St Mungo’s outreach worker. During winter, outreach workers have to be prepared for SWEP: Severe Weather Emergency Protocol, when temperatures go below freezing (or above 30C). Outreach workers rush to the streets to offer emergency accommodation which is made urgently available by the local authority. While there’s no legal obligation for local authorities to provide shelter during SWEP, it’s generally taken to be a moral one, and most authorities provide it. But it’s hardly a perfect system, explains Ealing Outreach Co-ordinator Ewa Mou-Balham. How do people react when they’re given hot drinks and warm clothes? “Extremely happy,” says Ewa. “Sometimes when we go out, they’re fed up and say, ‘Why are you waking me up?!’ But when it’s cold, absolutely everyone is waiting for us. A lot of clients then change their minds and decide to engage with us, which feels great.” But lately, Ewa’s team has been seeing more newcomers to the streets, “Last night we found 25 people sleeping rough – eight of them were new.” Often, newcomers are refugees who have just been granted permission to stay in the UK. The wait often stretches beyond months into years, and once it’s granted, they’re given an incredibly short amount of time to leave their government-provided room – officially they have 28 days, but in practice they usually only have a week or two; certainly not enough time to find a job and a place to live. “When the temperature goes above freezing, SWEP ends. People have to leave the emergency accommodation at 9am, even though it’s often still incredibly cold.” Which means they go from being refugees to being homeless. Ewa explains, “Most of them don’t speak English and are scared to ask for a job. Often, they were still at school when they had to flee their home country, so find themselves on the streets with no work experience whatsoever.” Ewa says her team’s greatest difficulty is that as rough sleeping increases, they find their hands tied: foreign nationals (who account for about half of people sleeping rough in urban areas) need to have been in the UK for a full 20 years before they have recourse to public funds. Not having the right to work leaves people vulnerable to exploitation. “Three years ago we found 17 people sleeping in just five rooms,” says Ewa. “The landlord was letting them stay for free, while working for him for £100 a week. If they had the right to work, he couldn’t do that.” Having no recourse to public funds also means having to pay for non-emergency medical care. “We had a client who needed his plaster cast changing and we were told it would cost £2,000,” she says. We couldn’t pay that, so he removed it by himself.” Ewa notes that the government has been promising an end to homelessness ever since she started working with St Mungo’s. Four and a half years into the job, there are now more rough sleepers than when she started. Ewa says if she could change one thing, it would be the rules for foreign nationals. “If someone has been here 10 years illegally, they should have the right to work, not be forced to work illegally and be taken advantage of,” she says. “They’re skilled. If the government said, ‘Show us you can pay taxes and look after yourself’, most of them would come off the streets.” It’s the success stories that keep you going in any job – for Ewa, one that sticks in her mind was a client who’d been sleeping in a forest for seven years. “We helped get him training and a job,” she says. “Now he’s not drinking anymore, he’s in private rented accommodation, and I hear he’s saved enough for a deposit to buy a flat – though somewhere outside London, obviously!” We really can finish with homelessness, Ewa insists, and St Mungo’s can play a big part. What we do for migrants and refugees We are backing calls for the government to extend the move-on period for newly recognised refugees from 28 days to 56 days We help clients access the paperwork they need to gain support from the local authority We support clients to apply for Universal Credit as soon as possible We support their mental health: many people have been waiting a long time and experienced significant trauma. Receiving status should be a positive experience, and we try to make sure they navigate the bureaucracy with as little stress as possible We provide additional support with attending appointments We help to link clients to wider community networks to ease their settling in the UK You can find out more at here. Other articles from this issue
“The cold still haunts me.”
“It’s been 40 years since I slept rough, the cold still haunts me.” “It’s been 40 years since I slept rough, the cold still haunts me.” I worked as a travel money manager at a bank, and was furloughed during covid. I couldn’t sit and get paid to do nothing, so I decided to volunteer with St Mungo’s. I then joined the charity Thames Reach as an outreach worker. Now, I work with St Mungo’s clients, specifically women with historic or current domestic violence. I’ve got lived experience of domestic violence and homelessness. I left home at 15 and I was on the streets for 18 months, in Scotland. I went to the local council for help, and they said, “We can’t do anything until you’re 18”. I went to the Salvation Army, they said, “You’re too young for us to house you”. I remember to this day how painful the cold was. It still haunts me now. You survive the night by walking about. I’d find a stairwell or somewhere and that’s where I’d kip during the day, because you’re safer than you are at night. But on the street, you do not sleep: you doze. The first time I was assaulted, I had two children; a baby and a 14-month-old. I went to the Labour Exchange (which is what we used to call the Jobcentre) and explained that I had no ID, because not only did he control everything and keep my paperwork from me, I’d literally had to grab a few things and flee. They said, “That’s not our problem, you’ll have to go back and get it”. It’s a lot better now – there were no women’s refuges then. I feel really proud now that I can help women who are in the position I was. “The way I came off the streets was to go into an abusive relationship. You go from the frying pan to the fire sometimes. It was a couple of years before I got away.” Winter is really difficult when it comes to your health; 99% of the time it’s breathing issues. There’s a lot of TB (tuberculosis) and COPD (chronic obstructive pulmonary disease) associated with cold weather. In the winter, they become exacerbated, which makes life on the streets so much harder. I always chat with people I meet on the streets. They always have a story to tell. Often they show me where trafficked women are dropped off, and I can put them in touch with the modern slavery team and the Roma team in St Mungo’s. I think in some ways, female clients are harder to work with. They feel a sense of failure for being here. They don’t understand what they’ve done wrong, and especially in domestic violence situations I have to explain, “It’s not you”. “The resilience of women and men on the streets astounds me. The fact that they survive that situation, the strength of character that they have to get up every day.” A bugbear of mine is people thinking only women can suffer domestic violence. I had a male client who was suffering domestic violence, went to the local authority for help, and on the phone – on loudspeaker in front of me – the council officer (who was female!) said, “But you’re a man, how can you be suffering domestic violence?” My jaw dropped. I said, “I’m going to call back in five minutes; I’d like to speak to your manager.” I took the client out, got him a cup of tea and said, “Please don’t ever feel that we will treat you like that.” When I got the manager on the phone, I quoted legislation and explained that their staff member was uneducated, and got an apology. This is why education is so important. A client who sticks in my mind is one who suffered domestic violence and was a substance user; she’s now in her second year of college, studying nail tech. Another suffered honour-based violence in a domestic setting and has an eating disorder; she’s now attending a group for it, and she’s got a part time job in a restaurant. A lot of clients feel they’ve made all these failures, so the next time they try something they’re going to fail. I say you can pick yourself up, I’ll give you a kick in the backside – metaphorically! – but don’t ever think you’re not worthy of doing something. Even if you’ve failed, the fact that you’ve tried: that’s the success. It makes me smile when I see successes. Even something as simple as, six or so months ago they might have been timid or quiet, or reactive and behind a wall, then you later see them relaxed and having a conversation, having that confidence that they are on that journey, moving forward and growing. I don’t think people realise when they give money to St Mungo’s, they are helping to build self-esteem in that way. I say to the girls, find your voice. Don’t ever think something you say is stupid because if it’s relevant to you it’s not. Everyone should be able to chase their dreams. Other articles from this issue
18 winters homeless: William’s story
18 winters homeless: William’s story 18 winters homeless: William’s story Every day, our outreach teams are on the streets looking for people sleeping rough. But some people are harder to find than others. To avoid being attacked by other rough sleepers or members of the public, many choose to hide themselves away. This was the case for William. This is his story. My life has always been hard. My mother died when I was three, my dad died when I was 11. My oldest brother was my guardian, and he disappeared then died when he was 32. When I was 32, I was fit as a fiddle; I hardly drank, I had a punch bag in my room, I went running four nights a week – and then I split up with my missus and just disintegrated. I lost my job and fell behind with the rent. My drinking got worse and worse. When I drank it was all I cared about; I didn’t even shower. Then I found myself on the streets. I spent two years sleeping in a closed-down bowling green in White City. There was a little roof with a bench underneath so you could keep out of the rain, and nobody bothered me. I was on my own most of the time – the best thing you can do is find somewhere to hide away, because I’ve heard of people being set on fire on the street. In winter, the green would be pure white with the snow. I’m Scottish but I really feel the cold. You’ve got to wear three coats – the cold weather kills so many people. “All in all, I was homeless for 18 years.” William I tried four times to quit drinking – the first time it took me a week to stop shaking. It’s now been six years since I had a drink. Once I stopped drinking, everything fell into place. When I got my flat through St Mungo’s, I was over the moon. I’d been 16 months sober. “St Mungo’s got me on the road to the hostels. They put me on the ladder, and now I have my own flat.” William Before, there were family members who didn’t know if I was dead or alive, but I’ve been up to Scotland around 10 times in the last four years to see my brother and sister. When I walked in, my brother started crying. We went to the seaside, and the next day someone knocked on the door and it was someone I knew when I was young; he’d seen the pictures on Facebook. Other articles from this issue
What it’s like to be an Outreach worker
Winter Edition 2023 What’s like to be an Outreach worker Sam McCormack has been a St Mungo’s Outreach worker since the start of the pandemic. From waking rough sleepers at 6am to the best text he’s ever received, he takes us through a few of his experiences on the job. I’ve worked for St Mungo’s for five and a half years. I was the Antisocial Behaviour Support Worker for rough sleepers, then I became an Outreach worker at the beginning of the pandemic. They really needed someone just because of the sheer volume of people on the streets. Because the government said everyone must be housed during covid, we housed over 400 clients over a short space of time – I had a caseload of about 55 clients at any given point (15-20 clients is a normal load). It’s not as simple as saying “this is what my day’s going to be today”. Today on my Outreach sheets (which are lists of rough sleepers and their locations) there are 36 different names of rough sleepers and their locations written on here – from just this morning! A lot of them are regular clients, and then when we get in we pick up phone messages and emails about the whereabouts of various rough sleepers. We get them from members of the public, from clients themselves, from any other agencies, drug and alcohol services, ambulance, police – you name it. Sometimes there are no messages, sometimes there are as many as 12 or 20. It’s common for people to not want to engage at first. It could be they’ve had poor experiences with agencies or the council that left them with the thought, “I’ve tried this before, it didn’t work out”. That’s where our consistent approach is so important: we make sure they know we’re here when they’re ready. Sometimes they say they don’t want to do the housing stuff, but they have a health issue and we refer them to our health teams. It’s all about gauging from that first moment how they want their support. If they say, “Please can you not come and wake me up at six in the morning?” that’s perfectly alright. If you don’t want to speak today, we’ll come back. We have a lot of clients who are long-term rough sleepers who, in the last couple of years, have engaged and actually gone into accommodation. If you say, “What can we do for you?” they’ll often say nothing, but if you ask, “How’s your health? Have you got a passport, benefits, money?”, often they’ll come back to us a few weeks later. “As Outreach workers, we’re the ones who bring in a sense of normality and structure to clients amid a lot of chaos. We find them, say hello and offer help, and often it takes time to build trust.” Sometimes they walk several miles to come here when previously they didn’t want help, because now the trust is there. Christmas usually brings an influx of rough sleepers to Bournemouth. Rural homelessness is difficult; being out in the middle of nowhere, and begging is much easier at the Christmas market in Bournemouth. The client that sticks in my mind is one I referred to Hope Housing, a small charity that provides supported accommodation for people experiencing homelessness; he was in semi-supported shared accommodation within a week and a half. He sent me a text that said, “You lot mean more to me than you can ever imagine” and a heart emoji at the end! We also have a feedback book where clients write lovely messages to us. I always tell colleagues, “During your bad days, when the clients have been directing their frustration at you, just come back and read the book.” Sometimes they walk several miles to come here when previously they didn’t want help, because now the trust is there. Christmas usually brings an influx of rough sleepers to Bournemouth. Rural homelessness is difficult; being out in the middle of nowhere, and begging is much easier at the Christmas market in Bournemouth. The truth about Outreach is that there’s no typical day, no typical client. And to our supporters, I just want to say thank you. Without them we wouldn’t be here. I’ve worked for a lot of housing associations and none of them have been as compassionate as St Mungo’s; they think about the bigger picture.
3 things the Government can do to end rough sleeping
Winter Edition 2023 3 things the Government can do to end rough sleeping What can we learn from our response to the pandemic when it comes to homelessness? The Kerslake Commission has three recommendations. Few will remember the Covid-19 pandemic with any kind of fondness. But it was also a moment in which ambitious solutions to homelessness were implemented. The Government’s initiative Everyone In ensured that people sleeping rough were put up in hotels and other forms of accommodation, and remarkable progress was made. So what lessons can we learn from our pandemic response? The Kerslake Commission was set up, with St Mungo’s as the secretariat, to answer that question. Joe Walker, our Senior Policy and Public Affairs Officer, explains three of its recommendations: 1. Raise housing benefit “During the pandemic, the Government increased rates of universal credit by £20 a week, to recognise that people needed extra support. But it just brought people to a level that they needed to sustain themselves. When that was removed, it had a huge impact. “With benefits levels already inadequate, the freeze to housing benefit means that people can’t cover their rent. So local councils spend around £60m a month on temporary accommodation. “The rates of housing benefit should cover the bottom 30% of rent prices. Currently it’s more like 5%, and that estimate is generous. Go on Rightmove or Zoopla and see if you can find any properties for the local housing benefit rate. You can find maybe two or three if you’re lucky.” 2. Build more housing “We’re not in a pandemic anymore, so the response to ending homelessness over the long term will look different. We won’t be able to open hotels and student accommodation again for people to be housed in. “This country has failed to build an adequate supply of social rented housing. That puts huge amounts of pressure on the private rented sector, so rents are sky high. So people can’t afford to move on from homelessness, or they fall into homelessness because they can’t afford to sustain their housing. “Even if the Government decided to build more housing, getting bricks in the ground will take the best part of a decade, so we need intermediate solutions: regenerating housing that has fallen into disrepair, more robust measures on empty properties, and transferring current developments that are for private or shared ownership into social rented housing. Alleviating pressure at the bottom end of the market is the most effective way of preventing homelessness. “Because there’s not enough social housing, our clients are placed into the private rental sector when they move on from homelessness. The private rental sector is great for some: flexible, easier to live nearer workplaces in the city centre. But what people recovering from homelessness need is safe, secure and affordable housing, which the private rental sector is not.” 3. Extend support to non-UK nationals “Around half of people sleeping rough in urban areas are non-UK nationals. During the pandemic the Government was clear that anyone, regardless of their immigration status, should be brought in off the streets. “Now the funding no longer exists, and the Government isn’t clear about what local authorities can do to support people who have limited entitlements to public funds due to their immigration status. “At St Mungo’s, we don’t just support people on the front line when they’re experiencing crisis; we want to change the systemic issues that cause people to be in that situation in the first place. When you support St Mungo’s, yes you’re supporting people who need outreach support and placing in accommodation – but you’re also supporting an organisation that is committed to ending homelessness and rough sleeping in the long term.”
Support that can turn lives around
Winter Edition 2023 Support that can turn lives around St Mungo’s offers help in so many ways – such as running 12 Housing First schemes, which offer people experiencing homelessness housing as quickly as possible so they can then deal with other issues (such as addiction, unemployment, or mental health issues) from a secure environment. We talked to case worker Andrew Murray and his client ‘L’ about how this kind of support turns lives around… Providing clients with essential support “As a case worker, you’ve got to build a trusting relationship quite quickly and that’s hard to do, because you’re working with people who don’t really trust many people at all. “You become an integral part of their lives. It’s a testament to how well the service does that when I started there were six clients and now there’s almost 60. “The success rate is incredibly high, which for us means that people stay in accommodation and break the cycle of going back to the streets. I had clients who were housed with Housing First in 2016 who have managed to stay in the same accommodation. “Christmas is a difficult time for a lot of people, those with children or extended family they don’t see or are estranged from can find it really hard. You’ve just got to be there for them. “To supporters of St Mungo’s, I would say, your contributions enable St Mungo’s to be able to invest in services like Housing First, which gives people the time and resources to develop to their full potential and succeed.” Client L’s story “I had an abusive father, and I’d been on heroin since I was seven. I knew about withdrawal and how to inject myself before I finished primary school. “When I got away from my dad I was moved into a hostel (not run by St Mungo’s). I was trying to get clean, but other residents were difficult. There’d be a knock on my door at 3am, and someone’s arm would come through with a tourniquet around it and a needle asking me to do it because they couldn’t find a vein. So I left, thinking I’d rather be on the streets – and I was, for seven years. “I was polite to people, never asked for money, I just had a sign. I tried getting into accommodation, but I was sent to the same place, with some of the same residents. I decided again to take my chances on the streets. The council saw this as me making myself intentionally homeless. “During ‘the Beast from the East’ I was outside a Tesco’s literally getting covered in snow, and people threw coffee at me from a moving car. That’s your lowest point. I’ve had a tent set on fire while I was inside, I’ve been urinated on, beaten up, had my shoes stolen. “I’ve had a tent set on fire while I was inside, I’ve been urinated on, beaten up, had my shoes stolen.” Client L “As an addict, winter is particularly dangerous. You’re physically dependent so if you don’t have it, you’re vomiting every five seconds, going to the toilet uncontrollably and all your trauma that’s been blocked out is going to hit you like a wave and none of your coping mechanisms are there to protect you. If you’re homeless, you’ve got no change of clothes, no shower – it’s dangerous to be sweating profusely and unable to keep water or food down. “I became suicidal. When I tried to kill myself, I was sectioned for all of six hours: the second they found out I was homeless and an addict they gave me £30 for a B&B and dropped me back in Bournemouth. “Things turned around, but only after something terrible happened. A guy I knew froze to death after he said the council took his bedding away. We used to talk a lot, he would stand outside McDonalds and say hi to people; I’m lactose and gluten intolerant so I would give him my extra food. I didn’t see him for a couple of days, and then I found out he’d frozen to death. A week or so later, my phone rang: the council were putting me in a hotel. “After a few weeks I was referred to Housing First. They said, ‘We’ll give you a flat with the rent paid, and you can take it from there.‘ They said I was getting a key worker from St Mungo’s and I was very wary of letting a stranger in. “Now Andy and I have worked together for almost five years. I feel like doctors make up their mind about me straight away but when I have Andy present I have a witness with a laminated badge which completely changes how people treat you. “The reason this has worked for me is the autonomy I have: I’ve been able to taper my methadone down at my own pace, and request that the drugs charity WeAreWithYou lower my dose as I’ve gotten my daily intake lower and lower. “Out of all the different services I’ve worked with, with St Mungo’s the practical help is huge. “I feel like doctors make up their mind about me straight away but when I have Andy present I have a witness with a laminated badge which completely changes how people treat you.” Client L “Whether it’s needing to go to the pharmacy or ‘I need to talk to someone right now!’, they’ve always been able to help. Andy is perfectly suited for helping people.”
25 years of helping St Mungo’s clients
Winter Edition 2023 25 years of helping St Mungo’s clients Marking her 25th year with St Mungo’s, few have made more impact on how we support our clients than Samantha Cowie. As Head of Criminal Justice Services, Sam tells us about the work she leads here at St Mungo’s, where housing meets the criminal justice system. If you want to address homelessness in Britain, you’ve got to look at the population that are coming out of prisons with nowhere to live. “No matter how quickly you’re taking people off the street you’ve still got this flow of people coming out, often with nowhere to go.” Samantha Cowie Sam and her team support people to either sustain the accommodation they have when they go into prison (so that, if their sentence is short enough, it will be waiting for them upon their release), or if they can’t save it, to help them relinquish it in a way that won’t diminish their housing rights when they do leave prison. If they have no accommodation or won’t have anywhere to live when they’re released, Sam and her team help them find housing. There is a strong link between prison and homelessness, Sam explains. “Many people who find themselves homeless are at a higher risk of finding themselves engaged with the criminal justice system in some way… If you’ve got nowhere to live, no money or you can’t claim benefits you may feel you have no other choice than to, for example, shoplift. If you’re suffering with your mental health, you might be self-medicating with drugs, drink, antisocial behaviour happens…” People also have a higher risk of experiencing homelessness when they are released from prison and are far more likely to reoffend if they have nowhere to live. In her 25 years, Sam has fought tirelessly to get the housing needs of prisoners taken into consideration; even here at St Mungo’s. “When I first started working in Criminal Justice Services, I remember having to make the argument that it’s an integral part of what St Mungo’s does,” says Sam. “It took a long time for this link to be recognised across the whole sector: that part of our work in Criminal Justice Services is to highlight that people on the streets can end up offending and in prison, and people who’ve been in prison often come out and end up on the street. Either way, they end up in our hostels, or from our hostels they end up in prison.” Sadly, perhaps understandably in some ways, there is still a lack of public empathy for prisoners. The element of rehabilitation is often overridden by the idea of prison as a punishment, and the negative impact of incarceration becomes something that is ‘deserved’. “People don’t want to hear about criminals being supported in a way that they see as unfair, and that includes access to housing or services,” says Sam. “We’re not making excuses for bad choices, but quite often there are also explanations as to why people end up in that situation, and we are trying to undo that damage” Samantha Cowie “And yet we know that prisons are full of young people who have come through the care system, been failed by it, and who have been institutionalised to the point of not functioning outside the institution. “And when efforts are made to rehabilitate through activities like sports, the arts, education and helping them get jobs and a home, people are often angry about it because they see it as a reward.” The idea of reward and punishment misses the point of rehabilitation, Sam explains. “We’re not making excuses for bad choices, but quite often there are also explanations as to why people end up in that situation, and we are trying to undo that damage – the alternative is we lock people up and do nothing, no effort to rehabilitate, and the cycle continues. “It can cost around £50,000 a year to keep a person in prison: that’s a lot of money if someone keeps going back again and again. Having a home goes some way in breaking that cycle.” On occasion, people experiencing homelessness even offend because prison feels like a step up from life on the streets, deliberately getting arrested to return to the familiarity of the prison system. While the numbers are not quite as drastic as some have reported, Sam says it is something her team sees, but most often it happens in the run up to Christmas. “If you’ve been institutionalised and you don’t have that family dynamic, Christmas is a really stressful time of year for people,” she says. “It can be a stark reminder of what you don’t have.”
