Being Homeless: A Day in Their Shoes
Ever wondered what it's like to be homeless? Where do they eat? Where do they sleep? Where do they get money from and where do they spend it? With nothing more than a blanket in a backpack, I spend 12 hours on the streets to find out. My budget for the day? £1.50.
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What is it really like to be homeless? Talking to charities and people on the streets is great, but does it really count as an insight into a rough sleeper's life? Arguably, one can't fully understand something until experiencing it first hand, so I arranged to spend a day on the streets with Glen and Simone to see for myself.
As the day draws near, my intrigue and excitement are replaced by apprehension, knowing that things I took for granted as part of my everyday routine for the past few years were no longer an option; my smartphone, camera, purse and debit cards all had to be replaced with real 'basic' essentials: a backpack, a jacket, a blanket and a pack of tissues. Nothing else.
My biggest worry however is my budget for the day. According to Simone and Glen, they start their day with a budget of £1.50 each, money they are usually left with from begging on the streets the previous night. Overwhelmed by a sense of guilt, I realise that what these people have to last them for an entire day, I happily spend on a single drink or snack every single day.
A bit apprehensive, I start the day determined to make the most out of my budget. Spending a good 20 minutes carefully examining prices at a local supermarket, I realise that this is harder than what I expected; do I favour quantity or quality? Is it better to buy a single item or go for variety? Running late, I decide to spend my £1.50 on two croissants, a banana and a large bottle of water, leaving me with just 7p to last me until the night.
Stannesdaycentre.org
I arranged to meet Simone and Glen at 9am at the entrance of St Anne's Day Centre, a large room in St Mary's Church Hall where homeless people in Brighton are offered breakfast and lunch from 10am to 1pm for just 50p. As I reach the Church, I meet Simone who informs me that she and Glen had an argument and decided to spend the day apart, which means it will be just the two of us for the day.
Walking inside, I am confronted with at least 40 other people waiting to eat and use the centre's facilities: charge their phones, wash, and get some new clothes. Most of them are middle-aged men, having counted just three other women, including Simone. I am shocked when I realise that one of them, who could not have been older than 25, is pregnant.
Reading my mind, Simone looks at me says "It happens more often than you think." As we sit down, I realise I am attracting a number of stares, as well as a few sympathetic smiles. It dawns on me that to everyone else here, I am 'the newcomer', a young girl that just became homeless and became part of a new community.
I am approached by a man with a strong spanish accent who introduces himself as Pedro (name has been changed). He tells me he is originally from Argentina and has been homeless for the past 2 years before adding that I should let him know if I needed anything. In fact, I notice that Pedro is not the only foreign national in the room. Although the majority of them are British, there are Germans, French, Polish, African and even an Iranian man at the centre.
While waiting for breakfast, I notice that most of them fall asleep on their table. Simone later explains that having to sleep on the streets means that most of them only get a few hours of sleep every night. Men old enough to be someone's grandfather and young enough to be someone's son.
As breakfast is served, all guests are provided with two buttered slices of toast and tea and coffee. It is evident that the volunteers staffing the centre work hard not just to accommodate everyone, but to also lend an ear to the people there, with conversations ranging from politics, to gossip, to debating where the best squat in Brighton is.
By 11:30, I've already been sitting on the same chair for nearly three hours, but Simone explains we have to wait for lunch because if we leave, there is no guarantee that there will be room for us when we come back. And at 12 o'clock, I understand why.
Stannesdaycentre.org
The room is filled by approximately 60 rough sleepers waiting for lunch. For 'just' 50p, the volunteers prepare a three-course-style meal, including soup, half a quiche with roasted carrots and a cereal bar for dessert. However I am shocked to find out that what seems to be a very decent exchange to me, is still a luxury for some who don't even have that.
Although the centre doesn't impose the 50p charge, it soon becomes clear that paying for the meal is a matter of pride, and I feel overwhelmed by the sense of 'community' when I notice 50p coins being discretely exchanged from hand to hand to those in need.
As Simone goes to get served, I take out my two croissants and banana. Looking at my bag, Pedro smiles and comments: "bad idea". By the time everyone is served and a little prayer is said, it is evident that most of them are very hungry. Seconds are usually available only if there is any food left once everyone has been served; today, this is not an option.
We leave the centre at 1:30pm and Simone informs me that the rest of the day will be spent doing what I have been dreading all day: begging. Not being one to give money to people on the streets, I brace myself for rejection as we sit by the beach near the pier.
My first attempt at "got any spare change mate" was horrifying. I felt guilty, embarrased and, after being blatantly ingored, invisible. My second attempt was the same. So was my third, fourth and fifth. The first time someone did respond to that was by throwing 20p towards me. That was an hour later. Simone's response? "Yay. That can go towards your dinner."
Begging on the streets can only be described as humbling. As more coins are thrown towards me, comments such as "don't spend it on drugs" and "good luck" hurt more than what I expected. It made me realise how easy it is to be judged and criticised, as well as how prejudiced people are about homeless people.
By eight o'clock, I have made £3,24 in six hours, which, added to my 7p from this morning brings me to a total of £3.31. By this time, I am starving and the sounds coming from my stomach are becoming harder to ignore. Pedro's earlier comment on my food choice makes sense to me now, as I realise I should have favoured quantity over what I wanted to eat.
Knowing that £1.50 should be saved for the following day, I realise that the remaining £1.81 won't get me far when it comes to dinner. As the sun sets, the environment changes and becomes more hostile, and I start to feel uneasy. Despite it being a comfortable 20 degrees during the day, the significant temperature drop is hard to ignore, and after spending hours sitting on cold concrete, my limbs begin to go numb.
By 9pm, I have made another 1.20, bringing my total to £3.01 which should go towards my dinner. More than happy to end the day, I give my earnings to Simone and decide it's time for me to go home. At this point I am cold, tired, hungry, but also guilty that I have a place to go to. On the way, I come across Pedro and one of the Germans heading towards the pier.
After a frienly exchange of 'good nights', I tell them to take care and wish them luck; forgetting that to them, I am still homeless, I am brought to the harsh reality of homelessness when Pedro tells me "you take care, you are a girl on the streets. Don't stay alone."
As I walk home, I think about what Pedro said, and can't help but wonder why I wasn't asked to join them since they felt that being alone on the streets is that risky. Surely sticking together is better than being alone? And then I remember something a homeless man told me during an interview.
"You don't have friends when you are homeless; they are just acquaintances that are in the same situation as you. Truth is, no one's got your back. When you are on the streets, it's every man for himself."