Slipping Through Nets

I filed this under politics because I couldn't find anything more appropriate. I guess it kind of fits.

Some recent experiences of mine have served to open my eyes to a few things which, being of a somewhat left-leaning persuasion, I had assumed myself to be fully conscious of already. Allow me to elaborate.

Today I was back in my old university town of Oxford. The reason being that I recently lost my job, and also defaulted on a lease for a flat in London (losing £250), so I am now in the process of trying to find work in a town where the rents are more affordable and I know an established network of people. As I was walking back to my old college to meet a former tutor, I passed two policemen who were hastling a homeless Big Issue seller. Now, the homeless man in question has been selling the Big Issue for at least the past three years, and doing so consistently on the same spot. Today he had perhaps 20-30 copies of the magazine with him, but had apparently forgotten to bring, or else had lost, his official vendor badge.

From what I could tell the two policemen were giving the man a very hard time by accusing him of being an illegal vendor and telling him he had to move on. There was a high police presence all around Oxford today, and I get the feeling they had been told to make the streets look tidy for some reason (perhaps some ‘important’ rich person was visiting?), hence the incident in question. (I can’t prove this, but I think it’s a good bet given the unusually low numbers of homeless people and unusually high number of policemen about today). From past observation I know the homeless man in question to have mental health issues, and the police were behaving in a very domineering and intimidating, albeit a calculated passive-aggressive, way towards him. Seeing this taking place, something inside me snapped and I decided not to just walk on.

I turned back and without introduction stated to the policemen that this was outrageous: I knew for a fact that this man had been selling the Big Issue for over three years on this spot, and it was clear from the number of his magazines that he was an official vendor - and that surely they had better things to do with their time than hastle the homeless?

The younger of the two officers asked me why I was getting involved and what business I thought it was of mine, to which I replied (somewhat nauseatingly) that “it’s a free country and I have a right to voice my opinion”. As is usual, the policeman at this point tried to bully me, employing his status as an authority figure in uniform, and demanding that I step to one side whilst he talk to me. I wasn’t in the mood for lectures and so I flat out refused, pointing out that I was doing nothing wrong and that he had no authority to make me stay, and so I walked away. He called after me but I ignored him.

Why did I do that? I’d like to say that it’s because I am a champion of the poor and downtrodden - a true socialist hero. But sadly the truth is more self-referential than that. The events of the past week and a half have brought something home to me: the ease with which people can slip through the net.

It’s an old adage, which I have frequently heard uttered, that people on the streets must be there because they deserve to be. This of course is an extremely comforting thought: it ameliorates the sense of guilt any decent person must feel when seeing the homeless, and especially when one is turning them down for support. It also shifts the burden onto the needy: if they are responsible for their plight, they are responsible for getting out of it. To challenge that commonplace remark, I’m now going to tell a slightly different story to my actual life-history, and we’ll see how well things turn out.

Imagine I didn’t go to Oxford, imagine instead that I went somewhere less prestigious which didn’t have a college full of established people looking out for me even after I had left. Imagine I didn’t do so well at school. Imagine that my mum had died, and my dad disliked me and had re-married, hoping to try and start a new life which didn’t include me in it. Imagine my parents hadn’t put money in a building society for me. Imagine that when I defaulted on a flat that was the last of my £250 I lost to Victor Michael, a particularly unscrupulous and devious estate agent in East London. Imagine that when I lost my job, I lacked the skills and references to haul myself into the recruiting agents’ offices, which are a living testament to the fact that the Marxist labour theory of value is not entirely empty. Imagine that my girlfriend got fed up with me and kicked me out. Imagine that my friends increasingly became sick of letting me sleep on their couches. Imagine that the job centre - which no longer employs job-guidance workers (thanks Mr Brown) - became an increasingly fruitless place to be (if that is possible). Imagine that because of my lack of permanent address, I could get neither employment nor a permanent place to live, lacking both secure income and proof of previous address for the last 3 months. Then imagine I couldn’t find a sofa for a night. Now imagine that my borderline mental health difficulties started to go through a bad patch (the charity Shelter states that 30-50% of people living on the streets suffer from mental health problems).

It’s not hard to see how the story ends. My experiences of the past week have made me accutely aware of just how easy it must be for people who are less fortunate than myself to slip through the net. It has also made me a lot more grateful for what I have, my parents especially included. It also scares me, a lot.

So the next time you pass a homeless person on the street, don’t assume they are there because they deserve to be (and perhaps ask yourself: even if they did actually do some very stupid and bad things, can it ever possibly be right to say that someone really deserves to lose everything?). The person you pass on the street might be there, not because they deserve to be or have committed some terrible fault, but quite simply because they are a little less lucky than you, or for that matter me.

It’s a sobering thought.