On Monday December 1st 2014 the homeless crisis that we had heard so much about was given a face, a name and a family.
That was when the body of Jonathan Corrie was discovered just a stone's throw from the plinth at Leinster House where so many of our representatives pontificate. It was that very proximity that turned a tacit acceptance of a problem into the recognition of a full-blown crisis on the streets of our capital city. Emergency beds were found and fewer were exposed to sleeping rough through another hard winter. The numbers fell from 100 visible rough sleepers to about 50. A public shaming can have a galvanising effect.
But twelve months on, and with the housing crisis escalating, how are those at the margins faring? Statistics tell one side of the story, of hostel places, of emergency beds, of Freephones and outreach efforts. But what of those on the streets, the so-called "clients" of all of these services?
In the past I’ve met with many homeless men and women. As a schoolboy I volunteered for work in the Regina Coeli hostel for homeless men on North Brunswick Street. Even as a teenager the helplessness and hopelessness of some of the men hit me hard – the seeming impossibility of a new start. Over the years in my broadcasting life I have met many who were down on their luck, from the expatriate Irish in London, the men and women who find clothes and food and friendship at Alice Leahy’s TRUST drop-in centre, Brother Kevin's extraordinary food operation at the Capuchin Centre, the needle exchange at Merchant’s Quay, and the people helped by that tireless champion of the homeless Father Peter McVerry.
But in all of these encounters I met people who had retained a dignity and a humanity in spite of their struggles in coping with that most fundamental of deficits – the loss of a home.
And so, as we approach the anniversary of Jonathan Corry's death, and as November turned nasty, I took to the Dublin streets late at night to see for myself how those without a permanent roof over their heads were doing. I hoped to speak to the people you so often see crouching in doorways, begging on bridges, or perhaps we pretend not to see them at all.
In the early part of my walk my guide was Richie Williams from Merchants Quay Ireland, who has been working with the homeless for many years and who knows many of them by name or location. Where to start? Well, surprisingly, Ireland’s iconic shopping thoroughfare – Grafton Street, believe it or not. And sure enough, between 20 and 30 homeless men and women congregate every night around shop fronts, as soon as the shutters are down so that they can lay claim to their patch. The cardboard packaging left out for the refuse collectors becomes an insulating layer from the cold hard concrete.
Halfway down the street, just at Bewley's, a couple of men pulling a cart were distributing food and hot drinks to homeless people, who appeared out of nowhere. "Who are you?" I wanted to know. They explained that they were 'ordinary Joe soaps', two regular inner city Dubs part of a group who assembled via Facebook to make sandwiches for people on the streets, because they themselves knew what it was like to be down on your luck. No state funding, no logos, no airs and graces, but full of chat and repartee, and kindness.
There were people actively begging here and there, but as the streets were quiet, there wasn't much doing. I know people hesitate to give, thinking it will just be spent on alcohol or worse. But I always recall a conversation with Alice Leahy from TRUST who said, if we choose to donate we should do so without prejudice, it's the giving with good heart that counts, irrespective of where the money will end up.
We moved on to Molesworth Street and passed the doorway where Jonathan Corrie spent the last night of his short life. The doorway still bears some small marks of remembrance, no doubt they will be renewed as the anniversary approaches, and once again the finger will be pointed at those in positions of power and influence. What were his final thoughts as he looked across the street at the inviting warmth of Buswell's Hotel?
We walked on into the darkness, and Ritchie greeted men with a quick hello or a knowing nod of acquaintance. Some were, as I expected, obviously in the throes of addiction and dereliction, but it was the well dressed, clean shaven young men holding a cup of tea and chatting amongst themselves that surprised me.
If it hadn't been for the cardboard and the sleeping bags lying nearby, there was no indication that this doorway, or that awning was home for the night. There was no reluctance to talk to me – perhaps it helped to shorten the night. One man explained that he had once had it all, but – and this was typical of many of the stories I heard throughout that night, he had made one bad decision, ended up in prison, and ultimately lost it all.
Why not stay warm and dry in a hostel by calling the Freephone number? "Too dangerous" he said, and following one very bad experience when he was robbed by a man wielding a syringe of blood, “I feel safer on the streets”.
My guide Richie explained to me that whereas a few years ago the homeless could be found mainly in the inner city areas, now the phenomenon had spread farther out. Our next stop was Rathmines, where we met Shay, a Dublin native in his late forties. He’s been homeless for seven years and sleeps with a group of friends in the shadow of a large building because there is "strength in numbers" and unlike the rest of us he can't "lock his door at night".
Although Shay has come to terms with the homeless life, spending parts of the harsher days in the warmth of the public library, he concedes that life on the streets is scary. The days are long and the nights longer, but he preserves an optimism that he can – somehow – get some of his old life back.
On then to the Night Café at Merchants Quay. The needle exchange they operate by day has been the subject of some controversy, but it probably has saved lives with less infection and sickness among the users. Its aim is to regulate "but not normalise or condone" the obvious drugs problem in the city.
Last time I had broadcast from there it had been from their old Winetavern Street base. I was totally taken aback to find that the St Anthony’s Hall from my childhood, where I enjoyed many a concert or play, was now transformed into The Night Café. Open through the night from 11, it’s the place where those with absolutely no refuge will arrive. A sandwich, a cup of tea, and more important a conversation, is on offer. There is one staffer for every five or six arrivals so that real interaction and intervention is possible.
CEO Tony Geoghegan then showed me the rest of the old theatre. There is a fully kitted out dentist's office, a nurses' station, the sleeping rooms where, as the night wears on, crash mats with blankets are provided so that a little shuteye is possible and where wet clothes will be dried on the radiators for a few hours.
Before bedding down, some of the lads were happy to chat and tell me their stories. The directness, the brutal honesty was almost unsettling. Complaints about official inaction were certainly there, but most looked inward for an explanation of their own predicament. But there are success stories too. A woman who had been strung out less than a year ago was getting her life back on track, thanks to a stabilisation programme, which brings order, activity and routine back to daily life.
As the night marched on and the temperature dropped even further, it was time to hit the streets again to join former Dublin Lord Mayor Christy Burke and the men and women of Inner City Helping Homeless as they distributed food, clothes and sleeping bags to those sleeping in the streets and alleyways overshadowed by the historic GPO. More conversations with the occupants of the cardboard city – most good humoured, but one man from Eastern Europe cried endless bitter tears when he contemplated his loss of home and family.
It was finally time to go and leave the street-dwellers to a few hours rest. Strangely, the city does not sleep. The whoops of the late revellers, the thunder of the refuse trucks, the glow of the shop windows and the Christmas decoration, turn night into virtual day. "We're used to it" they said.
As I headed back to the warmth and comfort of home, I was haunted, and am haunted still, by the faces and conversations from the early morning streets. Today, I look at the city through a different prism: which doorway or laneway or public building might give shelter, which might give protection from the biting wind, which would be free of prying eyes, which might offer security from abusive yobs.
Mother Theresa once said "We think sometimes that poverty is only being hungry, naked and homeless. The poverty of being unwanted, unloved and uncared for is the greatest poverty".
From my experience our homeless are very poor indeed.
If you would like to support Merchants Quay, you can visit www.mqi.ie or you can contact TRUST on 01 454 3799
