Interview for Radio Camden

This interview was done for Radio Camden in the context of the International Migrants Day.



Migrant Resource Centre
Camden Radio

vice and virtue

We went straight to Terminal one, where Richard knew every nook and cranny. He took a blanket from his bag and made himself comfortable on one of the long metal benches. I sat beside him, nervous and uncertain as I sensed the stares of the businessmen, families and backpackers around me. We were an eyesore. By now Richard was too drunk to hold a conversation. He gave me his Bible to read and dozed off.

Still scared and traumatized by the events of the past few days and the busy nature of the airport, I stayed where I was and spent some time just staring at my new friend and trying to work out what was going on in his mind. Richard was such a lovely person, lost in the grip of alcoholism, with so much agony locked up inside him. How could such a good soul, who had been rejected by everyone close to him, still believe in God? It was fascinating and disturbing at the same time.

As the minutes passed I remained petrified that someone would notice us. I did not want to break the law at any cost. We were trespassing in a restricted area. We were tramps. I picked up my bag and followed the signs to Terminal three.

My new rest area was more spacious and I felt I could be more discreet there. The Bible remained nestled in my hands but I wasn't reading a word. I was thinking about my cowardliness and the way I had betrayed a new friends' trust. There was something deeper that was bothering me, too. Richard wasn't my first encounter with an alcoholic and meeting him had dredged up some painful memories. 

In March 2005 I was working as a health care assistant in the acute medical unit at a hospital in north London. One day, a middle-aged bloke with a strong northern accent was admitted to our ward. He had been found passed out on the street and brought to the hospital by the ambulance service. He was suffering from sirosis, an alcohol-related liver disease. He was verbally and physically abusive and spent much of his stay spitting at or fighting with staff. His only words were swear words. He turned the entire ward into a place of chaos and disorder. One night he was so out-of-control that he was sectioned for the next twenty-four hours. His name was Mark. He was divorced and he hadn't seen his now twelve-year-old son for a decade.

Mark's behavior stemmed from the fact that he was having withdrawal symptoms from alcohol and even the tranquilizers he'd been given were doing little to calm him down. Everyone else on the ward was terrified of him.

After two days, a doctor came to see him. This man looked through through Mark's medical notes and spoke to the nurse in charge of the ward. He asked her to double Mark's dose of drugs. I knew that would be enough to prompt some serious consequences. The man became a baby in his bed. He was more sedate, yet that came from being barely conscious. He was dribbling and incontinent. Three days later he was free from his pain and his addiction forever.

It was this memory that was haunting me as I thought about Richard's future. Medical negligence is a controversial and grey area. Had Mark really been such a liability, such a hopeless case that his survival was pointless? Did the staff at the hospital think he was a waste of taxpayers' money. Did they simply think he no longer belonged? He merely existed and his life at that time was a hideous existance. Was it then kinder to let him go? All these questions were making me sick.

The thing about alcohol is that it is legal and it is a multibillion dollar industry. It provides employment to people, from grape pickers and bar tenders to corporate managing directors and advertising firms. Mark's existence even gave me some extra overtime as I helped look after him in his special unit away from the other patients. How much should we judge those who become addicted to alcohol when there are others who make money from fuelling their addiction?   

As for Richard, I never saw him again and I have no idea what happened to him. Later that night, feeling sad and broken, I went outside to get some fresh air. I hiked through the dark night and tried not to think about everything I was going through. On and on I walked in an attempt to tire myself out. I reached Kingston by early dawn, when I realized it was the third of April, my birthday. I had just spent half a century on earth.

food for thought

One Thursday, when the sky was clear and blue, I decided to sit down in the blotchy sunshine outside the day centre. Timid rays were peeping through the clouds, like a shy bride waiting to make her appearance down the aisle. The street was busy but I drowned myself in my own thoughts, blotting out the sounds of the hurried crowds. I almost didn't notice when a tall, handsome guy came and sat next to me. Probably in his twenties, he appeared battered, despite his good looks, with a fluffy beard and large red eyes. 

"You're new round here, aren't you?" said the man, who told me his name was Richard. "How long have you been sleeping rough?". 

"It's my third week," I said.

"Not too long then, I've lost count of how long it's been for me," he smiled. "Do you want some weed?".

I told him the truth. That I had never been into drugs and that I didn't think now would be a good time so start, what with having no money and all. I told him I didn't drink, either.

"So what the fuck are you here for?" he asked.

At this point I could have dismissed him as an aggressive idiot. He was obviously an addict himself and I didn't like the way his wide eyes were staring at me. Yet there was something about his character that made me warm to him. Could he perhaps become my first homeless friend?

"It's a long story," I said. "I'm really not in the mood to talk about it right now.

He nodded and went silent for a moment. Then came a cheeky smile and he muttered something about the sunshine. I smiled back.

"Do you have a spare twenty pence?" He asked. 

I laughed. No chance.

"So how do you get by for food in the evenings?" 

We chatted about begging and my ability to charm the Asian shop keepers. He gave me another sly look.

"Follow me," he said. "I know where we can get hot food for free tonight."

We travelled together on the bendy bus to Stratford. It was the number 25 and as usual I slipped on without a ticket. Close up, I could smell the familiar aroma of cider on his breath. Richard told me he became homeless after he dropped out of University. Somehow he ended up losing his girlfriend and losing touch with his family. He was a heavy drug and alcohol user. I'm not sure which part of his story came first. He told me he believed in God and believed that it would soon be his time to go to heaven.

"Life is a bunch of time measures in seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades and centuries," he said. "It is just time, nothing more."

"So you like to think you are living your 'time' rather than your 'life'?" I asked.

"Kind of," he shrugged. "Life is just a slow version of suicide. Every day you get a little closer to death. What does it matter if I die today or in a hundred years?"

"You are a sad soul," I said. Richard gave me another winning smile. "God is the only person who hasn't let me down."

At this point our bus reached Stratford. Richard jumped off and immediately started begging for twenty pence pieces. He told me this was his favourite amount.

"It's much easier to get 20p from five people than a whole pound from just one. People are often happy to get rid of their change"

I told him I never begged for money.

"Well you don't need money, mate. I do."

Richard was a heroin addict. He'd been out of rehab for three weeks and was now a regular user of Methadone, a heroin substitute he topped up with cider to get a hit. As well as being a beggar, he was a frequent shoplifter. But not tonight.

Our final destination was a Sikh temple in west London. It was impressive from the outside, but it was the inside that I adored most, a mass of vivid colours. Women draped in reams of sparkling material and men sporting elegant turbans in every shape and color. People from a huge range of backgrounds, all looking wealthy in their religious costumes. Holy chanting danced through the building. The floor was immaculate. Gleaming white tiles shone beneath strips of bright, embroidered carpets. Richard, the devout Christian, appeared to know everything about Sikhism. He told me to take off my shoes and to take an orange scarf and a turban from a pile at the entrance. Wearing our new clothes, we made our way into the kitchen, where an army of devoted volunteers was serving steaming hot meals on stainless steel plates. There was roti, cauliflower and potato curry. There was yoghurt and rice pudding. We scuttled off into a corner and Richard asked me to thank the Lord for our food. I felt surprised, confused and uncomfortable. Richard took the lead.

"Thank you oh Lord for this pleasant day and the great conversations we had. Thank you for the food you are providing for us this evening. Every grain has your name on it. May even the world's most unfortunate soul enjoy at least one meal every day. In the name of Jesus, Amen." I added a long "Ahhhhhhmeeeen."

After we had finished our sacred meal I asked Richard how he felt about taking food from the Sikh community, when he as such a devout Christian.

"The sheep always follows the Shepherd and the mouth speaks what the heard holds in abundance," he replied.

I kept quiet, feeling like I had committed a double blasphemy. I am not a believer, yet I had just joined in Christian prayers whilst sitting in a Sikh temple. Neither Saint Peter nor Guru Nanak would be proud of me, I thought.  If Richard is preparing for his swift journey to heaven then surely I am opening the door to hell.

We finished our food, washed our hands and left the building. Richard found some cider at a nearby off licence.

"Where, next?" I asked.

"Heathrow Airport."

rescued?

I was found by the Thames outreach team as I was waiting for the 149 night bus to London Bridge. Two, charming women questioned me about my homelessness and told me that I could get help. They took my name and previous address and asked me to meet them the next morning at a day centre in Brick Lane. I spent the night sleeping on the bus and walked there as soon as the sun came up.

Brick Lane is a strange place. The majority of the area's population is Bengali. They are short and dwarf-like. Curry houses seem to mushroom on either side of the street. Spices linger in the damp air. Some of the nearby estates resemble a slum. When I arrived at the day centre, one of the women was waiting for me. She introduced me to a few other members of staff who registered my arrival and guided me towards a dining hall, where I was given breakfast and told I could I have my first shower in fifteen days. Fifteen days of filth. 

The scene in the bathroom was one of despair. I had the shock of my life when I looked in the mirror and saw the scrawny, professional beggar staring back at me. I had lost almost two stone in just over a fortnight. But as I changed into some new, donated clothes, my body and mind started to feel clean again, born again. I was given a chain number which meant that I would be allowed back for breakfast every morning at 8am. I was also seen by a counsellor and paid a visit to the nurse for a quick check-up.

This might sound like the beginning of my route back into mainstream society, but in reality this was the first time that I had been truly immersed in the world of homelessness. No longer alone, I was now mixing with a breed of people I had never previously encountered. Huddled over mugs of warm tea and coffee I saw a sea of muddled souls, broken hearts and bodies battered by miles of rough sleeping. A rainbow of creeds, cultures and ethnicities. A tiny village of tramps, travellers and fading revellers. A panorama of drug addicts, alcoholics and lunatics. The smell was as strange as the view. The entire building was intoxicated by the fumes of puke and phlegm and coughs and cigarettes and cider. I worried about coping in this environment. I worried about being accepted by this community.  I worried about how I would explain my own path into homelessness.

And then I caught a glimpse of one of the thinnest men I have ever seen. A rake-like, fleshless soul with a beard grown down to his naval. His long, matted hair fell over his shoulders. His clothes were so dirty it looked like he had spent decades hugging mother earth. His nails were as dark as tar. This man was a mobile corpse, waiting for judgement day in the corridor of death. He scared the hell out of me. I started feeling dizzy and sick. It was almost noon and the centre didn't provide lunch. It was time for me to leave this stinking place and breathe in the fresh air of the capital.

As I walked, I enjoyed the wonderful sensation of feeling clean. Yet thinking about that shower reminded me that I had let go of the simple daily routines that punctuate our lives. It is a difficult apprenticeship learning how to shed these habits. I thought back to the nights I had already spent on the streets and the days and nights that were still to come, blurring and blending together: repulsive, tedious, dull. As a homeless person you give up so many simple pleasures: getting out of bed in the morning, padding over to your own bathroom, letting your thoughts wander idly as you have a shave or clean your teeth, putting your face under the shower head and feeling the warm, soapy water run down your body.

For the next week I had a new routine. I would arrive early at the day centre, queue to get my breakfast ticket, queue to pick up my food, queue to get into the toilets, queue to take a shower. My life was consumed by queueing, surrounded by dirt.

the beggar

For the next few days, I kept myself busy learning and enjoying the art of begging. I would travel across the city, cheating London's Oyster card system by sneaking on to busses through the back set of doors, or flashing a used bus pass I'd picked up off the floor. I hunted for chicken shops, run or owned by Asian muslims, preying on their religious nature. As I told you, Islam instructs its believers not to deny food to anyone hungry or desperate. I now had abundant meal opportunities and excess energy to burn. I had transformed into someone more confident, more comfortable. 

A few hints and tricks for any fellow beggars out there: Never beg to someone who is talking on their the mobile. Disturbing them could be catastrophic and may attract abuse. Always ask for food, rather than money, although if you are lucky you may get money as well. I'm not a fan of stereotypes but I must tell you that I found that white middle-class people were the most indifferent and ignorant to my begging. Black and Asian people were very giving. A sizeable number of Londoners with Chinese backgrounds pretended they didn't understand what I was asking for: "Me no speak English" was a common phrase. Don't waste your precious time with them. Eastern Europeans had very little to give, but then many were and still are victims of the UK's dire economic situation. A few Caribbean people scared the hell out of me with their pigeon accents. 

So, be careful who you chose my friends. You wouldn't want begging to become too stressful, would you? Last, but not least, try to be respectful and avoid getting bitter if you are refused help. There is a good samaritan for every angry snob out there.

All this might sound like I am encouraging begging or perhaps trying to seek election as the next union leader for beggars! I'm not. But begging does have its benefits and is often misrepresented. Journalists, policy makers and even some charities in London frequently advise people against giving money to the begging community, arguing that it will be spent on drink and drugs and used to fuel a cycle of dependency. I wonder if any of the people who write these kind of messages have ever experienced true hardship. I doubt that some have ever even spoken to a homeless person. Nobody begs for pleasure and no one wants to be a victim of alcohol or drugs. Reports of begging con artists who return to their detached homes with enough money to buy some new designer clothes are overblown. Most beggars are people who were once decent, innocent children and are now the residual waste of modern capitalism. Begging is a criminal offence but it is also a behavioural disfuction brought about by sickness and poverty.

toil and toilets

Early dawn woke me up and I found myself in the subway of Monument underground station. I was shaking as the freezing wind bit my face. The night seemed to have passed quickly and abruptly. I grabbed my rucksack and made my way out of the subway, feeling very uncomfortable. I was desperate for a wee. 

It cost thirty pence to drop a penny in the nearest public toilets. But I had no idea how I could afford it. So, as the sun came up my day began with another struggle with basic human personal needs. The kind of needs you can never sacrifice or escape. I started looking for a toilet, keeping the agony timidly inside me and doing all I could to make sure it didn't show up on my face.

At that moment my memory sprang to life and soon I was heading towards the facilities at a famous burger chain. Unable to find a bush in the urban jungle, this seemed like the next best option. All the while I was chastising this era of modern and abusive development. I could smell the cruelty of capitalism. Thirty pence to spend a penny! Yes it was a hasty conclusion about class and standards here in the UK. But I was desperate.

At last I found the magic M. I went in clumsily and asked politely if I could use the toilet. To my great surprise the burger flipper told me that it was only for customers. He called me Sir. I was quite moved with the connotations of knighthood (despite being an anti-monarchist, anti-capitalist type). I pleaded with him, attempting to convey all my distress and desolation. Eventually he gave in.

I can hardly describe the feeling after emptying a full, bursting, monstrous bladder. I also took the chance to brush my teeth and have a quick clean up under my armpits. There was no chance of a shower in the immediate future. I came out and thanked the noble worker, with grace but little panache. I was embarrassed, shy and shameful.

Outside, the scene was by now beginning to resemble that of the previous evening but in reverse. The hard working flocks were moving quickly, busily and I was once again lost in the waves of the human crowd. This time I walked towards St Paul's Cathedral. What an impressive monument, I thought. A masterpiece of Roman intellectual and spiritual skill, built without the spirit levels, tape measures and other tools of the modern world. I stood for a while, studying the structure from every angle, scrutinising, interpreting and appreciating the saintly beauty of the architecture. But the freezing, gusty wind was still blowing with vehemence, crashing into the statues at the bottom of the cathedral's steps. My body was numb and my ears were burning. Now I was no longer riding the waves of the rush hour, I was a sinking ship taking in water in a rough sea. I began walking again, stepping the pace up to add some extra heat to my body, always keeping my both hands in the crevices of my pockets.

I passed the Royal Courts of Justice next. Everything is so royal in this country. The Royal Mail, The Royal Air Force, The Royal Marines, The Royal Academy of Arts. Or else it's Her Majesty's Customs or Her Majesty's Prison Service. I guess you couldn't really call a jail The Royal Prison could you. Although to my mind we are all prisoners of monarchs past and present. I kept on moving towards Victoria. 

By now I hadn't eaten for more than twenty-four hours, but strangely I wasn't craving food. Lucky, since I couldn't afford any. I paced quickly towards Scotland Yard, London's police headquarters. I wasn't planning on speaking to anyone there about my new state of homelessness, I just somehow ended up there, exhausted. My feet were aching and I decided to give my body a small treat for a while. I sat down, wrapped myself tightly in my jacket and began to dose. It felt divine and peaceful and soon my lost energy was replenished.

The day had passed quickly and already dusk was looming and a carbon copy of another rush hour London evening was about to form. What had transfixed me yesterday now became boring and annoying. I watched the same movements, the same people and headed towards Westminster, home of the House of Commons. There was more traffic and the noise pollution had shunted up a few decibels. I dreamt about winning the lottery, but I couldn't afford to buy a ticket.

Then the police came. I was woken up by two officers who thought I may have passed out. I was dizzy and far away and struggled to recognise their uniforms and fluorescent jackets. They asked me to stand up while they searched my bag and body. They made a phone call to check my previous address and that I didn't have a criminal record. And then, knowing that I was presently homeless, they politely asked me to leave the station.

I took my rucksack, the only belonging I have on earth and began another pilgrimage to shelter. Spring was still on hold and Mother Nature was testing me to my limits. But somehow I managed to source some energy and I began moving with a sense of pride and belonging to the city.

the beginning

I would like to tell you about a short journey that took me a very long distance. A journey that showed me every nook and cranny of life. A journey of excitement and ecstasy, fear and fright, pride and prejudice, joy and sorrow. The kind of journey that many men experience through the passage of rough sleeping. But this is my own peculiar story.

Dispossessed, destitute and desperate, is how it all begins. I am heading towards an unknown physical and emotional struggle. It is my first day of homelessness. My mind is full of uncertainty, yet it also feels strangely empty. My soul carries the weight of failure and guilt. I have lost my identity and I have little dignity to spare.

It is March, yet the evening is beastly cold. I am wandering the streets of the city, attempting to face the dire reality of my new life. I have nothing in my pockets and nowhere to go. For a moment I am taken by surprise as Big Ben strikes five deafening gongs, announcing the end of a shift for many city workers and pen pushers. They will go on working what we describe as the nine-to-five, as I embark on a journey devoid of routine.

The commuters leap out of their offices, like a school of fish chasing their next meal in the ocean. Hypnotised by the rush, mesmerised by the melodies ringing in their ears, as they listen to the latest tunes on their mp3 players. Collecting their free evening newspapers, puffing on one last cigarette before they catch their bus or train. The city's sheep following a lost shepherd. I am a lonely soul standing on the Westminster bridge, watching them. The northern blistering wind is blowing hard, cutting through the skin of my face like the sharp edge of a razor blade.  My eyes are bleeding with tears as I look through the cosmopolitan crowd. Not too far away, is the London Eye revolving and resolving in all its splendor, as the light begins to fade with the early dusk. But all I can see is Tower Bridge staring, scrutinising me like an emperor of ancient times, asking me what I am doing.

At this point I hear a voice in my mind calling me to move. My tired legs start shuffling small steps. My idle mind becomes broody. One thought follows another as I begin moving along the river path of the Thames. The water is hitting its highest point for the day and I watch it leave a pattern on the wall below me. I feel a wet breeze wash across my nose and listen to the crash of the waves. Splashing and drifting, the water is calling me. Let go, let go. Just fall in and die. So easy. It isn't the kindest voice in my mind, but it comes from somewhere deep. It is the same voice that has smothered my self esteem.

The cloudy night seems full of signs, as I try to work out if fate is warning me to go or daring me to stay. As I get closer to Tower Bridge, all the noises begin to fade away. I am getting nearer and nearer to the emperor who is still scrutinising my each and every move, reading my mind and reaching deep into my defeated soul. I can hear him whispering in my ears. “Here comes the tramp,” he says, “here comes the homeless.” I can see his large lantern eyes beaming. For him, I am just one of the street people. Those whose are stoned on weed, lost in heroin, high on cocaine. Absolute drug addicts. Eternal alcoholics. Those who have consumed half the river Thames in cider.  Or those who are slaves to someone else's deception or failure; cheated, divorced, their children left clinging to the hands of social services, liabilities to the hard working tax payer. I am one of those people, judged without a trial, and yet to myself I have committed so many crimes. So much water has passed under my bridge. 

By now I am feeling morose and uncomfortable, my body is shaking and the cold is already in my bones. My heart is beating fast and my steps are becoming slow, like a tortoise attempting the London Marathon. I can feel myself suffering and I am cross with myself, because for me, suffering is a matter of choice. We don't have to suffer anything in this life if we are strong enough to deny it. When we do suffer things like pain, it means that we have lost control and succumbed to human weakness. But sometimes hardship makes us stronger. We have to be weak to suffer and we have to suffer to get stronger. The burden of happiness can only be relieved by the balm of suffering. Right now I am suffering. Exhaustion finally claims me, submerging my deep thoughts and confusions. My mind closes before my eyes and I am plunged into a deep sleep.