By the time I completed my third and final day volunteering at Crisis, I was starting to develop my own ideas about how the day centre could be run...
Some of the guests had expressed unhappiness at management’s insistence that guests showered before they were able to take advantage of the massage services on offer. I agreed and took this up with some of the ‘green badge’ supervisors. It seemed altogether the wrong message that we considered guests to be in some way unclean – especially as some of the guests were cleaner than the volunteers!
My many hours on security had also convinced me that we needed to take a harder line on preventing alcohol into the centre. The day before (Christmas Day) the police had arrived as trouble started to brew between guests. It was all drink related and I thought that was entirely preventable with a zero tolerance approach to allowing alcohol onto the premises.
But given that this was my last day, I thought I better concentrate my efforts on engaging the people I had come to serve. My answer was Chess.
It didn’t matter what country guests came from, chess was universally understood and could be played regardless of an individuals grasp of English.
My miserable defeat to one of the guests exposed my own prejudice. When we started, I assumed the ragged looking man opposite probably couldn’t tell his bishop from his knight. How wrong I was! It was actually embarrassing as he took my Queen without reply and set about cutting through my defences with consummate ease. What frustrated me was the speed with which he made his moves – I didn’t have time to think!
The highlight of my final day was meeting and talking to George. George was a statesmanlike Jamaican born man in his fifties who looked a little like Morgan Freeman. He was the most articulate person I can remember meeting. It wasn’t long before I was recommending that he run for London Mayor!
What I found absorbing about him was his twinkling eyes and that he would lightly touch your arm every time he wanted to make a point. He rattled through his views on European integration, immigration, culture, economics and the war in Iraq. With souring rhetoric, he concluded one monologue about terrorism which was punctuated with emphatic hand gestures, saying, ‘you see, we must take a stand, we must take a stand.’
So I finished my time with Crisis. I was certainly uplifted, surprised and inspired by the buoyancy of the individuals I had met. I had found little trace of self-pity – just a group of people who had come up against life’s harshest realities and were busy trying to survive.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Christmas Day at Crisis 2008
My second day at Broadway Centre felt very different from the first. By now, I felt like a veteran of the system. I generously helped to give guidance to volunteer virgins who looked as disorientated as I did on my first day. The absence of public transport meant that I had cycled for an hour in quiet London streets to arrive at Shepherds Bush and the exercise had put a spring in my step.
It struck me throughout the day that the Crisis centres are set up at Christmas as much to benefit the volunteers as they are for the guests. Everyone of the 40 volunteers had their own reasons for being there. One volunteer from Sunderland told me that she had lost her husband six months ago. Another volunteer was there to escape the spectre of another family Christmas. For me, the main driver was to find an antidote to the self-pity that threatened set in because I couldn’t spend Christmas with my own family.
From that perspective, the guests are very gracious. They sense the vulnerability of the volunteers who want to engage.
After I finished my morning security shift, I got a cup of tea and sat down in the café. I started chatting with Noel – an Irish guest who must have been in his late 60s and had spent 15 years sleeping rough in some of the toughest areas of London and Birmingham. He hadn't seen his wife and children for 25 years but he said he would never stop loving his wife, as long as he lived. His face and hands were badly scarred from what look like severe burns. Although he wore dark glasses, his piercing blue eyes would look at you over the top of his frames when he wanted to be sure you were listening.
I made the mistake of straying onto the issues of politics with Noel. In no time at all, Noel was expressing his apoplectic anger at the sight of Polish and other immigrants who were diluting British culture and using services that they had never contributed to. The issues he raised were a common theme that emerged from guests who felt the help on offer was not reaching the people who really needed it. The tension between the Eastern European guests – many of whom were much younger– and the ‘local’ guests was palpable.
I decided to chance my arm at connecting with some of the Polish guests. It was much tougher. Many could barely speak English. They could play table tennis however. I confidently challenged one guest to a game. Unfortunately, I lost pretty quickly to a Pole who I can only assume must have been a table tennis champion in his home town!
The day finished with an uplifting debrief where we heard Edwin’s story – a volunteer who had almost died on the streets but who had literally been saved by visiting a Crisis Centre. He now gone 14 years without a drink and there was no more powerful advocate for the value of the work Crisis does.
It struck me throughout the day that the Crisis centres are set up at Christmas as much to benefit the volunteers as they are for the guests. Everyone of the 40 volunteers had their own reasons for being there. One volunteer from Sunderland told me that she had lost her husband six months ago. Another volunteer was there to escape the spectre of another family Christmas. For me, the main driver was to find an antidote to the self-pity that threatened set in because I couldn’t spend Christmas with my own family.
From that perspective, the guests are very gracious. They sense the vulnerability of the volunteers who want to engage.
After I finished my morning security shift, I got a cup of tea and sat down in the café. I started chatting with Noel – an Irish guest who must have been in his late 60s and had spent 15 years sleeping rough in some of the toughest areas of London and Birmingham. He hadn't seen his wife and children for 25 years but he said he would never stop loving his wife, as long as he lived. His face and hands were badly scarred from what look like severe burns. Although he wore dark glasses, his piercing blue eyes would look at you over the top of his frames when he wanted to be sure you were listening.
I made the mistake of straying onto the issues of politics with Noel. In no time at all, Noel was expressing his apoplectic anger at the sight of Polish and other immigrants who were diluting British culture and using services that they had never contributed to. The issues he raised were a common theme that emerged from guests who felt the help on offer was not reaching the people who really needed it. The tension between the Eastern European guests – many of whom were much younger– and the ‘local’ guests was palpable.
I decided to chance my arm at connecting with some of the Polish guests. It was much tougher. Many could barely speak English. They could play table tennis however. I confidently challenged one guest to a game. Unfortunately, I lost pretty quickly to a Pole who I can only assume must have been a table tennis champion in his home town!
The day finished with an uplifting debrief where we heard Edwin’s story – a volunteer who had almost died on the streets but who had literally been saved by visiting a Crisis Centre. He now gone 14 years without a drink and there was no more powerful advocate for the value of the work Crisis does.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Christmas Eve at Crisis 2008
This Christmas, I decided to volunteer at the Broadway Centre for the homeless with Crisis.
Like starting anything for the first time, it takes a while to find one’s feet. As my two year old boy would say ‘it is a little bit scary.’
The day began with a short induction – 24 volunteers crammed into a smelly room. None of us had met before and with next to no training we were being tasked with running a day centre for 100 guests over Christmas. After some rather poor jokes aimed at breaking the ice, our team leader started allocating tasks.
My first shift was on security. The first guy that walked past told me that he thought I was a sanctimonious middle class do-gooder. He probably had it right.
Anyway, I was kitted up with a radio and told to monitor who was coming in and out. It was freezing. Just when I was beginning to think this was a complete waste of my time, two guests, David and Wayne showed up.
David was a hooded 25 year old who looked like he was in his mid 30s. He had a quiet demeanour although you could tell that, like a volcano, any eruption would be quite dramatic. David told me that he had spent the last three weeks on the streets. In that time he had been assaulted twice – leaving him with stitches in his head which he proudly showed me.
Like most people who end up on the streets, David was heart broken. He had split up with his girlfriend who had disappeared with their 9month old daughter. The council had told him that due to his criminal record, David was a ‘danger to his own daughter’ despite the fact that he had seen his partner hold a knife to his daughter’s throat. He was coming to terms his enforced estrangement from his family – with absolutely no power to address the situation.
David’s friend Wayne was a little more inebriated. Clutching a tin of cider, Wayne was busy confessing his undying love to my security colleague, ‘the beautiful Ellen’. His love was evidenced when he ran off to the shops and used his scant resources to buy Ellen a box of Ferrero Roche. Quite a gesture.
After two hours on the door, I moved inside and listened to a talented musician entertaining the guests with moving covers of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah and David Gray’s Babylon. I met two more guests who described themselves as the old gents fo the centre. One was a totally toothless Scottish guy called Gordon (he advised me to look after my teeth while I still had them) and his pal David – another David – who was a former employee of the Bank of England (from 1963 to 1976 he told me). These guys were great company – the kind of individuals who you felt had a much deeper understanding of the way the world worked than I would ever obtain.
I resisted the temptation to grab the mike and entertain the guests with a few tracks of my own and decided instead to help out in the kitchen. The ladies in the kitchen were impressed with my mopping skills. I had to let them know that I wasn’t this good at home and that really I was just a show-pony. So that became my nick-name for the rest of the day. I thought ‘Mark the show-pony’ was rather apt.
Like starting anything for the first time, it takes a while to find one’s feet. As my two year old boy would say ‘it is a little bit scary.’
The day began with a short induction – 24 volunteers crammed into a smelly room. None of us had met before and with next to no training we were being tasked with running a day centre for 100 guests over Christmas. After some rather poor jokes aimed at breaking the ice, our team leader started allocating tasks.
My first shift was on security. The first guy that walked past told me that he thought I was a sanctimonious middle class do-gooder. He probably had it right.
Anyway, I was kitted up with a radio and told to monitor who was coming in and out. It was freezing. Just when I was beginning to think this was a complete waste of my time, two guests, David and Wayne showed up.
David was a hooded 25 year old who looked like he was in his mid 30s. He had a quiet demeanour although you could tell that, like a volcano, any eruption would be quite dramatic. David told me that he had spent the last three weeks on the streets. In that time he had been assaulted twice – leaving him with stitches in his head which he proudly showed me.
Like most people who end up on the streets, David was heart broken. He had split up with his girlfriend who had disappeared with their 9month old daughter. The council had told him that due to his criminal record, David was a ‘danger to his own daughter’ despite the fact that he had seen his partner hold a knife to his daughter’s throat. He was coming to terms his enforced estrangement from his family – with absolutely no power to address the situation.
David’s friend Wayne was a little more inebriated. Clutching a tin of cider, Wayne was busy confessing his undying love to my security colleague, ‘the beautiful Ellen’. His love was evidenced when he ran off to the shops and used his scant resources to buy Ellen a box of Ferrero Roche. Quite a gesture.
After two hours on the door, I moved inside and listened to a talented musician entertaining the guests with moving covers of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah and David Gray’s Babylon. I met two more guests who described themselves as the old gents fo the centre. One was a totally toothless Scottish guy called Gordon (he advised me to look after my teeth while I still had them) and his pal David – another David – who was a former employee of the Bank of England (from 1963 to 1976 he told me). These guys were great company – the kind of individuals who you felt had a much deeper understanding of the way the world worked than I would ever obtain.
I resisted the temptation to grab the mike and entertain the guests with a few tracks of my own and decided instead to help out in the kitchen. The ladies in the kitchen were impressed with my mopping skills. I had to let them know that I wasn’t this good at home and that really I was just a show-pony. So that became my nick-name for the rest of the day. I thought ‘Mark the show-pony’ was rather apt.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
From Faith to Ideology
The Mumbai terror attacks last month are ample ammunition for some to point to the destructive and divisive role of religion in the world today.
In some respects, I agree. The single biggest threat to peace between peoples of the world is the journey from faith to ideology. It is the distortion of religious thought and spiritual manipulation that cannot be underestimated in its explosive power to breed enmity.
That is what has been happening in the southern states of Pakistan where the major it the Mumbai killers have come from. It is not that the political situation in Kashmir or the crushing urban poverty has driven these men to calmly walk into cafes, hotels and community centres and wantonly kill. It is a brittle and narrow belief system that leads individuals to apocalyptic conclusions about the future and a delusional sense of the importance of their own contribution to the struggle.
This comes to the heart of the distinction between faith and ideology. Religious faith is an essentially humble commitment to a spiritual journey that brings opportunity to find reference points to understand God and give meaning to the complexity of our own existence. Ideology is a fixed world view – set of hard-wired beliefs that is less about spiritual growth than about controlling peoples behaviour and thinking from an individual to societal level.
When Muslim men in Pakistan and Bangladesh throw acid into the eyes of women as is increasingly common in agricultural heartlands such as the Punjab state; that is ideology at work. When Protestant gangs in Northern Ireland take a hammer to another (Catholic) man’s knee and render him unable to walk for a lifetime; that is ideology at work. When individuals fail to countenance any possibility that they could be wrong or could learn from those of different tradition; that is ideology at work.
But when men like Martin Luther King sustain their campaign for civil rights in America – knowing that it could end his own life prematurely; that is faith at work. When women like Aung San Suu Kyi refuse to take a loaded offer to leave Burma and visit her dying husband, Michael Aris, in the UK – because she knew the ruling junta wouldn’t let her return; that is faith in action. And when ordinary individuals choose to open their homes and hearts to others at Christmas; that is faith in action.
Although ideology often masquerades as faith, the two are quite different. It is my view that genuine religious faith has been the inspiration behind some of the greatest individuals who have ever lived. Genuine faith has the power to release individuals to be the best the best they can be. It stands to reason perhaps that ideology also has the power to deceive people into being the worst they can be too.
What we need to do examine ourselves – how far have we gone in turning our faith into an ideology?
In some respects, I agree. The single biggest threat to peace between peoples of the world is the journey from faith to ideology. It is the distortion of religious thought and spiritual manipulation that cannot be underestimated in its explosive power to breed enmity.
That is what has been happening in the southern states of Pakistan where the major it the Mumbai killers have come from. It is not that the political situation in Kashmir or the crushing urban poverty has driven these men to calmly walk into cafes, hotels and community centres and wantonly kill. It is a brittle and narrow belief system that leads individuals to apocalyptic conclusions about the future and a delusional sense of the importance of their own contribution to the struggle.
This comes to the heart of the distinction between faith and ideology. Religious faith is an essentially humble commitment to a spiritual journey that brings opportunity to find reference points to understand God and give meaning to the complexity of our own existence. Ideology is a fixed world view – set of hard-wired beliefs that is less about spiritual growth than about controlling peoples behaviour and thinking from an individual to societal level.
When Muslim men in Pakistan and Bangladesh throw acid into the eyes of women as is increasingly common in agricultural heartlands such as the Punjab state; that is ideology at work. When Protestant gangs in Northern Ireland take a hammer to another (Catholic) man’s knee and render him unable to walk for a lifetime; that is ideology at work. When individuals fail to countenance any possibility that they could be wrong or could learn from those of different tradition; that is ideology at work.
But when men like Martin Luther King sustain their campaign for civil rights in America – knowing that it could end his own life prematurely; that is faith at work. When women like Aung San Suu Kyi refuse to take a loaded offer to leave Burma and visit her dying husband, Michael Aris, in the UK – because she knew the ruling junta wouldn’t let her return; that is faith in action. And when ordinary individuals choose to open their homes and hearts to others at Christmas; that is faith in action.
Although ideology often masquerades as faith, the two are quite different. It is my view that genuine religious faith has been the inspiration behind some of the greatest individuals who have ever lived. Genuine faith has the power to release individuals to be the best the best they can be. It stands to reason perhaps that ideology also has the power to deceive people into being the worst they can be too.
What we need to do examine ourselves – how far have we gone in turning our faith into an ideology?
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