Crisis at Christmas are a homeless charity that spring into action over the festive period. Many people aren't aware that pretty much all of the homeless shelters, hostels and soup kitchens close their doors between Christmas and New Year, presumably as there simply isn't enough man power to keep them all running. At a time when many of the homeless are already feeling lonely, isolated and cold, it is incredibly detrimental to their spirits to have even less human contact than usual - and no beds, warm food or clean living conditions can push many over the edge. Crisis work with local councils to utilise offices, schools, and local buildings that have closed over Christmas, turning them into makeshift shelters. Over the years - the last forty, in fact - they have refined the way they plan the event each year, resulting in a range of different 'centres', such as the Women's Only Centre, the Dependency Centre and the regular Day Centres. In each of these centres, Crisis also invites as many professionals as want to voluntarily offer their services - and people sign up in droves. A typical guest at a Crisis centre can hope to visit a dentist, hairdresser, optician, doctor, masseur, and IT expert, as well as take part in art, drama, music and writing classes, play sports and board games, and pick up a variety of clothes from the clothes bank. Quite apart from all these services, they also know that, for the time they spend in the centre, they will be spoken to and treated like any normal human being; not ignored, not insulted, not looked down on, but given the undivided attention they deserve.
I've been volunteering with Crisis at Christmas for three years now, and every time I'm truly fascinated by just how meaningful an experience it is. Without sounding pious and preachy (my nearest and dearest will tell you I'm certainly not a religious person) you feel innately good about yourself after spending eight hours relinquishing all your preconceptions about the homeless. Although I was pretty nervous at my first ever shift. I found myself in an abandoned office building, standing with a group of wrapped up people who all looked more comfortable than me, probably because they knew what to expect. As the lists of volunteer positions were read out, I kept my hand firmly down by my side, unsure as to which experience would be the least formidable. Of course, the list ran out eventually, so I found myself with a group of nine others, being walked down to the canteen, where we were told to 'just ask guests if they've finished with their trays and clear up rubbish. Don't be afraid to chat, they'll all appreciate some conversation'. I couldn't say a word. Everywhere I looked, people in dirty, bedraggled clothes sat picking at plates of food, either engrossed in conversation with their friends, or looking gruffly down at the tabletop. Nobody looked like they wanted to talk. I somehow switched into waitress mode, and brightly asked people to pass me their trash, but didn't actually engage with anyone. I couldn't hold their eyes for too long. I was nervous that, if they actually tried to talk to me, I simply wouldn't know what to say.
And then I found a elderly man sitting towards the back of the room. He looked a bit like a deflated Father Christmas; bright white beard, craggy eyes with smile lines creasing at the edges. He was in an old tweed suit jacket and black trousers, quite thin, and evidently not very hungry from the food still left on his plate. I asked him if he was finished. He looked up.
"Oh, no.....
We talked about how he'd ended up at Crisis. He'd been a porter at a hospital, he said: then became a nurse, but who'd suffered from benign mental health issues over a period of years, which eventually led to complete alcoholism. He found himself living in a broom cupboard at a hospital in Bedford Square, and told me how he'd normally spent Christmas 'fading quietly away in front of the tv with a couple bottles of vodka' - until he'd discovered Crisis. The offer of a warm bed for seven nights meant the world to him, and he said he really felt like he was going to be ok - that 'everything's on track now'.
Over the next three shifts of eight hours each, I met a man whose dog was so good at talking that he'd flirted with the queen, a woman who was convinced of the existence of tectonic plates underneath the Thames that were eventually going to erupt, a young guy who kept drawing pentagrams with me in the air, and a lovely man who kept smiling at me whenever I walked past, culminating in a bone crushing hug on my final shift. Over the last three years I've grown more confident with every person I've talked to, discovering their family histories, life stories, secret passions and hidden talents. I have taken charge of arguments over clothing allocations, played some frenzied games of jenga, comforted guests when they've been emotional, and helped a young man put his poetry into a decorated pamphlet. This last one really hit me; even without being a poet myself, I was struck by how much this act meant to him. He'd spent the last few days typing and printing out his writing, and to put it all together into something presentable, something to be proud of, made me realise how ridiculous all the prejudices are. People are people, regardless of owning a set of housekeys or not.
This Christmas, the issue of homelessness is particularly poignant in the light of the Occupy Wall Street movement, which has seen copycat demonstrations spring up all over the globe. As winter draws in, the streets outside St Paul's Cathedral are still covered with Londoners voluntarily giving up their beds in protest of an issue they feel is more important. It's going to be even more interesting to see what the guests have to say about Occupy London; whether they approve or not, whether they've spent any nights there, how long they reckon it will last, whether it's a step forward in the fight to eliminate homelessness in London's streets. If anyone has a free eight hours between December 23rd and 30th, sign up to volunteer. It'll honestly be one of the most fulfilling things you do this Christmas.
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