First
Base. A foodbank in the small town of Dumfries in the South West of
Scotland. I guess we are pretty far from the madding crowd. At night, the winter skies sparkle with stars. When we breathe, the air hits our
lungs like it's come straight out of an oxgyen tank. We barely have traffic
lights. The hills which look down on us give off an air of seen it
all before.
Nothing
much happens here to trouble the evening news. Does this mean we are
one of those 'left behind' places? Not really. We were never really
anywhere much in the first place. Like Paul Newman once said in 'Cool Hand
Luke', "Ah you know... small towns... nothing much happens in
the evenings ... I guess mainly we're just settling old scores."
Yet
a food bank in a small town can be a place where you can see the
world we live in every bit as clearly as we can see the vast
unpoluted night skies above us. The good and the bad. The hopeful and
the hopeless. The reasons for cheer and the reasons for weary
despair. All of it. The full spectrum.
All of it played out over
the course of two days in a food bank in a small Scottish town.
Our
peeling walls provide a back drop for hundreds of micro dramas. Mini
tragedies. Unnoticed lives tossed onto an ever growing refuse heap.
And yet every now and then the very same peeling walls witness
spectacular generosity. Moments of inspiration. Moments of genuine
hope.
So
I'll start with the upside. The picture at the top of the page.
Daisy
You
know what, if this world of ours was filled with people like Daisy it
would be a better place. A million times better. We first met Daisy
five years ago. I guess she must have been six at the time. She came
in with her mum on a cold day in November. She had watched the news
one night and been moved by stories about people with nowhere to live
and nothing to eat. She wanted to do something. To make things
better. Especially for children whose lives were so much harder than
her life.
But
what can you do when you are six years old? When you live in a quiet
Scottish town far away from the evening news? Simple. You do what you
can. And Daisy did what she could. She did everything in her power.
Every week she put away her pocket money and when the time was right, she bought advent calendars. For children who wouldn't be getting an
advent calendar. For children who wouldn't be getting much at all.
The children she had seen on the news.
And
she brought the advent calendars into First Base.
Yesterday
she came in to us again. For the fifth year in a row. And our peeling
walls smiled down at the latest version of Daisy. And when you see
someone with a heart the size of Daisy's heart, it is impossible not
to imagine pictures of how the world could be if everyone had a heart
the size of Daisy's heart.
It
would be quite a place. A different place. A better place. A place
where everyone looks at the problems of our world and makes a simple,
straight forward decision. I want to make things better. How? I will
do what I can. Like Daisy.
I
think the word is inspirational, don't you?
But
for every shaft of sunlight there are vast banks of clouds. Not
particularly stormy and dramatic. Just grey. Just soul draining.
There
has been an easily recognised common thread over the last couple of days.
In the food bank. In front of the back drop of peeling walls. Muffled
figures with pale faces. Troubled eyes. Insecurity. Fear. Broken minds.
Let's
go back a bit. Our first seven years. The world before the so called
Welfare Reforms. Pre austerity times. It suddenly seems a long time
ago.
There
was a prevailing pragmatism which nobody actually admitted to, but
everyone signed up to. It went something like this. There is always a
percentage of the population who lack the mental tools to make it.
Once upon a time we found places for them. The lad on the factory
floor who swept up. The lad on the farm who helped out. The girl in
the hair dressers who made the tea and did the odds and sods. And
when there was an annual outing, they would be a part of it. And when
there was a Christmas Party, they would be there with everyone else.
And of course they had no need of benefits. They were on the payroll.
They were a part of things. They had their place.
Once.
And then the world moved on and productivity targets meant no more
passengers. High paid fat trimmers made such roles redundant.
Mechanisation rendered them obselete. And one by one, they were nudged
out of things. By accident rather than design, the State got it.
Figured it out. Saw the need to be pragmatic. And so it was those whose
brains were not quite right for the modern world were quietly signed
onto the sick. Fair enough, they didn't exactly live high on the hog.
But at least they could just about get by. It wasn't great. But it kind of worked. Kind of.
Until
it stopped. Until the decision was taken to completely ignore the
opinions of GP's and psychologists. Until new assessments were
created to deem everyone to be fit for work. Until complicated new
online forms became the only road to having a penny to your name.
The
cruelty of the new order is as cold as cruelty gets. It takes people
who are already a bit broken and it breaks them some more. It makes
demands they haven't a hope in hell of meeting. If you can barely
read and write, how on earth can you nail a Universal Credit form in
one go? How can you make your online case for help when you don't
even know how to switch a computer on? How can you spend thirty hours
a week filling in online applications for jobs you cannot possibly do
when you can't even use a keyboard?
You
can't. Of course you can't. And suddenly there are no more payments.
And suddenly you were getting letters talking about eviction. And
suddenly there is no money on the meter and the cupboards are empty.
And the stress in your head morphs and spreads and grows. And the
only solution to each new problem is yet another form which needs
filling in with words you do not own.
And
broken people become shattered people. And they come to us. To our
peeling walls.
And
what can we do? We can give them a bag of food. We can do our bit to
keep body and soul together. We can do our best to help them to find
a brave face. We do what we can, but let's be honest, it barely
scratches the surface. And there are so many of these guys.
Here's
a handful from the last few days. There's the lad we've been seeing
for fifteen years now. Never the sharpest tool in the box. Once upon
a time, the neighbours might have deemed him to be a bit slow. Perfect
fodder for the playground bullies. No chance of keeping up in the
classroom. He drifted into the arms of those who can smell
vulnerabilty from a mile away. Heroin. A downward spiral. Until one
day he was beaten all the way to gates of death. And his already
struggling brain was rendered all but obselete.
He's
never had a job. Could he actually do a job? It is hard to think of
one. But maybe that is just me. Because the the powers that be have decided he's tip top. Locked and loaded. Ready and raring for work.
Expected to abide by the demands of job seeking. And of course the
powers that be know better than his GP and his psychologist. They
have decided he needs a short, sharp shock. A kick up the backside.
So they have taken everything away. Every penny. All of it. They have
decided to break him for good.
Is
this deliberate? Of course not. It is a crazy game which looks good
on paper and falls apart in the cold reality of the real world. It is
a pipe dream concocted by people living easy lives who choose to
believe everyone is shirking. Pretenting. Fabricating. Cheating.
There
was the lady with eyes layered with trauma. Unable to stand still.
Unable to make any kind of eye contact. Unable to to say yes to the offer
of coffee. Or tea. A back story to chill the bones. Hints of the very
darkest of dark corners. Half finished sentences. But never whole
sentences. Because to complete the sentence would mean going all the
way back to the nightmare. Of being locked in a room and injected
with heroin. Of visitors to the room. Male visitors. So many....
Sentences
never finished, but her eyes tell the story. Her GP tries to cover the
nightmares with thick blankets of medication. And she can read and
write and count. She just can't do people. She just can't force
herself to leave her flat for days on end. She just can't get on top
of the fear which has sunk right down into the marrow of her bones.
There
is the lady who was raped a few months ago. Suddenly unable to face a
world which has changed forever. There are no sections in the forms
she has filled in which cover the terrors. Can you walk up stairs?
Can you get out of the bath on your own? Can you lift your arms above
the level of your shoulders? Well there we are then. You're fine.
You're good to go. Stiff upper lip old girl. Crack on.
So
many broken people. And a system hell bent on breaking them some
more. So called tough love. Aye right. Policies knocked together by
idiots to meet promises made by idiots. And in the long run, breaking
already broken people will cost us all countless billions but who
gives a shit when all is said and done. Just so long as the Daily
Mail is happy, right?
And
in the mean time hundreds of thousands of people are being quietly
tossed onto an ever growing scrapheap.
It
is the world on the other side of the mirror to Daisy's world. A cold
world. A brutal world. A world of forms. A world where quiet cruelty
is doled out far from the public view. A world where hurting the
vulnerable might just net a few votes in some marginal seat in the
West Midlands.
And
at times it is hard not to feel overwhelmed by it all. What will
happen if things carry on like this? When the real winter sets in?
Time
to go back to Monday morning. Still dark outside. A coffee and the online news. Check the e mails.
Bloody
hell.
'Hi
Mark
I'd
like to make a gift to First Base to help you over the winter.
Reason? Easy really, I'm not struggling but I know lots of people are
and it breaks my heart.
I
will be donating £10,000 to you but will have to ask my bank to do
the transfer so would need an account number and sort code.'
Like
I said. Bloody hell. By the end of the day the money was in our
account. And the next day saw the arrival of a completed Gift Aid
form which will turn into another £2500.
There
was an Edinburgh phone number. I e mailed her and asked how it was
someone in Edinbugh had decided to show such spectacular generosity
of a small little charity in Dumfries.
'Hi
Mark
I
think I first read about your work when somebody on Twitter retweeted
a link to your blog. The sheer scale of need seems overwhelming but
the individual stories that you tell...well they kind of put in
perspective the stark difficulties that people are having to deal
with. I know all the other charities are helping folk in the same
circumstances, but your words make a difference - you're not just
shouting into the void!
You
and your team are doing a great service, as are all the others. Wish
it wasn't necessary and my hope is that in an independent Scotland we
would be able to restore the safety net that is so desperately
needed.'
Spoken
like a grown up Daisy. And suddenly the peeling walls don't seem to
matter so much.
What
do you do when the world seems filled with overwhelming problems? Simple. You do what you can. And you keep on doing it.
Like
Daisy.
Like
our Edinburgh benefactor.
If
you would like to give us a hand in doing what we do, you can find our
Just Giving page by following the link below.
You are less cynical than me Mark. I believe it is deliberate. I believe it's ethnic cleansing, that those in poower want rid of those they think are "no use". It's not just cruel and heartbreaking. It is evil, it is criminal. It's a class war and I'd love to see the perpetrators tried and found guilty of crimes against humanity and jailed for their iniquities.
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