My family is small. I grew up with my mother and sister and brother. We were often joined by a number of older family friends and relatives – aunties and uncles of all shapes and sizes – but for the most part, it was just us four. When I was very young, I had no idea that our family was in any way unusual or out of the ordinary. It was a series of small moments that made me think otherwise. The day in June when we made Father’s Day cards in school and I wasn’t sure what to do with mine. Or the fact that it was only my mum who came to parents’ evening, when most of my friends had two parents with them. After every Christmas, classmates would ask what my dad got me for Christmas and I would make up stories to hide the fact that he wasn’t around.
Or there was the dream. I was eight years old or so at the time, but I still remember every detail. In the dream, I was lying in bed, in the middle of the night, when I heard our front gate squeak. I opened my curtains just in time to see my father walk down our path and up to our front door. There was a gentle knock, the door opened and closed. I could hear him downstairs, moving about, talking to my mum. Laughing. I didn’t go down, but there was something about just being in bed, knowing he was there, that gave me a feeling that is very difficult to describe. It was a dream that felt so real that, after I woke up, I spent the next few hours staring out of the same window, looking down the dark street expectantly, waiting for him to arrive. I waited until it became light. Nothing.
Not long afterwards, I remember walking into the house after school to silence. Something seemed off, but I couldn’t work out what it was. By the evening, when my mum had still not appeared, I crept up the stairs to her door. I heard the sound of crying from her room. I remember thinking that I should check on her, but as I walked in, she began to wipe her eyes, as if nothing had happened. She wouldn’t tell me what was wrong and assured me that everything was alright.
That week, the strange feeling continued. Things weren’t quite right. If my brother or sister or I were naughty or loud, my mum wouldn’t tell us off like she usually did. She didn’t make us go to bed and didn’t stop us from watching television. We even managed to watch an episode of The Simpsons, a show that was usually forbidden. However, the main thing I noticed was my mother herself. She had changed in some way. Her shield of happiness had disappeared; she was quiet, withdrawn and wouldn’t really speak to us.
After school on Thursday, she picked all of us up from school and took us to the park. This was another strange occurrence, but we were over the moon. We ran around in the evening and laughed and jumped on each other, with my mother watching from the park bench. After a while, when we were sweaty, she asked if we would like McDonalds for dinner, or if we wanted to go and play games on the computer in the internet café. We couldn’t believe our luck, screaming and shouting with joy. But then she started to cry and knelt down next to us. ‘Gather around me and hold each other’s hands,’ she said. She told us she loved us and cared about us and would be here for us always. ‘Your father has passed away.’ I remember freezing, holding my breath. Death was not a new concept to me and I fully understood what she meant. To think that the man I had been waiting for had gone for ever was too much for me. It broke my heart into a million pieces.
It is a cliché to say it but in that moment, everything changed. I knew instantly that things would not be the same, that I would have to step up in some way, that I would have to do more. Even at that young age, I accepted the responsibility and made a vow that one day, when I had my own children, I would never ever leave their side.
*
This chapter is called home, but it’s really about what home means. A physical structure, but also the people who make a house a home. Family. Throughout my entire life I have been amazed by the strength and courage of my mother. She played the role of two parents within our household. My parents separated when I was four, so I have no memories of them together. Her contribution to my success can never be overlooked, but for a long time I couldn’t help but think about the comparisons between myself and friends and peers who had fathers around to help and guide them. I wondered what it would have been like to have a father to help me with particular scenarios. I love my mother unconditionally, but there was a lot I felt I couldn’t speak to her about. I just didn’t feel comfortable enough and worried that if I did ask her, she would be angry, confused or upset — or wouldn’t be able to relate.
I’ll try to be a bit more specific. My mum knew nothing about football, for example, and didn’t understand why I was so enthusiastic about it. So I never went to the park to kick a ball about, I didn’t go to football lessons, I had no football shirts, I never watched highlights on television. Or when I was twelve or thirteen, I had no one to talk to about the changes I was noticing – growing pains, my voice breaking, the feelings I had for my first ever girlfriend. I didn’t have an example in my home environment of a good relationship and this meant I didn’t know how to make my relationship function well. I couldn’t really speak to my friends about it either, in spite of the fact that they were undoubtedly experiencing the same things. It made me feel like I was weird. It made me feel like I was alone. I didn’t know what to do, but I knew that I couldn’t tell my mum.
I believe that my mother was the saviour of our family. She worked hard to support us and to give us the best childhood possible. I believe that I have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. I don’t believe in the idea of a perfect family. I don’t think one exists. But I do think that the way I grew up had some bearing on who I have become. The Education Policy Institute defines disadvantage as ‘not only income poverty, but also a lack of social and cultural capital and control over decisions that affect life outcomes’.1 By social and cultural capital, what they mean is the kind of background knowledge that children from privileged backgrounds enjoy. You might get it by going to the theatre or art galleries, taking overseas holidays, or having the opportunity to take part in various activities organised outside of school. My mum tried to take me to galleries when she could, but we didn’t do many of these things when I was young. Not many people in my community did. My mum didn’t really have the time or money to be anything other than a disciplinarian. When you read about my housing situation, in particular, you will also see that my family certainly didn’t always have control over the decisions that affected our lives.
For a long time I have thought my background shaped my younger years, and the difficulties I had at school. For example, there were occasions when I would get into trouble at school, forget to hand in homework or engage in low-level disruption because I was bored or disinterested. I feel that if I had had someone at home who had time to talk to me or encourage me more, I might have found a different outlet. The research backs me up. The policy institute I mentioned above found that ‘on average, disadvantaged pupils are 4.3 months behind in the early years phase, 9.4 months behind in primary school, and 18.4 months behind at Key Stage 4.’
I also realise that I am lucky, in some ways. My parents separated when I was four, but I did get to know my dad. However, having a glimpse of my father made his absence even more noticeable. Following the separation, we saw him less and less. Firstly at home or he would come and take us out. Then at a special centre, for an hour or so at a time, with toys and games and books and lots of other children playing with their fathers. Then phone calls. Two phone calls a year, at my Aunt Harriet’s house. Then nothing.
Parents are an important part of any child’s home. But beyond the absence of a mum or a dad, what do we mean when we say ‘broken home’? What does home really mean? What is the reality of home life for children growing up in deprived areas, like the one I lived in? What about children who don’t have a home?
Even though I lived in a single-parent household, my mum ensured that me and my siblings had the best upbringing. She played two roles, that of a father and a mother, and for this I will be forever grateful.
Absent fatherhood can have a detrimental effect on the lives of the kids involved. I do believe that, if me and many of my peers had had father figures in our homes, we would have skipped past many of the mistakes we made as young men. I also feel we would have learned how to control our thoughts, feelings and actions.
*
I don’t remember our parents separating. I do remember the centre we used to go to though, to see our father. They give you a set time. It could be one hour, it could be two. We’d arrive and be taken down to a big room, with lots of toys and other kids playing with their parents. Dad would come in and we’d get to play with him until our time was up, and then we’d be taken back to Mum. I didn’t know what was going on really. I didn’t really get it until I was a lot older.
Most of my friends had two parents growing up. You kind of get jealous a little bit, but you can’t change your situation. It sort of felt like their families were the norm and our family wasn’t. I say that, but I think we also had an advantage. We had other people raising us too. We had other family members and friends helping. Aunty Harriet, Aunty Letitia, Uncle Boniface — they all supported my mum and helped her to raise us.
I remember Mum getting sick too. We were taken by social services into a home, until a family member came to get us. I can’t remember who. I don’t really remember a lot about that situation. I’m not sure if that’s because I was too young or because I’ve blocked it out. It wasn’t a good time.
*
‘Homelessness’ is a word many of us are disconnected to, but a word I am familiar with. Between the years of 1999, in which I was born, up until 2006, we were frequently homeless. I moved homes at least seven times in those seven years. Each home was different. Each was located in a different area. Some were large, with bedrooms for me and my brother and sister. One had a big garden, I remember. But many were small, dirty and inadequate. One property only had one bedroom for the four of us. Again, as with my family structure, I felt like this was a process that children all over the country were going through. I had no sense that it was exceptional in any way. As I moved from place to place, school to school, most of my new friends had no concept of what was happening. They remained in the same houses, surrounded by the same people, undisturbed, undisrupted. I felt like we were on the run but I didn’t know what we were running from. I couldn’t paint my room. I couldn’t put up posters. We lived out of suitcases a lot of the time. We never knew how long we would be able to stay. As soon as it felt like we were getting settled, like our new house was becoming our home, my mother would share the news that we were moving again.
*
My citizenship status affected our life in various ways. For example, for reasons I still don’t understand, somehow connected to my application, the council suddenly stopped paying our rent. On a Friday night, I finished work, collected the children and got back home to find our landlord waiting for us in our flat. He said that the rent hadn’t been paid and told us to leave. I couldn’t believe it. I said, ‘Where am I going to go at this time on a Friday night with three small children? I have nowhere to go.’ He didn’t care. I said, ‘My God will keep me here.’ The landlord replied, ‘Your God is pushing you out.’ I took the children and went to our church. The congregation rallied around us. Thank God for the church. They gave us so much during those years. Food, clothes, places to sleep when we really needed it. Even the use of a car. By Monday, the council had found us a new home not far away, but it was not permanent. For the next few years we were moved from place to place. We were homeless. We always had a roof over our heads, but we lost a lot: furniture, clothes, cooking utensils.
This is not a sad story. We were very lucky indeed. We had lots of good people around us and we made it through. It made us stronger. I have always tried to help people as much as we were helped. I believe in our community. I try to give back as much as I can.
*
I guess there were some positives. I got used to adapting quickly to new and sometimes difficult environments. It’s a trait that I still possess today and is a lot of help. I’m rarely flustered when things change unexpectedly. I’m not particularly bothered by talking in public or voicing my opinion in meetings. I learned how to be comfortable when I was feeling anything but. That said, it was mostly bad. Looking back, I think I lost a lot of my childhood by moving around so much.
I was never able to settle. This resulted in me not making many friends at that time, not connecting to the community around us, not knowing anything much about our local area. I was always in the house. The only times I would leave were to go to school, to church or to follow my mum to the local youth centres, where she occasionally worked. Looking back, I guess this was also part of my mum’s quest to protect us as kids.
We all know that there is a housing crisis in the UK. A recent research project conducted by the National Housing Federation states that an estimated 8.4 million people in the UK are living in unaffordable, insecure or unsuitable homes.2 That’s approximately 15 per cent of the total population. Let’s step back a bit. What does that mean? Whose fault is it? According to the website for the Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights, housing is:3
the basis of stability and security for an individual or family. The centre of our social, emotional and sometimes economic lives, a home should be a sanctuary; a place to live in peace, security and dignity.
Increasingly viewed as a commodity, housing is most importantly a human right. Under international law, to be adequately housed means having secure tenure — not having to worry about being evicted or having your home or lands taken away. It means living somewhere that is in keeping with your culture, and having access to appropriate services, schools, and employment.
That is pretty clear cut. If housing is unaffordable, insecure or unsuitable, a person’s human right to a safe home is not being met. This is a right that should be protected at government level, through suitable policies and programmes, as well as national housing strategies. No one should be forced to live in inadequate housing. Yet the numbers speak for themselves.
Not long ago, I came across an even more shocking statistic.4 Over 200,000 children and families are currently homeless in the UK. This is not homelessness as you might picture it – people in sleeping bags on the street, begging for money – but someone without a permanent residence. It’s a kind of invisible or hidden homelessness. The kind of homelessness that afflicted my childhood. In December 2019, a Guardian report by Mattha Busby on recent government figures concluded that:5
Almost 130,000 children dependent on their parents and carers live in temporary accommodation, across more than 60,000 of the households without permanent homes. More than 7,000 of these are in bed and breakfasts, up 3.2% from the same time last year. At the end of June 2019, there were 13,450 households in temporary accommodation with shared facilities, widely considered the worst type of housing. This has increased by 40% in five years. More than a quarter of these households have been accommodated in different local authority areas, with a large majority of these out-of-district placements from London councils.
I dug a little deeper and was appalled by the scale of the problem. Children growing up in hostels; survivors of domestic abuse forced to sofa surf; families being housed in shipping containers. Shipping containers! What would it be like to live in a shipping container? Residents complained that they were small, noisy and awkwardly configured. Boiling hot in summer and ice cold in winter. Better than being on the streets maybe, but, for a young family, no place to live.
This is an ongoing issue that has been mostly hidden from the public eye, until now. It needs to be discussed. I know, because I was one of those 130,000 children.
*
We lived in around six different houses growing up, I think. Crystal Palace, Hawkshaw Close, Kings Avenue, Herne Hill, Gipsy Hill and Brixton. It was long. Scary at times. Usually in life, you do not move as many times as we did when we were young. We didn’t have a steady life. I lost contact with a lot of people, a lot of friends. You might meet someone you like one day and move the next. Making friends is a long process. It takes time to build up trust and shared experiences. Imagine what it’s like being the new kid in school, again and again. You don’t know if people are going to like you. You’ve got to go through the whole thing again. It’s easy to become a victim. It’s easy to fall prey to bullies. It was scary. You don’t know what’s in front of you. You don’t know what to expect. You don’t know what the future holds.
The reasons why we moved were never really discussed. I don’t think I was ever told why we were moving. We would just wake up one morning in a house we’d lived in for a couple of months or a couple of years, and be told to get up and pack. As a child, there was sadness and anxiety, but also a little bit of excitement. You were moving somewhere new! It could be a big house. Or you could be cramped together in one bedroom in a small flat. That happened. We were all in one room. There was actually only one bed, I think. You’d always hope for the best, however. And sometimes it was a nicer house. There was one house with three floors and a big garden, and I had my own bedroom. That was good. I was grateful to have my own bedroom, as the only girl. I could finally have friends over!
It’s a sad situation for anyone to be in. With the right support, anything is possible. It’s ridiculous that families still have to endure what we went through.
I don’t think many people really understand what homelessness is. There are many different types of homelessness. There’s the type people will immediately think of: people living on the street, sleeping on cardboard, having to ask for money to get a meal or a cup of tea. There’s also hidden homelessness. Someone could not have a home, but be relying on the kindness and hospitality of friends or family, sleeping on sofas or in spare rooms. Temporary accommodation is another form of homelessness and is just as bad as the others, I think. You could be a single parent with a young child and be placed in a one-bedroom flat one day, but moved to a hostel the next. Sharing a bathroom, sharing a kitchen. It’s not nice. No stability and no choice.
If you are homeless, you need to contact the borough you live in to apply for help. You submit an application and the borough decides whether you are homeless or not. It’s a long and stressful process. I’ve been on the list for three years and I have a toddler. I know people who have been on the waiting list for five or ten years. There is not enough social housing. Private companies or individuals can buy up social housing and charge a lot in rent. In Elephant and Castle, they demolished the Heygate Estate. Those residents who were forced out may not be able to move back. They won’t be able to afford to. Home is more than a property, you know. It’s the area you live in, the area you are connected to. It’s not fair that some people can be moved around like that.
*
Why did I live such an unusual childhood? How common is an experience like mine? What does it do to children? And what can be done about it?
I still know there are young people out there just like myself. In the exact same position I was in. You feel neglected, restless and have a heart filled with uncertainty. I hope one day this country will ensure that homelessness no longer exists for families and children like myself, and also those who are on the streets with nowhere to go. I have seen many critics on social media argue that many people who have found themselves in a situation such as mine could just ‘work harder’, ‘get a job’; they believe that anyone can get themselves out of this problem. But from my direct personal experience I can say to them, it is not as easy as you think it is.
I had many opportunities taken away from me because my mum was not in the position to support me financially. This definitely affected me within school.
*
Poverty is not one big problem, but lots of little ones. Lots of little difficulties, stresses and fears, all combined. You don’t take everything in when you’re young, but there were a few moments that stood out.
School was one of the biggest eye-openers for me. Every year, for example, most of my classmates would have a new full set of school uniform. This was something my mum could not afford. I tried my best to hide it. When my mum could afford new bits she would get them in a larger size so they could last for as long as possible. I used to love playing football in the playground; this would often result in my school shoes being damaged, from holes in different parts of the shoe to the sole becoming loose. I had to work my way around it by using glue or repainting my shoes with a marker pen.
I wasn’t the best at football, but, like every young boy my age, wanted to become the next David Beckham. Unfortunately, my mum couldn’t afford to buy me football boots and the equipment needed. I also couldn’t attend some of the sessions my friends did as we couldn’t afford the fees. My hopes and dreams of being a footballer were crushed.
Social divides definitely have an impact on how successful an individual can become. If my mum could have afforded extra-curricular activities, a tutor, football coaching sessions – the list goes on – maybe life would have been different.
*
There was a children’s charity in Croydon that used to hand out Christmas presents and food, I remember. That was nice. They made you feel special. We didn’t really get Christmas presents.
I remember my primary school used to have book sales every once in a while; they’d set out the new books on tables in the hall and kids could go in with their parents and buy some. But we never went. We could never afford to get anything and I used to find it so upsetting. I couldn’t understand why all the other kids got to buy new books, and I couldn’t. I used to love reading. Tracy Beaker, Noughts and Crosses. And all of these books were brand new! I would be the first person to read them. They would be mine. So one day, before a book sale, I stole some money from mum, from the place where she used to hide it, and went to the sale and bought a load of books for myself. Mum found out, obviously, and I got in so much trouble. She made me return all the books to get her money back, and I had to apologise to the school for stealing. I never forgot that. I understand why now, of course. She was doing so much, and doing the job of a mother and a father.
It was always little things. Like sports day. There was no school dinner on sports day, so everyone had to bring a packed lunch. It was a special day and everyone had these wonderful packed lunches: crisps, chocolate, cakes, sweets and all sorts of drinks. There was also a shop in the corner of the playing field where you could buy extra supplies. It was a feast. But we just had a sandwich and maybe a yoghurt. We didn’t have any money to buy anything else.
Or the fact that everyone had a new haircut, new shoes or new bags at the start of the year, after the summer holidays. Or even just a new uniform. But we couldn’t always afford new uniforms. We couldn’t afford new shoes or bags. Or school trips. I remember one year we had a school trip to Germany and Mum couldn’t afford to send me. She borrowed money from a family member in the end, I think, but it was awful. It was embarrassing.
I used to look at my friends and think, Why can’t I have that lifestyle? It’s made me more motivated in many ways. To finish my education, to achieve my goals, to make sure I don’t find myself in that position again.
The advice I would give to anyone experiencing what we went through is don’t give up. You won’t be in this situation for ever. It doesn’t define you. And if you’re ever feeling low, find someone you trust to speak to. It helps more than you think.
*
When I was a little older, I was lucky enough to win a place to study at the Jonas Foundation, a weekend music school in Elephant and Castle. They provided so many opportunities for me when I was a kid. I could learn to play any musical instrument I wanted (I couldn’t decide, so I learned four) and how to read sheet music. I was a member of the choir and sang soprano. We entered a number of different competitions, from the BBC’s Choir of the Year to Sky One’s Must Be the Music. We even got to travel to Switzerland to sing on trips sponsored by the school’s founders.
I was very lucky to have the opportunity to attend the music school. It wasn’t an opportunity many people from my community had and for this I was very grateful. I had, by this point, a strong friendship circle and we all had targets to try and achieve grade eight in all of our instruments, which was the highest level. I have memories of creating my own songs with my brother Elijah and his friends Henry and Winfred, who also came to my secondary school. We used to have drum-offs with the African drums and create mash-ups to popular songs on the piano. Music theory was not my forte; I loved to try and find tunes on the piano after I listened to them. I became really good at this and found myself being able to play songs on the piano I had only heard once or twice. Chanel and Diane led the choir, I loved to sing. I was very shy but, when it came to singing, I was so confident. I once thought I would become a professional singer one day. One thing I loved is that all of us who attended were fully focused and music took us away from getting involved with the wrong crowds or surrounding ourselves with the wrong people.
One of the activities that I enjoyed most at the music school was visiting intensive care units in London hospitals at Christmas. We would mainly visit the Royal Brompton Hospital in Chelsea. Every time we would visit the hospital, my brother, sister and I would take the 345 bus, setting off in Brixton, in the area we had come to settle in, then through Clapham, eventually entering the Borough of Kensington and Chelsea. The first time, I remember looking around as we reached our destination and feeling like I was in another world. There was no litter on the ground, there wasn’t an estate block in sight, the pavement looked as if it had been freshly scrubbed. There were super cars, massive houses. It was a side of London I had never experienced before. Not only did it show me how hard I had to work in life, but it reinforced the fact that I had to find ways to overcome all of the things that were holding me back.
As a child this awakening was very important. Not only did it show me how hard I had to work in life, but it reinforced the fact that I was born into the life I lived and I had to find ways to adapt to overcome all of the things that were holding me back. In 2018, the Equality Trust found that households in the bottom 20 per cent of the population had on average a disposable annual income of £12,798.6 This is such a shocking figure and representative of the growing divide in British society.
As I grew older I came to realise what that bus journey demonstrated and how split our society is. We are broken down into different enclaves within one city. Poverty meets wealth in plain sight. I always thought it funny how you can walk between two different worlds within five minutes. A council estate sitting alongside private roads and giant detached houses. The one thing that I was alarmed about was the fact that people from either side never engaged with each other. I had never met anyone my age who came from that other side, neither did my friends. There was a stark realisation of the very few times we would engage with people from middle- or upper-class backgrounds. Getting into Oxbridge or a Russell Group university maybe. Your manager at work. Or, for many from where I’m from, facing a judge in the courtroom who, highly likely, would have never experienced any of the issues that might have led you into that position.
It is hard to overstate the levels of inequality that afflict London, the city in which I was born.7 While to any visitor, parts of London exude an image enormous wealth, the Trust for London has shown that one in four Londoners live below the poverty line, a figure worse than the national average. What’s more, this has nothing to do with people being unemployed, as the media might have you believe. In fact, the majority of people in poverty in London (like in the rest of the country) live, like I did, in a working family.
How divided the city is, and the consequences of those divisions, were never more apparent than on the night of 13 June 2017.
*
The Grenfell Tower fire will forever haunt me. I remember waking up in the middle of the night to breaking news alerts on my phone. I switched on my laptop and saw photographs of the tower on fire. Previously that day, I’d had an argument with a friend named Chey from college. We had fallen out and hadn’t sorted out our disagreements. I knew that Chey lived in the area. I couldn’t remember the name of her block, but I recognised the view from all the times we’d FaceTime each other while she was standing on her balcony. I called her phone and it went to voicemail. I called a few more times and still no connection. Fear came over me as I realised that she could potentially live in that tower block. I stayed awake through the night and into the morning, watching as the fire took over the whole structure.
What has also stayed with me is the sight of individuals waving their T-shirts from the windows. I couldn’t stop thinking about the residents; what about those that lived on the upper floors?
Early in the morning, I received a message from Chey. She lived close to the tower and had been evacuated, but she was OK. She knew people who lived inside the block, however, and was still waiting for news.
The issue of adequate housing has never been as prominent or as urgent as it was after the fire in which a reported seventy-two people lost their lives. It was the most catastrophic residential fire in the UK since the Second World War. It was also avoidable. The fire, which started in a single flat, was able to spread to the whole building because a year earlier flammable cladding had been fitted to the building, in part to make the building look more attractive to those in the surrounding area. The decision to use cheaper, nonfire retardant cladding would ultimately cost lives.
One of the things I find most outrageous about the tragedy at Grenfell is that local residents had complained beforehand that the building was not safe. For years a group of concerned residents had complained to their landlords – the Kensington and Chelsea Tenant Management Organisation (KCTMO) – and been ignored. This is what Grenfell Action Group wrote on a blogpost in November 2016:
‘It is a truly terrifying thought but the Grenfell Action Group firmly believe that only a catastrophic event will expose the ineptitude and incompetence of our landlord, the KCTMO, and bring an end to the dangerous living conditions and neglect of health and safety legislation that they inflict upon their tenants and leaseholders … Unfortunately, the Grenfell Action Group have reached the conclusion that only an incident that results in serious loss of life of KCTMO residents will allow the external scrutiny to occur that will shine a light on the practices that characterise the malign governance of this non-functioning organisation. It is our conviction that a serious fire in a tower block or similar high density residential property is the most likely reason that those who wield power at the KCTMO will be found out and brought to justice!’
Those words haunt me. That people living in Grenfell had predicted the tragedy that would cost so many of their lives is truly shocking. It is also hard to think that they would have been similarly ignored if the people who lived there were wealthy as opposed to being poor, many of them migrants. Grenfell residents died in their homes because of ineptitude from their landlords, and because they were the type of people that those with power in Britain find it easy to ignore.
It is difficult to know what the legacy of Grenfell will be. For a while, it seemed like the tragedy would be a wake-up call for the country, shining a light on inequality so that it could be addressed. But the tragedy seems to have fallen from public attention with little having changed. There are still a number of tower blocks in the UK with the exact same cladding years on; this issue still has not been resolved.
It is also too soon to know whether, like the Grenfell Action Group predicted, those responsible for the tragedy will be brought to justice. The second part of the Grenfell Inquiry, which will look at who is to blame for installing unsafe cladding and other failures might not report until 2022, five years after the fire.
Finally, we also cannot separate the discussion of Grenfell from our earlier one about migration and citizen rights. Many of the Grenfell residents were undocumented, not listed on tenancy agreements and home sharing. In the aftermath of the fire, debates raged as to the number of lives lost. Volunteers and charities working for the support effort reported a number of undocumented migrants and illegal tenants who had lost everything in the fire but were too afraid to come forward. Sadiq Khan, the mayor of London, publicly called on the government for an amnesty to ensure that any illegal immigrants who were victims of the blaze were protected. At the back of my mind I couldn’t help but wonder if there were other names missing from the list of the dead. What about the ‘hidden homeless’ housed in the upper floors?
*
The tragedy at Grenfell is just the most extreme example of a crisis that is far more widespread. In one of the wealthiest societies in the world I find it mind-blowing that so many people are denied adequate housing.
A main reason for this is the decline in new social housing being built over the last thirty years. In the 1970s, 150,000 social homes were built a year.8 By the 1990s this had fallen to 30,000 and in the 2000s to 25,000 per year. At the same time, over a million council homes were sold to their tenants. This might have been helpful for the people who bought the homes, but because they weren’t replaced it meant people like my family were stuck on long council waiting lists, without a secure home.
It is also one of the reasons my generation will struggle to settle down. A recent report from the right-leaning think tank Civitas showed that in 2017 more than one in four people aged 20 to 34 still live with their parents, a rise from less than 20 per cent two decades earlier.9 It’s hard to disagree with Liz Emerson, Co-founder of the Intergenerational Trust, who, responding to the report, told the Guardian that ‘for young people this means a loss of independence and shattered dreams and reflects that the older generation own more than their fair share of housing wealth’. Finally, someone from the older generation who recognises that the problems of people my age aren’t because we’re ‘snowflakes’, but because we’re getting a raw deal!
Yet whilst the housing crisis can be expected to affect almost everyone from my age group, the statistics that hit me the hardest are the ones on hidden homelessness. Homelessness is poorly understood by many in society, who assume someone is only homeless if they are living on the street. However, as Shelter points out, homeslessness isn’t just a question of whether you are sleeping rough, but whether or not you have a home.10 If you are living in temporary accommodation or on a friend’s couch, you may have a roof over your head, but that doesn’t mean you have a home.
Shelter have estimated that 320,000 people in Britain are currently homeless.11 I know what that feels like, because my family was one of those.
When we lived in temporary accommodation, we knew we could be moved at any moment. I remember being in some houses for only a few weeks, before being moved on once again. That meant not being able to blink before I found myself in a completely different space. They say home is where the heart is. I had a family, but I had nowhere to call home until I was seven years old.
Whilst I cannot overlook the hard work of those within the local authority who ensured a family like mine would not find themselves on the street, I cannot help but blame the government for the situation my family found itself in. It is shocking to me that in one of the wealthiest countries in the world we cannot guarantee a secure home for everyone who lives here. It is a basic human right.
I believe every child and family in this country should have a right to adequate housing, and that the government can do more to identify and support those who have found themselves in this situation. For far too long they have relied on the third sector to find solutions to the problems they have partly caused.
It also seems clear what the solution should be, even if it cannot be achieved over night. Shelter have themselves estimated that three million social houses need to be built to secure adequate housing for people in this country. That is a large figure, but it is doable, and it is only making up for the inaction on the part of governments that went before. As Polly Neate, the Chief Executive of Shelter has said, solving the housing crisis ‘requires bold action’ but ‘the cost of not acting is far greater’.12 The costs will include more hardship and missed opportunities for people with childhoods like mine.
Finally, and I should be clear, I know I am not the only person out there that has been affected by this issue. I know there are many children and families who are experiencing the same thing right now. All I can say to those who are experiencing what we experienced is don’t give up. You will find a way out of your situation. And if you are lucky enough to have a roof over your head and a stable income, try to help. Educate yourself about the housing crisis and homelessness in the UK. Support local food banks and organisations such as Crisis and Shelter. Be alert to the signs that someone you know is in trouble. And if they are in trouble, do all you can to get them the help and support that they need.