No Christmas tree…

Robina Barton shares her experience of volunteering at the Quaker Open Christmas homless shelter

Beds from Quaker Christmas Shelter 2008. | Photo: Photo courtesy Quaker Homeless Action.

A friend asked me the other day when I last had a Christmas tree. I told him 1991. What happened after that? Well 1992 was the first year I volunteered for Quaker Open Christmas (now the ‘Quaker Christmas Shelter’). As I recall (and my dad may tell a different story), it all began when dad came home from having a pint in the pub – where he got a lot of his best ideas. He had read in the Friend that volunteers were needed for a Quaker run Christmas shelter in Blackfriars, and he said wouldn’t it be a good and worthwhile thing for our family to go and do it? We (my mum, my seventeen-year-old brother and myself, aged fifteen) were somewhat jaded with the empty commercialism of Christmas and thought this was a splendid idea. Next morning, dad was regretting his impulsive suggestion. Unfortunately for him, the rest of us still thought it was a splendid idea, and my aunt did too, so that was that.

The five of us headed down from Yorkshire to London and made our way to Westminster Meeting House, where volunteers used to be accommodated on camp beds in one large room and you had to wash standing up in the public loo. We were made welcome by hosts Hugh, Mabel, Tony and Helen and so we experienced the now familiar camaraderie of Open Christmas.

Next day we did our first shift at Christ Church in Blackfriars. I recall entering the room, blue with a cigarette smoke haze and a lingering aroma of damp clothes, alcohol and feet. There were people sitting around tables or lying on blankets as it suited them – chatting, drinking tea, smoking or just sitting dozing. I joined them, chatted, drank tea, smoked (when my folks weren’t watching) and offered a friendly ear. I began to learn at first hand what homelessness is all about. It was mainly men in those days, mainly Scottish or Irish and middle-aged, usually with alcohol problems and mainly (give or take the odd drunken outburst) very polite and kind to those of us who had volunteered. I was fascinated by their stories, horrified at their situation, humbled by their ability to smile and determined to return the following year.

Eighteen years on and much has changed, not least the venue – now Union Chapel, Islington. The demographic is different – younger guests with chaotic lifestyles, economic migrants and asylum seekers have entered the picture. Drugs, prostitution, mental health problems and language barriers are matched with support services and healthcare, not just the friendly ear. Alcohol is not allowed within the project, and the days of the blue smoke haze are gone. Children under eighteen can no longer volunteer, while for the grown-ups volunteer HQ is now the comfortable and conveniently placed Penn Club.

But for all the changes there is much that stays the same. There is a need and a desire to help. Those who live on the streets face a daily struggle for existence that most of us can’t imagine, while those who volunteer hope that in this small way they can make that struggle just a little less hard. And more and more the momentum is coming from within local communities, to accept some responsibility and care for their own, and break down barriers between ‘us’ and ‘them’. It doesn’t always go to plan. Volunteering can be physically exhausting, emotionally draining, and intellectually challenging. It should not be undertaken lightly, or without an understanding of the risks. But it can also be interesting, rewarding, surprising and very enjoyable.

The camaraderie is still there. The post-shift analysis, with the exchange of stories. Laughing at what was funny, or because if you didn’t laugh you’d cry. The forging of lasting friendships and the feeling of common purpose – I’d still take that over a Christmas tree any day.

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