Unaware of what was about to unfold when we arrived in Aldgate in the heart of the city, my son Saj (Veer from my life story) and I boarded the London Underground and headed to our assigned venue as Crisis Christmas Volunteers.
Crisis is a charity that cares for the homeless. They host Christmas homeless shelters every winter where those who would otherwise be on the streets can have a safe and warm place to bathe, eat and sleep, and make use of their ongoing support services.
If you’ve read my previous Christmas posts, you might have read about a special experience I had during my first season as a volunteer at Crisis when I was fourteen. It made me feel so good knowing I had impacted someone’s life like that, the memory and motivation to continue has stayed with me ever since.
Whenever I’m in the UK and I have the opportunity to do my bit over Christmas, I jump at the chance. Last year was no different, and, as I had my son with me, it was extra special.
Last year, an economical hotel chain had kindly opened its doors to the homeless, allowing its buildings to be turned into the most comfortable homeless shelters I had ever seen. The guests’ faces said it all. Some were in awe and wonderment; the smiles as they walked in through the doors and took it all in were priceless. Some, however, seemed timid and frightened. They kept to themselves. Some even seemed tense and angry as they were shown to their rooms, especially one young lady (let’s call her Emma) on crutches. (More on Emma in a bit.)
The shelter Saj and I were at happened to be in a part of London where there was a large immigrant community. Immediately, the South Asian faces recognised my snow-coloured saree and red and yellow tilak in the centre of my forehead. Clearly curious, they looked over. I sensed their hesitation to talk to me and so Saj and I approached them with a big smile and a hello.
That was it, the ice was broken. And over the days, we discovered that we all spoke about half a dozen languages that we could understand bits of. Some didn’t speak English at all and were relieved to see there was a volunteer there who could understand them.
*names have been changed to protect identities*
There was a jovial Pakistani-Brit, Sayid, who admitted to me that he’d messed up his life with dodgy businesses and gambling and had ended up on and off the streets for years. His demeanour was absolutely the wheeler-dealer type; kind of the like the Cockney-Pakistani version of Delboy from TV show Only Fools and Horses. Although he had clearly made some not-so-noble life choices (I mean, who hasn’t?), I couldn’t help but like Sayid.
He put up a front when around the others, but the vulnerability he showed telling me his story was admirable. His love for his ageing mother was evident as he described to me the taste of her chicken biryani. My heart broke at the guilt he felt; although she didn’t live far away, his alcoholism and habits meant he wasn’t able to look after her.
And then there was Paaji, the elder Sikh man from North India. He didn’t speak English at all and hadn’t connected with anyone or made any friends yet. He was quiet and tense. As more people joined our group, Paaji seemed to relax a bit and showed me his mobile phone. It was an old call-and-text-only Nokia that he’d recently bought. Paaji told me in a mix of Hindi and Punjabi that someone had been calling him sounding angry and was sending him texts all the time but he couldn’t understand them. He’d switched the phone off and was frustrated that he couldn’t use it.
I checked the texts for him. It turned out, to no surprise, that the phone Paaji had recently bought from someone on the streets was stolen and the owner wasn’t too happy about it.
Paaji also worked up the courage to tell us that he didn’t have a change of clothes. I felt for him as I saw the shame in his eyes that he had to ask for underwear. We made him feel at ease and stepped to it right away. We rummaged through the stock of brand-new donated clothes and got him enough of everything to get him through a few days at a time without having to worry about his clothes being smelly and dirty.
While some of us continued chatting and getting acquainted, a jolly middle-aged chap from Tanzania walked in through the revolving doors and headed toward us. Sayid called out to him, “Brother, did you get your medicine?”.
Huffing and relieved, the baby-faced Edwin removed his coat and scarf and sat with us. He’d been marching through the cold winter air to pick up his prescription. “Yeah, man,” he replied. “If I don’t get that, I feel like I wanna kill somebody,” he said and chuckled with his belly rippling.
I knew immediately what he was talking about as I’ve spent a lot of time with mental health patients, taking the time to understand those whom I meet and learning about schizophrenia in particular. I was familiar with the name of the medication Edwin was taking.
Edwin, Saj and I connected over our East African connection, and we even sang some Swahili songs that I’d learned as a child. Saj and I didn’t see much of Edwin after that… until he showed up one evening and we saw a very different side of him. (More on this in a bit).
Over the days, we put up Christmas decorations, received registered guests at reception, manned the fire exits, waited on tables, served meals, and played games and activities with the guests.
Saj found a friend in a gifted chess player. Alix had been a boxer in Romania who spoke multiple languages and had lived all over Europe. While he played chess with Saj, he helped me with my Italian practice too. I learned he’d retired his gloves and arrived in England to find some stable work. Although he was clearly extremely bright, he was still job hunting without much luck and his money had run out. In the last few years especially, London has become an enormously expensive city to live in.
I could barely survive here myself. I remember when I was homeless and living hand to mouth in my twenties. It was hard enough then.
One thing I remember in particular from our training meeting before we began serving the guests, the team leader told us that some of the guests may not even have had eye contact with anyone or a kind human touch in a long time and it was important to be aware and respectful of that. They may not even want to shake hands, for example. That made me sad. How has the human race reached a point of so much neglect, violence and alienation that some poor souls even fear eye contact and human touch? Most humans crave it and there are some people, God knows what they’ve been through to fear it.
Emma, remember Emma? She seemed particularly vulnerable when I met her. I hadn’t realised how much she was craving love when I saw her approach me angry and restless. She hobbled up the steps to the reception desk where I was sitting and asked me to let her into her room; she was frustrated and her key card wasn’t working. I smiled at Emma and helped her to a nearby seat, assuring her I’d get someone to sort it out asap. She dropped herself onto the sofa and pushed her crutches to the side. She looked fed up and irritated. I went off to find management to sort out her key.
A little while later, Emma got a new key card and was back from her room. I found her at a table finishing off pot after pot of instant noodles and instant porridge that were available, among other snacks, for guests who were hungry between mealtimes. I asked if I could get her anything else; she had obviously arrived starving.
Emma looked up at me and asked me about my attire and we got talking.
Emma’s Story
Emma’s story is one that I will never forget. It’s one of the rare stories I hear that are so soul-shattering that you feel it could only come from fiction. How could it possibly be the true story of this young lady, barely in her twenties sitting in front of me right now?
While Emma was talking, it was evident something was going on. She wasn’t able to sit still. Emma continually rubbed at her shoulders and face and pulled at her clothes. I soon found out why.
Emma was born in London. Her parents were English and Afro-Caribbean and both were from unstable homes themselves. They were addicted to crack among other drugs and when Emma was still a child her mother disappeared and never came back. Left in the care of her father, he ‘sold’ his daughter for drugs. Emma was abused sexually and violently for years and ended up becoming an addict herself. She was in withdrawal now from crack and couldn’t keep still because of it. She was extremely restless.
At thirteen, she became pregnant with twins. Immediately after birth, Emma’s daughters were taken away and given up for adoption. At fifteen she gave birth to her third child who was also taken away and adopted. Emma finally mustered up the courage to leave London and worked her way North. Over the years she bounced from abusive relationship to relationship with addicts. Once she was out of hospital, she’d hitchhiked her way back to London from Manchester where she’d been living with her ex who had brutally beaten her up for the last time, hence the crutches.
I told Emma how I’d given birth to two children and that my bitter ex-husband couldn’t stand that I left him and he’d poisoned my children’s minds against me. So many couples separate but they can still see their children. Even criminals in prison get visits from their children. But my ex-husband decided to make me pay for leaving him by targeting my children. Their little minds were made to believe their mother was a horrible person and hated them. He had kept them away from me filling their ears with awful lies for years and years. The pain of being separated from my children pushed me into a dark crevice of alcohol and cocaine addiction (amongst other drugs) with random people I found refuge with.
Without my children, I felt my life was over and I had nothing to live for. I believed ‘them’ when ‘they’ made out that everything was my fault.
Emma looked at me with her innocent deer-like eyes and asked me if I thought she would ever see her children again. We bonded over the pain only mothers who have lost their children through no fault of their own and are publicly shamed for it can truly know.
I said to Emma, “Look behind you. See that young man over there. That’s my son. After 14 years, we reconnected less than 2 months ago. There is always hope, Emma.”
She looked at me, her mouth agape.
I told her how I had been homeless too and that the reason why I served at Crisis was because I knew what it felt like to be completely alone in the world, not knowing where I would sleep every night, not knowing if I would have enough to eat, and using my body as a means to stay with someone, even though those people introduced me to class A drugs and were destructive to my mental health and wellbeing. I’d been raped and sexually abused. I’d been beaten by exes. I had a guy slam my face into a car window and break my two front teeth.
I was once beaten so much, I played dead just to make him stop and call for medical help. I’d been on a stretcher and taken to hospital with a neck brace on a couple of times. I’d been spit at in my face, knocked to the ground and kicked in the neck. Not to mention the time one guy pulled a gun out on me.
Emma listened with a sad knowing look, still fidgeting with her clothes and rubbing her face as I spoke. No doubt she’d had had similar experiences.
I urged Emma to sincerely take all the help that Crisis offered; all the medical support, counselling and everything else they could offer her to get off the streets.
I told her that there was no reason that a year from now, she couldn’t be standing where I was now and helping another young woman who had been through what we had been through, or anyone else struggling. I told her it would be bloody hard work. I know because I’ve done it. All she had to do was not give up. Anything is possible.
Emma looked into my eyes and nodded. And then, out of the blue she hugged me. She hugged me tight like a small child and cried and cried. My heart overflowed and I prayed to the Universe to keep her safe from now on. Emma then went back to her room and slept until the next day.
As Emma slept, it was time for dinner, which was served with so much dignity, by the way. It wasn’t a line-up like school dinners. We were their servers and welcomed our homeless guests warmly and showed them to the tables just like at a proper restaurant. We noted their order from the available options. Then we brought them their meals on the plates and any soft drinks and or condiments they’d like. Saj and I were in our element. We worked swiftly and with the politeness and customer service of a five star hotel, with huge smiles on our faces.
By the time dinner service had ended we had made so many friends that we set up a game of cards at the big table in the corner. It was a simple game of finding the pairs with two sets of playing cards, but everyone was thoroughly into it and enjoyed it immensely. We learned to say ‘Hello!’ in many languages. And although we couldn’t all understand each other, the energy in our corner was contagious. From time to time there were raucous cheers or friendly grumbles when someone found a pair and childlike shrieks and laughter when someone was caught cheating.
Saj learned it was one man’s birthday. He immediately hopped off to the snacks and brought back a bar of chocolate for Peter the birthday boy. Peter was well into his 60’s and his hands and face couldn’t hide that he had probably been sleeping rough for years. We all sang Happy Birthday to him.
Saj asked Peter if he’d like a hug and Peter’s face lit up. I have a feeling, he may have been someone who hadn’t been hugged for a very long time. I couldn’t have been prouder of Saj in that moment. Peter got hugs from all of us and the mood at the table was so jovial and festive. The team leaders would pass by and smile proudly too. It felt great knowing we had all brought each other so much Christmas cheer.
It was all going well for most of the evening until we saw our friend Edwin again. Only Edwin wasn’t the same Edwin we had met before. Although alcohol wasn’t allowed at the shelter, Edwin had been out drinking and presumably hadn’t taken his medication or perhaps was drinking on his medication (alcohol and other drugs can have disastrous effects of mixed with anti-psychotic medication).
The laughter and jollity seemed to irritate Edwin and he came bursting into the common area screaming and shouting expletives. He directed it at me and Saj and began taking strides towards us.
I spoke to Edwin the only soothing Swahili words I knew which were ‘pole pole’ and ‘poa’ which mean ‘sorry’ (and ‘slowly’ if said twice) and ‘cool’ . I’d been in this situation countless times before with my brother, and when I saw that Edwin was very unwell in that moment and couldn’t be pacified, I asked Saj to look away and I did the same. I’d seen out of the corner of my eye that the security guards were on their way and they would take Edwin back to a place of safety. The whole incident was over in a matter of seconds.
To keep the momentum of the game in front of us going and not let anything frighten or dampen the spirits of the guests playing with us, I diverted their attention back to the game and we carried on like nothing had happened.
The next day. I held my breath for a second as Edwin walked into the common area. But there was nothing to worry about. Edwin was back to being cute-teddybear-Edwin again. He had no recollection of what had happened the previous day and he greeted us with a big smile and a Jambo!
I’m glad Saj got to witness what happened to Edwin as it helped him understand a little bit about how certain types of mental health work. We have loved ones with mental illness in our family. And in the beginning, we don’t understand why they behave a certain way. We think they’re being unreasonable. We try and reason with them, and we and they can get frustrated as we don’t understand each other.
My son, bless him, with his beautiful protective heart had tried to stand up for me a couple of times when my brother had started on me a bit like Edwin did. I would guide him to leave it and walk away. There was no reasoning with him at that time. All we had to do was stay calm and remove ourselves from his view. It wasn’t always easy to stay calm but I learned over the years to try and not take it personally. Experiencing Edwin’s moment helped Saj to remain objective in family circumstances too.
I’m thankful for the experiences I’ve had with my family and other mental health patients. It helped me keep us all calm and carry on having a jolly and festive night and be more understanding of all kinds of people I encounter.
The next day, my shift began in the afternoon and my eyes scanned the shelter for Emma. I prayed she was still there and that she was alright. I was relieved to see her at dinnertime. She was showered and looked fresh and calm. She wasn’t fidgeting anymore. She’d seen the doctors and had been given medication to help with her withdrawal symptoms. She was going to take all the help they offered and give it a go.
I gave her a hug and left with moist eyes, sending out a prayer of gratitude to the Mother of the Universe for taking care of her child.
Swami Ma, when You read this, please shower Your Grace upon ‘Emma’ and all my friends in crisis at Crisis the same way you have for me.
Only You know the details of what this lost girl has been through and the judgement she continues to endure on a daily basis from people who couldn’t ever fathom what it’s like to walk in the shoes of someone like me or Emma.
Rather than understand me, I pray these people never have to go through anything like this. I wouldn’t wish this kind of experiential empathy upon anyone.
Only You know how You pulled me out of the dark and into the light.
Your little lamp is forever grateful and in Your Service, Swami ji 🙏🏼🧡🙇🏽♀️
So, everyone. What are you doing this Christmas?
Fill this Christmas with kindness.
The next person you meet could be an Emma or a Peter or someone like them who deserves to feel seen and heard and be human again. It may be a stranger or someone you already know. Don’t bypass the chance to show them some love and understanding.
Merry Christmas everyone 🎄⭐