7 Move, move like nobody's watching

 7 Move, move like nobody's watching 

My first experience with the homeless community was Finnegan's Hostel, which I call the "house of evil". I crossed the street and, pulling a suitcase on wheels, went to the gray, ugly house indicated by the clerk in the office. A middle-aged woman in leggings and with curly blond hair was washing the floor by the entrance. After a short introduction and a few standard questions such as: where I was from, what I had been doing, etc., she led me to the place where I was to spend my nights in peace and quiet, free from all temptations. Before I entered the room where I had been assigned the bed, I smelled a strong stench of marijuana and cigarette smoke in the stairwell. The smell was very intense and I knew it was not a good sign. I followed her, answering the question she threw at me, and heard: "This place is probably not for you. You would definitely be better off in Poland. Your country is in a much better state now than before and many people are returning there. So you should consider this option" and so on and so forth. I couldn't focus on all this, I only replied that: "I have a few things to take care of here and after I do that, I can think about the next move in my life". She opened the door and let me into the chamber, the gas chamber - I thought I would suffocate; in a dark room with thick curtains drawn: 6 men; all lying or half-lying on prison, metal bunks; all glued to their smartphones; cacophony - they were scrolling through the reels on their phones, not paying attention to others. I couldn't believe what I was seeing - the owner of this place didn't mind smoking: in the room; in the beds. Room number 16 - legendary one in the house of evil; at Finnegan's. As I entered, my legs literally went soft; my heart started pounding like crazy, and I felt a terrible, steady throbbing in my skull, a bitter taste in my mouth and this tormenting thought: "Not now! Not here! Not at this moment! Somehow survive this - leave my things and run away. To a meeting; to the city; anywhere! As far away from here as possible! So this is the place where I will spend the next few nights - a stinking cave that looks like a prison in documentaries about the third world. It is the second richest country on this planet, in the known universe, second only to Luxembourg. Carandiru - that was my first association - a Brazilian film about the local prison reality. But there was one problem in all this: I did nothing! I did not commit any crime! I was only looking for support from the state, because I could not cope on my own anymore. I was so naive believing that they would help me in this situation - I only needed a bit of peace, a quiet place to start all over again. A place to study, where I could improve my qualifications before I find a new job and start a new chapter in my life. Now I really laugh when I write these words – how terribly stupid I was. She pointed to the upper bunk right by the entrance and said: “This is your bed. This is the bathroom” – she pointed to a flimsy door with a hole at the very top where the glass should have been. I didn’t dare to check this room right away, I was just too shocked to do so at that moment. My fellow prisoners started introducing themselves. My words were very mechanical, I didn’t pay attention to what was happening around me. I was looking for a place to put my small suitcase. One of them – the guy on the lower bunk, right beside the covered window, said: “Put this here” and pointed to the gap between the two beds. “Don’t worry, your things are safe here. No one will rob you here”. I wasn’t sure, I had seen movies about such places, but even there, it looked much better than this: a dark, musty ruin. I left a small suitcase of clothes between two bunks and ran off to meet my social worker. I was supposed to meet her at the Flower Power café on the same Denny Street in Tralee. The meeting was at noon, but I couldn’t stay there – there was no other place to sit, next to a small armchair, full of mould and torn upholstery, already occupied by a smoker enjoying his cigarette in front of the owner of the cave. So as quickly as I could, I simply ran out of this hell. I had a thousand thoughts in my head, a real storm: “How will I cope in a room full of smokers? I won’t be there to visit; to pass by; for a few minutes’ stopover that I can always end at any time and leave. I’ll sleep there! In there or on the street! In January! How will I cope in a bunk bed with my damaged spine? How long will I last here?” Thoughts, thoughts, an endless whirlwind of thoughts. I felt weak and sick, like throwing up. I was going to meet my social worker; not far away - the same street, the other end. I reached the Flower Power cafe.

I told her about my first impression, which was far from what I had expected – “single room, for a while; you will be assessed and assigned; I have nominated you for social housing” – all this sounded to me like a rather dark joke. An idea was born – a phone call to Michael Healy-Rae, but nothing came of that either, apart from another painful disappointment and a brutal clash with local reality.

I stayed in that room for over two weeks. Over time, the place filled up with more and more men, reaching a peak, before I left for Poznań, of 9 people – 8 of whom smoked non-stop: cigarettes, tobacco and cannabis – the whole spectrum. Some drank, others snorted speed. The party went on non-stop, an endless weekend.

After returning from my stepfather’s funeral, Eileen put me in room no. 9 on the second floor - luckily for me, during my stay in Poland one of the inmates of this cell was hospitalized after contracting a heroin-related infection - they were supposed to amputate his leg from the hip down, but at the very last minute they managed to discover a pulse in the supposedly dead limb. However, they left him for a few weeks of observation. The first night passed relatively peacefully. My companion in misery smoked, but he was alone there, and compared to the previous place, although this room was also musty with smoke, it was like a spring meadow. This strange bliss did not last long, however, because the landlady decided to move in the male incarnation of Judora Fletcher. After two days of this nightmare, when I was close to losing my mind and finally complained to Eileen about what was happening, I started a real war. Of course, as is often the case in Ireland, as a result of my complaints I became public enemy number one. That same day I was moved again to room no. 16, only this time, instead of nine, there were only three of us - one smoker and a young lad - a twenty-year-old Irishman with a heroin problem who, in addition to his main issue, was constantly vaping synthetic marijuana. For reasons that are not entirely clear to me, this young man decided to make my life as difficult as possible: at first he ignored me completely, which was no problem, but over time my shampoo, by a strange coincidence, exploded in the bag I kept my other toiletries in, so effectively that it even got into the small, disposable airport bags I kept my perfume in. One of my green towels, which I had hung to dry by the top bunk after the pool, had become strangely discoloured, as if it had been used to wipe down surfaces with bleach - a substance commonly used by Swedish semi-slave to clean toilets; and at about the same time my toothbrush seemed suspiciously dirty. Well, maybe it was all a strange coincidence, but this young man I had prayed for and felt really sorry for, never left the room we shared. After a few more days of this nightmare, to which I had resolved to do nothing at all—as if nothing was happening—Eileen moved me to a single room—room 3. As she put it several times, “This is what you need right now.” I couldn’t believe my luck. Maybe they had finally taken pity on me, maybe they had put me there because I didn’t smoke; probably the only non-smoker in the whole damn house? After moving in the previous evening, at breakfast the next day, Eileen asked me how I liked MY new room. Although I wasn’t charmed, and the place was far from any expectations (no heating; mold on the ceiling and single glazed windows; hot water: from 9 to 10:30; uncomfortable, metal, prison bunks; worn-out mattresses; no chair; some weird stuff on the very worn carpet; bathroom - hmm separate chapter) - it that was that morning, at that time like a dream come true for me - no one was smoking over my head, no one was scrolling obnoxiously reels , no one was snoring or farting. A miracle!

I replied that I am very grateful and “everything is fine, except for the strange particles on the carpet”. She told me that after returning from the library and before going to the pool I had to clean up because: "Now you have to take care of YOUR room yourself." I didn't make it. It was Wednesday, Ash Wednesday. 

Ash Wednesday, March 5, turned out to be one of the worst days I've ever experienced. It started innocently: as usual, after breakfast I went to St. John's Church. I prayed a bit and, lost in my thoughts, I didn't notice a woman approaching me with ashes. Tearing me out of my little world, she asked if I wanted to be marked. I don't like to flaunt my faith, but since she came, I decided to take advantage of the opportunity. She said a short prayer and rather clumsily marked my forehead with ashes. When she left I took a selfie to see what I looked like: it didn’t look like a cross, but rather like a large, intense black circle in the middle of my forehead. Oh well, I’ll survive, I thought. After church I went to the local library to reply to another letter. I had to explain seven Ryanair transactions on my account, three of which didn’t exist. I sat down at my desk and for the first time decided to write a reply to this letter in the editor, rather than by hand as I had been doing. About halfway through, at 2.29pm, I got a call from a Dublin number (01), but it was a homeless unit in Tralee. Jason introduced himself and said that they were going to move me to a “quieter facility”, as he described it. I would be sharing a room with other men. I answered that exactly the previous day I had been moved to a single room in Finnegan’s. I added that it might not be ideal, but it was definitely “quiet”. He replied: “It’s all for your own good. We need the beds”. Of course you need them. Finnegan's is at least half as full as it was when you took me in, but you "need beds"... in case of what? Armageddon? Catastrophe? Meteorite striking the planet? The desks in the library are in a row, lined up along the wall. I took the middle one, next to a guy who also "lives" at Finnegan's. He heard everything because I had ignored the rules of the reading room and started talking uncharacteristically loudly during the conversation, driven by emotion. No reaction; no look; no question; no expression of sympathy - nothing. Dog eat dog, a modern version of Les Misérables. I ended my conversation with Jason with the words: "It's great that you're having such a great time, but know that I'm writing down every nasty thing you do. I won't rest until I publish it, if not here, then certainly in Poland, because there's nothing more interesting for a Pole than reading about other Poles' misfortune, especially abroad." The response I got was: "Very good. You have an hour to move." 

An hour! Without any notice! In the middle of the day, during rush hour... in the very heart of this bloody city. So central, exactly on the main street. You're definitely having a great time! Of course I didn't finish this letter, never mind... - some obligations, even to sister institutions, some plans. No! I have one hour. Hunger Games - Kerry Edition. I quickly packed and headed for the house of evil. On the way I called a friend in Midleton and said I am afraid for myself because "I'm reaching states I haven't had for a long time and it's happening very often recently." What was happening here took the form of pure harassment: one day they put me in a single room "Because that's what I need right now," only to move me the next, to a dormitory during rush hour, ironically stating that they were transferring me to "a quieter facility for my own good." I ran through the city park from the library to Finnegan's along the main avenue. I couldn't see anyone around me, although I knew there were plenty of people. I shouted into the phone, unable to contain my emotions. Again, the same bitter taste in my mouth, the harbinger of the coming crisis. Not now! I don’t have much time: less than an hour. I must have been in a terrible state, because the friend on the other end of the phone advised me to contact someone who could help me now. Immediately! That’s all I can hear: I’m calling Fiona, the only number I have; the one I have left. All the others are no longer valid, because they’ve moved my files after the “move” to another part of Kerry. I dial the number. Voicemail. I’m recording myself – the message is desperate, please for any contact number to anyone who can help me, because I’m really afraid that something might happen to me – I have no control over my emotions at all. No answer. I rush into Finnegan’s – the bigot is sitting in an armchair in the small hall. Surrounded by images of saints, marked with a shapely cross on her forehead, she asks a question, maybe throws a statement: “are you moving?” Sweaty (I had the flu, or a bad cold, fever, a tiring cough), not fully realizing what I looked like (my face was black with ash, with which I had been clumsily marked earlier, and which flowed down my face with the sweat), I blurted out a torrent of words: "Are you surprised? What's going on here is pure harassment. Pure evil! I don't know why you're doing all this. What's your goal? But I write everything down, I note any single wicked thing, and no matter what, I'll shout it out. This is absurd! Moving me to a single, giving me hope, telling me: "This is what you need now", "You have to take care of "YOUR room", after my stepfather's funeral, for one night! What's wrong with you? Europe? Third world! Get lost, go back to the pastures!” And she only nodded, as if in a gesture of condescension: like a doctor in a psychiatric hospital listening to the blasphemies of an unruly, angry patient. Seeing her with that sign of penance and humility on her forehead, knowing that she had certainly passed on information to the “office” about my condition, not only physical but also mental, in her daily report sent from the rotten throne in the kitchen, it dawned on me how evil this woman is (the day before, seeing me in a very bad condition, she had stated that I had: “touch of pneumonia” and urged me to contact my family doctor as soon as possible).

I went upstairs and packed up all my stuff that I had unpacked the night before, certain that I would be staying here for a while. All these things - the only available at the moment of all my things: in front of me. 20 years... I cried like a baby. Why is all this happening to me? How could I have been such an idiot to believe all this? These assurances, constant deceptions. And now here I am: pushed, despised, treated worse than a dog. Four large shopping bags from Lidl, with a big logo on them, came out. Stuffed to the brim - with clothes, towels, other things. Also two backpacks - one with shoes hanging on the side, the other smaller. And a small suitcase on wheels. I carried it all downstairs at once, but I knew I wouldn't be able to carry it the almost kilometer to the Bibis hostel, where I'd been assigned to another bed. Eileen, sitting in the lobby, tells me to leave my suitcase and one backpack and come back for them later. I can barely keep myself together, my head is full of very bad thoughts: "I'm alone! Completely alone! What am I doing here? What's the point of all this? Let's end this today, right now!" In the glass of one of the holy paintings' frames I see my horrible reflection - a lout loaded with bags, his face black with melted ash. Her private semi slave - a Swedish volunteer - opens the door for me. I myself have two large, stuffed bags in each hand and a backpack with my shoes hanging from it. And suddenly it comes!: An eclipse! Although I leave the semi-darkness of this nightmare house, the tunnel lengthens; reality vibrates; my heart pounds in my chest; my skull pulsates rhythmically. The sounds come distorted. I only know that I have to go - forward! I enter the main street, but don't see the oncoming car, which suddenly brakes right in front of me. The driver, his face twisted with anger, shouts something, but I hear nothing. I think: "Yes, get it out; throw some f-bomb at me; Ecce Hobo! Am I ashamed? Of what? You should be ashamed! Your government, your country should be ashamed!" I walk again along the main avenue of the city park. People passing by look at me, get out of my way. I thought I had experienced every form of humiliation, but this topped everything. You wanted to soften me up! Now I have only one goal - either I destroy this swamp or it will finally swallow me. From now on I have one goal: to tell everyone what's going on here!

I arrive at my destination in a terrible physical and emotional state. A nice blonde woman - Amanda - greets me at the door and leads me to a small office. I have a problem with spasms, panic attacks, and emotions again. She tells me that it is better here than in Finnegan's, that it is clean, calmer. Only the rooms are small. She leads me to the bed to which I have been assigned. The room is basically a single room, maximum 8 meters, maybe 9. No more - L-shaped. Two bunk beds next to each other - 4 men in total. A bit like a compartment in a sleeping car - if one person stands up, the other has to lie down, because there is nothing to sit on and not enough space. The bunks are so low that I cannot sit down on the lower one; every time I hit the back of my head. The bags of the "tenants" are packed one on top of the other; stacked against each of the free walls. I don't know what to think anymore, I don't know what all this is for. I checked online: in Polish prisons there are no less than 3 square meters per prisoner, on average 3.5; in French 5 square meters and... they recently went on strike because they didn't have full access to game consoles. And in Ireland... well. At least they gave me the bottom bunk and there's an electric shower here. And for a change it's clean. I know one of the other fellow inmates - a funny guy I met in room no. 16 in the house of evil. Although he greets me warmly, with open arms, I'm not entirely happy with his presence; he's one of those who scrolls through their phones loudly, not paying attention to anyone around them. I think: "At least you can't smell cigarettes here. They won't smoke in the room." And indeed, they didn't, but of course life would be boring without additional attractions! The boys were snorting speed. In the toilet. Totally stoned, they were playing loud music from their phones until three in the morning. Techno and trance... I took sleeping pills: One o'clock - nothing; after crossing the border, when I should have fallen asleep, I started to get a headache. The second one - similar, only the pain was even worse. The third one - the same. The fourth one, after they settled down in their bunks, playing "movies" through headphones on their smartphones, after some time I managed to fall asleep. It was 6am - I slept for two hours until 8am  and woke up with a terrible headache, a terrible hangover as a side effect of an overdose of sleeping pills. That was my first night in the "quieter facility" after they moved me from a single room. 

I have been in this environment for the last two months. The only visible effect of the office activity dedicated specifically to prevent homelessness in Kerry County Council Housing Department is the constant rotation of the same people in the few locations available to them. I do not know exactly how many staff this administrative unit has, but I suspect it is a camouflaged Irish intelligence cell. The other option is rather out of the question, as I cannot believe that public funds (again: your taxes) are being wasted with such carelessness, while maintaining a system of harassment sanctioned by the state. I would only add that, as with other cases, this is not just about me - it is common and affects everyone, mainly Irish people, as they make up the vast majority in such facilities.