3. The Office straight from hell

 3. The Office straight from hell

I never had the opportunity to get to know people in the office by their surname, and to be honest I don’t regret that fact. I don’t even know how many of them nested in that place. From the very beginning, when I was still away from all that mess they never were helpful and always found some kind of issues: initially, the biggest one was the fact that I was not able to present “legal termination of letting agreement” from my last place of residence. This absurdity lasted for two months. Finally, after another conversation with Randal, one of the Threshold association employees, I got the letter from that organisation, stating that I was unable to obtain the required document. Both Fiona and I were really pleased that we had finally managed to move something forward. I remember the conversation with her the day before the scheduled first meeting at the office: “Well they are going to assess you and depending on their impression they will put you to particular accommodation”. I hoped that maybe I will get a single room - all the time I heard about Ukrainians or other refugees who have quite decent accommodation in Ireland. On the 28th of January in the morning, around 10am I got the call from the county council - branch at Denny Street, that they registered me as a homeless person, and I should present myself at the office in the courtyard of Imperial Hotel. Over the phone I said to the clerk who I was chatting to, that I paid already for 2 nights at Benners Hotel and the booking is not refundable, as they made me a deal (instead of 90, they charged me 75 euro per night). The voice on the phone said: “Ok, then come tomorrow at 11am in our office”. I remember how naive I was. Actually I felt even very happy that they finally registered me in the system. I went to the address they gave me, to check where the place is, just to be sure that next day I will be right on time (my little German habits). The same day I met my social worker - Fiona, as usually at Kellihers shop next to the petrol station in Tralee. She assured me that nothing is lost, that I could be assigned to places in Tralee, Killarney or any other and depending on the first impression and my own decision. She even asked if I would like to stay in Tralee and start from here. I said that MTU is here so I am hoping to start some courses straight after I settle. Even at that stage she assured me that I will probably stay just for a short while in a particular place before they will get me a social house or apartment. I have to admit I was quite happy, especially when she told me: “Oh, don't worry, for sure they are not going to put you to Arlington Lodge”. “Arlington?” I asked. “You know the place where they put alcoholics and drug addicts”. I felt relieved, so maybe they are going to put me into a kind of B & B. There are lots of them in Kenmare, where they accommodate Ukrainians -  some of them are even in five star resort holiday homes like Sheen Falls holiday village. I didn't expect that, but I thought a single room in the hostel or something like basic student accommodation which I had in Germany during my studies in the mid-nineties would be even a perfect solution for a while. I really had my head full of plans and visions for the future. Day before I checked precisely where the office is and how much time exactly will I need to reach the place. It was 5 minutes, but I had my backpack and my small suitcase so I took 3 minutes extra to the account. 

After my meeting with the social worker I decided to go to the barber, right beside the hotel where I enjoyed my last moments of freedom. The lady, who was the barber, shaved my beard in a very strange way, a bit too progressive. I wasn't really happy as I thought it might be too much for them in a homeless centre (in fairness it is not the catwalk), but it was already too late. On my last night I took the bath - in the bathroom was a bathtub and I knew it would be the last opportunity for so for a very long time. Usually I’m not a big fan of hotel’s bathtubs, as I could only imagine how they are cleaned, but that was an exception. On the 29th of January before I came to the office for my very visit, I went as usual to the church for a short prayer. I didn't ask about any special conditions, neither needs or place; I just prayed for: all of the officers in the homeless shelter office, Fiona my social worker, and I expressed my gratitude for what's already happened to me. I took my suitcase and backpack and on the scheduled time of the meeting I went to the strange metal door. I pressed the intercom button and introduced myself. And right after that I got a first slap: “could you come back in 10 minutes. 10 minutes exactly”. It was quite odd for me, but I went to the gate in between the carpark of Bank of Ireland and the courtyard of the Imperial Hotel in Tralee - a proper neighbourhood for such an institution. I waited exactly 10 minutes, felt really strange; somehow exposed to the locals with my problems - backpack and suitcase, next to the homeless center, all of the indicators were quite obvious. The narrow passage was very busy, as it is exactly in the town centre and many people were using that shortcut. Over that time nobody came or went out of that strange office, as I watched the door all the time. After exactly 10 minutes I walked those few steps back and pressed the button of the intercom again: “Rafal here…” I managed to say, and wanted to add something but a voice on the other side interrupted and said:  “You could come in”. The office was really awful - two chairs in the front of a counter secured by a large plexiglass window, which eliminated any possibility of physical interaction. Small document dispenser, right next to the counter, designed to prevent any contact. One office chair on the other side. Speakers on the right and left, and cameras. Unbearable fluorescent light intensified by the white walls. The whole thing resembled more a place where prisoners have visits, than a public office. I sat on one of the chairs and after a short while somebody came, and again I failed emotionally - the stress was so massive that I started to cry, but the guy in front of me didn’t bother at all. He just started and after continued his interrogation, like at the police station. No mercy, no sympathy - nothing… He asked me about everything: my compensation after accident, trips to Poland - I said that my mother is in a very bad state and hers husband, my stepfather, is dying for a brain cancer his answer: “I don't care, this is the end of your traveling” I said: “what if I have to go immediately to Poland in emergency” - I meant of course in case of death, but I didn't dare to name it. His answer just nailed me: “I told you, this is the end of your travels.” I started to cry - not because I had the perspective of staying in Ireland, I knew that in the worst case scenario, I will go to Poland anyway, but because of the way he treated me, the way he talked and looked at me. His whole attitude, tone of voice, even such a seemingly minor detail - pinned to the belt loop of his trousers, clearly showed his superiority over me - a bunch of keys, beautifully jingling with every movement he made on that swivel chair, and he fidgeted mercilessly, bursting with internal energy; all this seemed to me more than strongly inappropriate to the place and situation. I had the opportunity to live in two countries on the Continent: Poland and Germany, and a similar situation in neither of them could have ever occurred. I suddenly realized how stupid I was, believing in all the stories about help and possibilities of getting a peaceful place while waiting for the proper accommodation. I found out how fatal a mistake I made. I was praying like turkey to speed up the coming of Thanksgiving. I really couldn’t believe I was that naive. But the guy in front of me, with a superior attitude continued: “You know, you will be placed in shared accommodation. In the room with other guys. The curfew is 22.30. After that you won't be able to enter the premises. If you are late, you will be barred for a week. The same with warnings: First warning is ok, second: week out, 3rd you'll be barred.” Short and official, like in prison. No place for any question, no place for any discussion. I said that I am not smoking, neither drinking or using any drugs - I hoped that could be the last lifebuoy. “All of that is prohibited in any of our premises so you'll be ok” he answered. That was my first contact with Jason - the ruling one in the homeless world of Tralee. Last thing which I said before I got very emotional again was: “I know it is an emergency accommodation, I know you're dealing with many cases, but I never shared any place with anyone beside my wife in my entire life, I am peaceful and quiet guy; is there any option that you will put me in the single room?” "NO!" - the answer was short and pretty brutal. I got the impression that this guy really enjoyed that sort of interaction; some strange, perverse kind of satisfaction emitted of him. Then he said that they booked the bunk bed for me in Finnegan's, the building opposite the street. He probably told me the number, but I was in such a bad emotional state that I wasn't able to remember it. 

I crossed the street with a backpack and small suitcase - crying like a child, with red eyes. “The building opposite, with black doors and the knocker” as he said - I didn’t know which one, all of them had black doors. All of them had knockers. In one of them I saw the woman, as she noticed me crossing the street, she hid herself behind the door which she rapidly closed. So for sure not that one. They should have “expected me”, as he said. I was rushing hopelessly like mad from one side of the street, to another; like a lunatic, with red eyes, running nose, mumbling and crying. I couldn’t believe that I was so stupid, so naive thinking that relying on the state, the second richest country in the world, would be a good solution. I was more than sure, that because of all circumstances, they are not going to place me in one of the legendary shelters full of alcoholics and drug addicts. Even my social worker assured me, the day before, that they were going to "assess me". Stupidly I was somehow sure that it would be good for me to move to Tralee, as I would be able to start everything from the beginning. I was such an idiot. That awareness was really destructive for me. Because I couldn’t find the place, I went back to that dingy office, and pressing the intercom button I said: “Is Rafal again, sorry I can’t find the place. Your colleague told me that I should go to the shelter - hostel opposite the street, but I forgot the name and the address as I am in very high emotions”. “Go to the main street, I will meet you there and will show you where that is” - answered the female voice. I did what she said. Now, I don’t even remember who she was and how she looked out. The same thing as usual - in extremely stressful situations, my field of vision is reduced to a point. The reality around me ceases to exist, as if I were in a black tunnel, at the end of which I see only a partial image: strongly distorted; vibrating; waving; jumping. Voices and sounds come as if from a distance, an unbearable pain presses on my skull, a wave of unbearable heat floods me, I feel as if I were about to faint (that would even be a solution), but this nightmare lasts as if forever. She pointed to the last house at the end of that street, opposite to the office. “You see that woman?” I saw somebody pouring out the water from the bucket on the stairs. “That’s the place”. 

After I had "settled down" in the house of evil, I went to meet Fiona, after which I had the opportunity to see the apartment complex of the richest parliamentarian in the country. After that, at around 3pm, I had another meeting scheduled at the office. I arrived exactly on time - not a minute earlier, not a minute later, but despite my punctuality, history repeated itself: I introduced myself again, the same answer again: "Come in five minutes. Exactly 5 minutes". I thought: “What's going on?” Again, no one comes in, no one comes out... After a while, I realized that this is probably also one of the manipulative practices, the way local officials show their superiority over the carcass they have to deal with. After the obligatory 5 minutes of humility at the door, I was let in. Although my very presence in this place was emotionally overwhelming, the meeting went without any major problems - I was received by Maryanne - a good policewoman. We talked for a while about my plans, interests, expectations and experiences - it was rather hard for me to concentrate, so my answers were cursory and concise. She gave me her mobile number for a contact, just in case of any emergency.

The next time I had contact with the office was after my stepfather died. He passed away on Valentine's Day, February 14th - that was a Friday. Before I received the tragic news, late in the evening, the day had passed at a fairly normal pace. After a standard start for me: breakfast, church, then the library and a response to another letter from the investigator; this time I wrote about the reason for my many trips to Poland last year. My answer for his second letter was quite detailed and this time to write it took me a bit longer than I thought. It may sound almost unbelievable, I ended that part with with the sentence - "Probably I have to go to Poznań again pretty soon, as the state of my stepfather is very bad and if not for funeral (hopefully not), then for sure to support my mother, who is in very bad mental and physical state”.  I was writing by hand, and was sure I would finish that letter today, but unfortunately it took me much longer than I thought to describe all of my recent circumstances. After they closed the library, I went to the swimming pool - to kill another 5 hours of my worthless time. I went to the locker room to dress up and exactly the moment I took the phone to my hand I saw incoming text from my sister: “Pawel passed away today. Maybe we will talk tomorrow”. 20.20, I wrote back immediately, expressing my deep condolences. That message literally nailed me. Very quickly I left the pool having only thought at that time: “Call mum as soon as possible”. I rang her straight on - she was devastated - cried and howled to the phone. My heart crashed into thousands of small pieces. Angry and absolutely helpless I couldn't say anything, just listened to her without any idea what I should say or how to react. I was here, having my prison bunk and emergency money from the state, that whole 242 weekly instead of being next to the closest living person in my life, who really needed me at that particular stage. The awareness of this hopelessness just multiplied the feeling of desperation. 

I went back to Finnegan's and told them what had happened, of course I couldn't inform the office at that time, but the first thing I did was buy a ticket to fly back to Poland. My departure was on the Monday first working day, after the weekend from Dublin, at 6:30 p.m. - it cost me a lot, but it was the only thing I could do at that stage (thankfully I had money for it - my last savings, which were rapidly melting away). Meanwhile, in room 16 in the house of evil, full of shrieking devotional articles from every possible corner and every possible wall, the party continued as usual - thank God it was Friday. My only thought: to survive until Monday morning and run away from that hell as far as possible. 

On Saturday, right after purchasing the ticket, I informed Maryanne via text message that I had got a ticket and was flying to a funeral in Poznań. I had only her mobile number to contact. On Monday at 8:26 a.m. I received a reply from her with condolences and expressions of her doubts about my intentions related to flying to Poland. I couldn't believe what I was reading. Words that do not fit into the dictionary of decent people were just pouring out of my mouth. What? She was “not sure about my travel arrangements”? I was sitting in the kitchen, Eileen was next to me, on her rotting throne. A moment later her phone rang, and from the context I concluded that she was talking about me to someone from the office. After the conversation ended, she turned to me and told me to call the office. Since I did not have their contact details, she gave them to me and a moment later at first I spoke to some woman, she probably introduced herself, but in my emotions I didn't notice who she was. And the same thing: that she wasn't sure. My answer was firm and rather brusque: "Listen! My stepfather just passed away; my place is by my mother right now and if there is any tention to it I am going to resolve it after my return, either with you or with the Irish Independent". After this sentence she transferred me to another official, who after a short conversation stated that I had to provide some official document confirming my stepfather's death. Before doing so, however, he didn't hesitate to ask for his name and surname - just to be sure, in case I went to the Polish office and asked random people for a death certificate. I recognized that voice - it was Jason. 

The funeral was on Thursday. I bought a return ticket for Friday, the next day. If someone would ask me why I did it, why I didn’t stay with my mother longer, especially in that particular time, when she really needed me, my answer would be: I was frightened and didn't really know what I was doing. Of course, right after the first few days in Tralee I realized what a swamp I was stuck in, but still I had a glimmer of hope that my situation would improve. The way back to Ireland was a nightmare for me. Aware of the place I was "returning to", with depressive images constantly before my eyes: the funeral, my mother in despair, the cell waiting for me in the overcrowded semi-prison, the stinking bunk, guys who didn’t bother about others emotions or mental conditions; I simply could not take it anymore and I broke down emotionally. First I started sobbing, then moaning. People were looking at me and I was simply unable to control myself. I was sure they would not let me on the plane, but when the airport crew member approached me to check what’s wrong, I said I was just coming back from the funeral and they left me alone.

As demanded by Jason, I got the death certificate. Of course I had haven't the possibility of translating it to English - no time for that, no money either and absolutely no opportunity. But I got it: a document with the state seal of the Polish Commonwealth on the original paper, with watermark and hologram. 

After arriving at Cork airport I went straight to the train station and reached Tralee before noon. From the train I rang the homeless office in Kerry County Council just to avoid usual humiliation practice - waiting outside for nothing, oh sorry: for softening potential bad emotions and showing their supremacy. I said to the clerk over the phone that I am already on the train to Tralee, after the funeral yesterday and sleepless night, as my flight was at 5.50am from Poznań to Cork. I asked what time I should be there, as I am very tired and barely could function. She told me to come straight after my arrival. She advised me to be there before 11.30am and if by any circumstances I will be late than that, I should call them and let them know, as after they are going for a lunch break. I arrived at the place at 11.20am, strangely when I pressed the intercom button and introduced myself, the first time I heard: “You could come in”. In that dingy office I sat in one of two chairs and waited a minute, maybe two. A nicely dressed lady in their mid-thirties appeared opposite to me: carmine red polish on slightly longer nails; stylised  hair, aubergine dyed, straight after hairdresser; beautifully contrasting coat in royal-blue colour. I found out later that all the males at the shelter find her exceptionally attractive - Rose of Homeless. If I met her on the street I wouldn't be able to recognize her, just like Jason - I have this rather strange affliction that I eliminate unnecessary threads from my memory. However, at that stage I was nearly crying - after all of this what is happening to me I am emotionally very unstable and quite often can't control my tears or emotional reactions generally. She put the leg one on another and with the horrible attitude, a very arrogant way started: “So you've been to Poland?”. Nothing like I am sorry because of your loss, no condolences, no expression of any empathy - at the end I am only the number, hobo, carcass. “Yes” - I answered - my voice was trembling and my hands were shaking. I was close to crying, as I still had pictures from that terrible ceremony with my mother in despair in front of my eyes. I took the postmortal certificate from my notebook and tried to pass her over the small hatch. “This is the death certificate of my stepfather, which you asked about” - as I wrote, before my trip, on the day of departure Jason asked me for any official proof of my stepfather's death. In Poland we are issuing only postmortal certificates, but that wasn’t sufficient for her. So with that horrible arrogant tone in her voice, showing how much I mean to her she said: “I don’t know what that is”. I answered: “That is a postmortal certificate, the only proof that somebody passed away which you could get in Poland, there is no other proof which I could provide; and you asked for it before my departure”. At that stage I started to cry very intensely, as I couldn’t control my emotions any longer. I got spasms. Despite this, she continued with her extremely rude attitude and humiliating voice tone: “I don’t know what that is. First of all: is in Polish, second I am not sure what that is”. My answer: “Is in Polish, which is one of 27 official languages of the European Union, and for a change we are still using our own language. If you have any issues with that, use Google translator and you will see what that is”. But her answer to that really got me to the point when I couldn’t control myself any longer. Again: like at first time for me at that office, or at the airport in Poznan: dryness and bitterness in my mouth, reality is shrinking, I am in black tunnel: at it end I see: her in the full glamour with her bloody-red perfect nails; holding with disgust that death cert; everything is pulsing and vibrating; voices are deformed; sounds coming from distance; like everything around get squeezed. I know I am unable to hold myself any longer: emotions, thoughts, expressions. And in all those circumstances her answer was like cherry on the cake: “Do you have any actual proof that you attended the funeral?” with the same horrible attitude: full of contempt. That was a bit too much for me in my state of mind. I answered, being overcome with spasms and tears: “Could you believe that I was so stupid that I didn’t take any footage from the funeral or selfie with the coffin”. After she started to yell at me as I couldn’t stop crying, overwhelmed by spasms, this time I also got the panic attack. The only thing that I heard was her yelling: “Listen to me!”, “Listen to me!”, “Listen to me!” - each sentence she got more irritated and yelled louder - “If you want to stay with us you have to listen to me!” I only managed to answer: “Why are you doing this to me? Are you here to help me or humiliate me more than I already am?” After I got totally emotionally devastated, overcome by panic attacks and spasms, I noted only that she got very irritated, saying something like: “I can’t deal with THAT anymore”. She asked about Maryanne: if I met her before. I mumbled that I saw her on the first day here. Maryanne replaced her and spent 15-20 minutes in front of me, behind an eternal plexiglas window, trying to calm me down. I know I am forregin in Ireland and although it is my 20th year already here, theoretically I should be used to many very strange things, but this was a public office - a public administration office in the European Union! They are not my parents to shout at me, or in a rude, arrogant tone to tell me what is over for me and what has begun; even my mother doesn't allow herself to act like that. They are obliged to fulfil some civilization criteria, even if they are disgraced by my presence, they are still a part of that common area of the EU. Officers? Such a treatment. Financed from taxes? I experienced many different forms of humiliation from them but that was a bit too much. After that experience, where I felt really like a piece of a carcass (not using any stronger words), I decided to complain about her and others' behaviour to any superior institutions. I asked my fellow inmates to whom I should talk about the county councils’ officers' behaviour. They advised me to contact the Citizen Information Centre. 

That Friday I was too exhausted after all of that I went through, so I went to the information office two days after, on Monday. I explained everything to a very nice officer who told me, after checking in his computer, that the only place where I could complain is: the County Council - Housing Department, so basically to themselves, as the homeless unit is a part of the Housing Department of the local county council. From my own experience for the last few weeks I know that if I would do so, the only person who would be drastically affected by my complaint would be myself, so I asked him: “Is it really a point to do anything? Please let’s be honest”. His answer just nailed me: “Expect trouble if you make trouble” - the sentence, which I am hearring almost like a mantra, and which is repeated by many people in many different circumstances. In my home country we have the name for that kind of pathology: “a closed system” - which means a semi-mafia, or even mafia system. In such reality there is no appeal, and the officials installed in such a world are de facto unpunished. Please don’t get me wrong, the officer in Citizen Information Center was very nice and helpful, and he was the one who dispelled my last doubts; he also told me that I should inform social welfare before any trip, which I wasn't aware of before, and that’s probably the reason why they suspended my benefit. 

The last contact with the crew from the office I had was on Ash Wednesday, when Jason gave me one hour to move from one place to another without any notice beforehand (a kind of survival game, I guess). 

I wrote at the beginning that all the facts I described concern only me and my experiences, but when I put these words I did not think that I would become a witness not only to notorious harassment but also to plain sadism. One of the residents of the shelter where was the bed I was assigned to, was a pregnant young woman, 20 years old. In fairness, she was not the nicest person. She sometimes had trouble controlling her language and emotions. I guess it can be blamed on hormones, maybe age. On the first day of spring (21st of March), Jason personally took the trouble to get off his stool, and threw this girl out on the street. I could not believe it, so I asked my fellow inmates if: “He really threw her out to nowhere? A woman who is 6 months pregnant?”. “Yes, to nowhere” - was the answer.

I told my mother about it. She was unable to absorb what I was telling her and firstly, reacted similarly to me, I don't know - maybe it's in the genes, maybe that's culture difference - and when I confirmed the information, just, as it had been confirmed to me, her comment surprised me greatly: "My God, what cattle. A flock, but what can you expect from a place, where not long ago nuns threw the bodies of dead children into septic tanks? This is simply beyond normal people's understanding."

Two days later from my mates, I learned that she probably ended up by the first Samaritan of the holy pictures. Of course not for free, for 160 euros per prison bunk weekly, out of 242 that she probably gets from the state. “Pecunia non olet”. None of the officials seemed to bother about her, which is still a significant progress - at least she, swollen from this pregnancy, is not standing in the mangle, laundry or by the pots, as was the case quite recently.

From my perspective it is really strange, I would even say touching, that mispronouncing (they, them, she, him, cat, dog) somebody with identity issues is a reason to file criminal proceedings; publicly stigmatize. But humiliation, pure sadism, harassment of those who do not have the strength to oppose are tolerated. With public money, your taxes, a real system of oppression is financed in this country, from which there is no appeal, and any attempt to oppose is met with either an immediate reaction aimed at the victim or with notoriously harassment. You paint pedestrian crossings in rainbow colors and at the same time systematically persecute those you should help. All this is happening because of the installation for the positions by people who are absolutely unsuitable for the functions they should never hold: Jason O'Mighty, this woman - Rose of Homeless and others, would never be able to hold any public office position either in Poland or Germany - because it is simply beyond them. They do not realize that their function in society is subservient to citizens. But what am I writing about; those are: eastern standards; bad countries; strange places; wild reality - especially Poland.