Cleaning our streets of beggars: our third world

Pope Francis 1 has chosen his name in honour of St Francis Of Assisi, who cared for the poor , but do we? I pass them every day, on the streets of Melbourne. Sometimes I am one amongst the many who barely give them a second glance. At other times I stoop to drop coins in their polystyrene cup, or the traditionally upturned hat.

They are the professional beggars of Melbourne, so called, by Robert Doyle. They are to be brought before the courts and put on diversionary programs. He aims to revitalize the streets.

These are the same streets where the laneways emit the unmistakeable aroma and reveal the debris of the cashed up late night revellers; acrid beer, cigarette butts, discarded cans and stale urine.

By day the true professionals, and office workers of the CBD fill the streets and pathways never giving way, as they march en route to their offices in air conditioned glass towers. I am going against the stream as I live in the CBD and head out to my office in the relative quiet of St.Kilda Rd. But day and night, week day or weekend the beggars sit and stare , often with their life story scrawled on a square of brown cardboard.  "I am Ben and I am homeless …. Please help."

At other times I pass by a barely audible murmur from a man bundled in clothes. "Spare some change please"

Yes, that elusive thing called change that the Mayor hopes to bring to their lives, with some tough judicial love.

It is perhaps only a co-incidence that the clean- up is announced at the same time as the Melbourne Grande Prix tourists hit the Melbourne streets.

I am thankful that the rain has pelted down at last, after a prolonged autumn heatwave. I like many others have complained about the endless heat but now scurry thankfully for shelter from the cool rains. Where do the homeless go? I don't ask them. I don't want to hear the lies or the truth. Their faces and bodies tell their story.

Overdressed in the heat because they have nowhere to store clothes; blackened teeth, prematurely aged skin, matted hair and emitting an unmistakeable odour of no fixed address. They do not scan iPhones or participate in the social media revolution. They are the under-class ,who are below the first rung of our prospering nation's ladder of success. They are the ones who are left behind Including victims of violence, Indigenous and Torres Strait Islanders and more recently asylum seekers, many of whom do not have the right to work under VISA regulations. There are also the abused the young, the old, and some suffering a mental illness. But why do they choose to sleep on park benches in doorways and under bridges.

Why don't they go to emergency shelters? The answer is there are simply not enough shelters. Those that exist are not viewed as safe or secure. What we provide is tokenistic.

It is an age-old device :to remove from sight that which may prick your conscience or offend your sensibilities. The poor and desperate are unsightly and untidy.

'Clean ups' of whole slum areas and beggars often occur before major events such as Olympics or Commonwealth Games.

But these are the poor and the dispossessed who have nowhere to go. But instead of effective help they are usually offered judgement and blame.

As the Manager of Lifeline Melbourne I had oversight of the drop in service set up to cater for the long term destitute, who came to the Church asking for food accommodation and money. The 'supplicants' perceived that they had to give us a 'good story' to prove that they deserved assistance. But how many times can one's grandmother die necessitating you to need money to attend her funeral?

We decided from the outset that they would be given help [it was still rather meagre] on request. But that if they wanted to, they could talk to us about anything. We were there to listen and would not judge.

Perhaps there were other ways we might help. The stories of their lives[yes they had lives] emerged . There were the expected stories of abuse violence and addiction. But also surprising revelations. One man loved to recite Shakespeare; but alcohol brain damage had ended his amateur theatre career. Another spent hours in libraries and another played the piano brilliantly, when allowed to, in hotels and the Adult Education library!

The lives of those on the streets and in insecure accommodation are often too chaotic for them to comply with welfare requirements. They are frequently breached, neglect to turn up for appointments and are highly unpresentable as job candidates in a competitive job market.

But today Ken thanks me for my $2 and I ask, have you been harassed or asked to move on recently? I explain about the Lord Mayor's edict. "No not really", he hesitates, "but I did read about it in the paper." I wonder how the destitute will get the news when it all goes digital? Recently a very thin woman whom I often see around town, pleaded for money. "Please don't give me food. I have been given 3 buckets of chips already today." She is clutching the polystyrene cups full of soggy chips to her chest. I wonder at the wisdom of the directive to give food not money. Where will the homeless store food, when they don't have a fridge or a kitchen or a room?

I wrote this relaxing with a latte, in my favourite city café ,while those around me chatted happily about their homes and lives, scanned their iPhones and demurred, over choices on an enticing lunch menu.