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Homelessness Project

A Fighting Spirit

By | The Valley


Elizabeth peered through the grimy car windows at a woman, a man and three children crammed amongst crumpled laundry, shoes, books, pillows and other household items. She listened to the stranger’s story – how her family had led a comfortable life until her husband was made redundant, triggering a previous mental illness, and she suffered a heart attack. They were depleted of all personal resources and now living in their car.
    The woman held Elizabeth’s hand and walked with her on a journey that changed both their lives. The children were enrolled in the school and Elizabeth used her knowledge and connections to house the family who regained a meaningful life in the community where they belonged.

Elizabeth has heard many similar stories since then. At an age of retirement, when most people think about relaxing, Elizabeth shares her skills and wisdom through a charitable organisation she initiated. She creatively helps others obtain fundamental human rights: water, food, shelter and a home, by leasing old hotels (with the generous help of others).
    In an old pub in Maitland known as Darcy’s Place, there’s the bang of a hammer, the whir of a drill and the smell of roast beef cooking in the oven. Men and couples, once homeless, work together, honing skills and building a comfortable home environment, and a sense of purpose and worth. They model the fighting spirit of Maitland hero and Australian Boxer, Les Darcy, who fought all his fights in the pub’s back yard. There’s a vegetable garden in the shape of a boxing ring as a reminder that we can all fight and champion our own cause.
    On the surface, the story of a school counsellor/social worker helping others sounds reasonable. Christian values certainly play a part in Elizabeth’s mission, but her own story of homelessness may be a vital ingredient in the home grown recipe that she brings to the table when considering the needs of others.
    When Elizabeth was a child she was raised in a family with a father on sickness benefits and a mother who didn’t work. Her father gambled what money they had on poker machines. They relocated to Newcastle and lived in a shed on a friend’s farm with no help from the government. Elizabeth recalls, “there was nothing around in those days,” save the generosity and kindness of family and friends.
    At the age of twenty-one, Elizabeth was married to a violent man. “He beat the shit out of me. Broke teeth, ribs, cigarette burns . . . .” When the relationship ended, she turned her back on bitterness and chose to give love to the community instead.
    “I can connect with people doing it tough. I’ll act as a mentor. I don’t believe in taking all my skills to the dirt.”
    There’s something visceral in Elizabeth’s voice. The knowledge she carries goes beyond the academic and theoretical; her personal experience is woven through the fabric of her being and guides her vision and actions.
    Some argue that Elizabeth’s approach to providing dormitory style accommodation is out-dated but she’s sceptical about the current housing solutions supported by governments and other agencies. She’s seen governments come and go, projects fizzle and money dry up. Her faith remains in restoring old hotels with a dream to lease five across the Hunter, located on the train line to ensure access to services.
    Elizabeth knows first-hand the barriers to accessing services and the risk of isolation. Her plan to bring free services together in one place and provide creative spaces for activities such as yoga, exercise, parenting programmes, cooking, shared meals, computer lessons, legal and medical services, all promote a holistic approach.
    Whilst Elizabeth’s vision to help many groups of people who are homeless may seem grandiose, she believes, “given the opportunity, most people will do the right thing. Everything in the Maitland hotel is donated … money, a commercial kitchen, pots and pans, crockery, tables, chairs, coffee machine, shipping container, refrigeration, six computers …”.
Elizabeth’s mission continues in the knowledge that “the poor will always be with us”, but “there’s more than enough for us all to share. We can do the most compassionate thing We can! In any moment, if your heart gets twanged, let it sing. We all get the call but not all of us act.”

Mother Earth is my home,

By | The Suburbs

By Black Crow Walking

Homelessness is not who I am;
it’s just what I’m doing right now, to evolve.
I look with sad eyes, knowing the truth.
I wallow in the illusion of my patterning.
The conditioning learned from people who fear.

What makes me homeless
when I have the stars for my ceiling
and you have to use galaxy glow stickers for yours?
If I am not at home inside myself,
I’ve no place to belong.

The uncomfortable feeling of not wanting to be here.
The dread of going home, the internal groan.
The butterfly stomach of fear.
That tiny thread of hope,
that dangles a carrot inside my mind.

Somewhere inside my past
I watched the battle rage,
perpetrator against victim,
thinking it was normal.
We need each other in this addiction to pain,

I forgot what it was like to be happy.
To know the truth of my real self.
The authentic self that smiles at life.
There are bits covered in bullshit,
stopping me from seeing my freedom, happiness and peace.

Struggle catches me in its tangled web, the fairy-tale.
I reach out for the elusive happy ending.
I was born into violence
with parents who never learnt how to love.
They knew struggle and survival, abandonment and rejection.

Homelessness is a state of mind.
Deep inside myself.
Riddled with fear, I’m fleeing.
I long to wake up and see, truly see,
how beautiful those stars are.

When I couch surf I’m in a home,
the home of a friend who shows me care.
I want to explore self-care.
When I bunk down in a refuge, that’s a home.
Maybe a home for this moment but none the less a home.

A place to lay my head on a cold night.
A safe place.
A place that will put into action from their resources, what it is I need.
A chance to awaken my own resources and reach out to receive help.
To look beyond my pain

To look past my story
to see myself in the story of others.
That I may piece the puzzle of my innocence back together and find myself.
Like Bone Woman singing to the bones of her children,
calling them back to her.

I am designed to co-create and this is what I’m doing.
Each time I make a choice to stay and get hurt
I have invited fear to dine with me.
It eats me up inside, till I’m lost and believe I deserve it.
‘I can’t change him, only he can change for himself.’

I thought if I loved him enough he would change,
but oddly enough it was me who changed
but only when I’d had enough.
How bad does it have to be,
before I flee from his violence?

I fled in the middle of the night,
in just a see-through nightie.
Swollen black eyes
tears, enough to fill a bucket
and nothing to call my own.

That desperate, haunting moment,
when I know he stayed too long at the pub,
enough to tip him over the edge
and hunt me down,
like a wolf.

It was the hunting that was the worst.
Nowhere to hide in my own home,
the terrible fear that predicts his every movement.
The holding of the breath, the shutdown heart.
The face that holds no feeling.

I stayed hoping it would be different this time.
Wanting the fairy tale,
wanting the kiss to wake me up from the dream.
Yet I kept that poisoned apple in my apron pocket,
needing the pain to feel alive, to feed my addiction.

It’s scary being happy, it doesn’t feel right.
To be happy, makes me want to make better choices.
It cuts through the illusion that I need someone else to look after me.
That I have a duty to put up with it
because I took a marriage vow and had his children.

It’s too hard to stay and too hard to leave.
Someone rushed in to rescue me.
Enfolding me and my little ones in their own limited space.
But he’s found me and he was sorry and wants me back.
Promises it will be better this time.

I fondle the poisonous apple in my pocket
wanting the fairy tale once more.
Needing the pain, I return,
And someone shakes their head,
not understanding,

I’m not ready to surrender the apple yet.
That I didn’t ask for help in my whingeing.
That I can’t feed their ego
to satisfy their role of hero,
just yet.

The honeymoon phase begins again
and lasts a week this time.
Until he is gone too long
and the anxiety begins to build again,
and I know what’s coming, don’t I?

I pretend to be light and happy
because he mirrors my mood.
Remembering that safe bed I slept in last week                                                                                            I
I dine with shame and failure,
feeding the victim. My choice.

My body and mind yearn for his kindness.
Yearn for the man he is
when he’s not drunk.
I still love him
but I don’t love what he does to me.

I always have a choice.
I don’t do anything I haven’t chosen.
I choose to behave that way to meet a need,
my need is for the fairy tale.
For the pain.

Rapunzel, trapped in story
the tower of my making.
Yes, my mother gave me the apple of blame.
I took it, like it was important,
a family tradition to follow, my lot in life.

I need to free my mind of suffering,
my impulse to act following my old patterns.
Willing myself to stay.
He threw me against the wall
and put his fist through the pantry cupboard.

I wasn’t conscious, I wasn’t awake.
I was the princess who pricked her finger on the spinning wheel
and fell asleep, waiting for the prince to rescue me.
By making a conscious choice, and owning my addiction,
I reclaim my power

So, I reach out to me,
through my innocent four-year-old child
who was so much wiser and discerning.
She took my hand and said Mummy lets go now.
I left for her and I left for me.

I found all the refuges full
and no place to go with two little children, one in nappies.
I packed odd shoes, summer clothes in winter,
whatever I could find to push into a small bag for the three of us
and headed to the bus stop.

A friend came and got me and took me to his sister’s home.
A month going from friend to friend
until compassion and kindness
found their way into my heart.
I suddenly saw myself as the one to give kindness to.

Yes, he was sorry, always sorry,
a very sorry person.
But he found his next victim in his son.
I stayed for too long
to protect children that weren’t mine.

I found a house,
a happy place,
with a view of Lake Macquarie.
I sat on my veranda every day for four months
and grieved out my pain, rocking, staring

At first, I felt nothing, felt numb.
Then the tears came and I let them silently fall.
I let my death-state return to the earth
seeing only the lake.
Ancient Mother held me, healed me

I watched the stars over my head at night
and they shone so brightly inside me.
I felt as if I could breathe them in.
I began to look forward to my view,
it became my meditation,

Then I noticed it… I was happy.
It was such a precious moment,
I felt I had to defend it.
I had stopped telling the story over and over again in my head
and to anyone that would listen.

I let it go back into the earth and went for a swim
to make sure it was all gone.
Happiness is a small packet of seeds
waiting to be planted in bits of me.
The fertile land of self.

The silence helped me hear myself,
I heard my breath and my own heartbeat.
Stillness settled me deeply into the my essence of self,
and I found value and self-worth.
I was fascinated.

Mother Earth is my home, rich and abundant with life.
I shall never be homeless.
Gravity holds me to her breast.
I drink from her streams and warm myself at her sacred fires.
I am not afraid when I lie down in the grass and she holds me.

Spending time in Nature
opens my mind to my own limitlessness.
Discovering self-care as I learn to sleep without fear.
I Accept my freedom like a fragile bird,
Wanting it to stay, feeding it.

Discovering that we are all extraordinary beings.
I’m no longer stuck in a state of mind that doesn’t serve me
Change came and I welcomed it.
Sweeping out the old patterns 
I observe my evolution.

She’s Reading

By | The Lake

By Anne Walsh


She’s reading the biography of raindrops illuminated past 3 AM by the monk

streetlight through her friend’s living room window. How the lantern inside the drops

translates now – sleeping on someone else’s couch at fifty – into an ancient wonder. 

How it words this first night of homelessness into Christmas when she was six. 

Memories are a liquid wall of shimmer on the verge of streets.

                                                                    It looks like Christmas Eve.

These days light is her house. 

Light houses her.

No forms to fill out.

In the light inside of rain, in the glow part of the sound of it.

                                                                  For a second she is who she used to be. 


Light can make a sweet dream of homelessness. 


And she’s loved again.

And feels what it must be like

                                                                (she doesn’t remember it).


But most times there is no light and she prefers it that way.  

The sun is the worst lack of light there is. 

Searing, prying. The sun is a bully.  The rain,  her best friend. 

Strange how everyone wants to help the homeless under two conditions:

  1. That they don’t know them.
  2. Only when they’re cold.

Not when they’re burning, which is always.  

Lack of love is a worse fire than love. It razes homes

(just look at where hers used to be) and the kindling of mistrust

grows by the fire of lack of love in the winter of every second.

                                                                 The wick of alone is long. 

Everyone who sees with two eyes can see

almost gleefully how she’s not who she was.

But they’re lackeys of the kingpin sun,

the dumb ones caught with the gun.

Who breathe in shallows and cling to surface lives

only slightly more gratefully

having viewed what they perceive she’s lost.

                                                              But they can’t see hope

is hadopelagic.

How she,

monkfish on her friend’s couch

(not more than one night because homeless people must be strangers),

                                                             creates her own light.

Sun puts a knife in the back pocket of her thought of homeless days.

But the monk rain refuses to illuminate what won’t light her

tonight the red-tape of proving she’s as poor as she is is a Tiffany’s bauble

                                                             on the evergreen storm through the window.

A mom’s years of raising gorgeous-as-wild-ermine

empathetic kids, her volunteering for literacy  and library at their primary

school her degree in History, her executive management  in Sydney,

her having owned anything jointly, on the rental market,

without a man now – who must’ve been the real owner –

to guarantee it, mean nothing.

Realtors smell something unprofessional about motherhood.

Single motherhood especially.

They smell risk in eleven magic ermine years at home.

And a husband’s lawyer loves to continue the abuse.

                                                                   Of a lawyer-less wife.

But her homelessness houses a sacred codex: her.

In the gift of drops, in the bestiary rain, dear,

indomitable mom of three, poet: her.

Rain monk scribing god-talk under streetlights.

Centrelink forms shadowed by her giant elk antlers,

her archangel-owl wings silent

except for the speech of everything,

                                                                 her un-catchable flight.

The Poet.

No one can own.

Wild grief signing over her home.

For her new, ancient and only once love.

Someone else’s lawyer waiting to gloat,

“giving” her, as if ownership were a gift of men to women,

a minute where she raised her kids.

Her body then matching her forever half-soul in flight after,

                                                                  through the door ajar with years.

But still her boreal wild.

How it lands on the roof.

How the men can’t fix her in their lack of sights.

But still, how could she have only until

                                                                   Saturday night

though memory won’t budge,

to leave where she raised her three babies?

How she sang them to sleep in the hall, way

of worlds,  Irish sea songs and the Fox

that Went Out on a Chilly Night

and Take Me Home, Country Roads.

How she read Seamus Heaney

and Jack London to them.

Wells and wild dogs.

                                                                     Oh, how she fed them!

And she texts the one she left All the abuse, but never her kids, for

as she closes the door

that’s impossible to close.

Just to have his pic back at the top of her one-name un-contactable list.

Soulbreak of an angeltree, her home on the market overlooking the Sea.

On the market love herself.

                                                                      And she’s the currency.

The salmon silver of her.  Her bear copper.  Dead in the woods.

Killed in hibernation with new legislation

by men who call that sport. 

A trophy hunt for wolves.

Means Spring will not wake up.

                                                                      Her mom is gone.

But right now she’s celebrating six year old Christmas at fifty on a friend’s couch.

She and the rain filthy, rich though their pockets are turned out.  But this Alpha is a mom.  

She knows how she is, to three, a home. To four, including her own

only-one-of-her-kind wolf self.

And she knows how this home she is will never again be owned.

How her not having one is of far lesser consequence

to the welfare of Everyone than her without hope,

than her not creating her own light that everyone can read that hope by

in whatever darkness they find themselves.

                                                                        In whatever kind of night.






A Young Person’s View

By | The Lake

by Carol

My mum was the only parent I knew. She worked part-time in a factory and some nights she would get dressed up to go out and come back early the next morning. After those nights, Mum always let us buy something from the shops and we got a choice of food for dinner.
    Mum always had a long shower and slept the next day so whatever she did was hard work.
    Sometimes I would see a man, different ones, sometimes leaving the house when I was on my way home from school. I never knew who they were or why they were there. They never spoke to me.
    I never met my father. Mum told me he was sick and couldn’t look after himself which meant he couldn’t look after us. Years later I found out Mum never knew who he was.
    Our house was an average house. We had food, toys and clothes. Mum used to get really angry about bills and I never knew why or what a bill was; I just remember when she would yell at us for leaving a light on of the water running.

Years later, I was told that my mother was a “working girl”, I didn’t know that meant more than she worked in a factory. My mum did what she could and I loved her and never knew just how poor we really were or that my mother was a prostitute. I didn’t know and, if I knew, I don’t think I cared because I was loved. And I still don’t care.

Brigitte – A caseworker’s story

By | The Lake

By ???

She was 14 when I met her. I had returned from leave and was working the overnight shift. The other workers said she had not come out of her room. One midnight she asked to speak to me.
    She told me she watched her father kill her little brother and described it to me in graphic detail. She was placed into foster care when her parents were put into jail. Her foster father sexually assaulted her from the age 6 to 13. He was found guilty and jailed, the foster mother told her it was all her fault and she didn’t want her any more. She self harmed and was bulimic. She was always told she would never amount to anything. With support, understanding and kindness I watched her grow and blossom.
    Four years later she sent me photos of her year 12 formal.
    But her story doesn’t end there. She sent me an email to tell me she was studying Design at university.

Bec’s Story

By | The Lake

We were living in the garage at Nan and Pop’s place: Mum, Dad, my brother and me. Dad was never there much, he spent any time that he wasn’t working at the pub. He used to play a game where they’d spin a bottle around on a map then drive, drunk, wherever it pointed. Sometimes we wouldn’t see him for days. When he tells those stories now, he says it like it was cool. Cool for who, though?
    There wasn’t much room but we managed okay and we could play outside as long as we wanted. The worst bit was the bit of floor that was broken near the door. If you timed your step up too short you’d end up with bleeding toes or worse.
    I always knew when dad was home because he snored. Really loud. To this day, snoring brings me comfort and balances my fear of abandonment.
    Mum always did her best. Married to an alcoholic and part time drug addict, two kids, living in her parents shed. Thank God Nan could cook, because Mum wasn’t great at it. But she made sure of everything else.

My Connections Home

By | The Coast

By Rosemary Bunker

How can I stand apart when I am implicated in your fate? As you tell your stories, I am one with you, branded homeless, hobbled and handcuffed. We struggle to find our way. The road turns in on itself. Is there no exit? No light ahead? We cling to hope – a sign? A guide? We are lost and alone, denied a compass to point the way home.
   We did not ask to travel this road through homelessness. The blows of our loved ones, our husbands, wives and lovers, drove us from home. It was war, our children and us the casualties, sleeping in refuges, sleeping cold and scared in cars, in parks, tossing on friends’ sofas, dreaming of a hot shower, desperate for food. We lost our jobs, our homes, our families.
    ‘Give me a drink, give me a shot,’ we cried to deaden the pain of being alive. Traumatised, we lost the skills to live. We spiralled down the black hole. Some did not come back.
    We wanted to get our lives in order. The stigma of homelessness was writ large across our foreheads. Employers, accommodation providers, relatives – all turned away. We felt like the scum of the earth. Abandoned by family and friends we learnt love does not exist here. How can our lives be scrapped so quickly? We did not see homelessness coming, did not choose to be homeless, did not choose to be victims. Life stripped us bare. The process was unrelenting. Naked in the storm we had to survive as best we could.
    To read the stories of the shell-shocked as they journey through homelessness is to grieve for the irreparable loss they felt. I am outraged that such suffering exists in this city of plenty. I respond with tears to the dignity and strength the photographs express of subjects willing to expose their private lives. I am heartened by the reflections many make on the experience of homelessness as with new insight they nurture the seeds of a future they begin to see as possible. They make plans to work with counsellors to reclaim lost parts of themselves; to study; to recognise the cost of wrong choice. They hope life for their kids will be better.
    MY CONNECTIONS HOME frames the stories of many journeys through homelessness. I hold the book and marvel at the silken feel of its cover that tells not of pain, failure and struggle but of warmth and hope. Light rises in the cover photograph under and around strong hands that are supporting the hands of another. The photograph takes us to the centre of the journey through darkness. Darkness exists but has not triumphed. It has been relegated to the background. I turn the book over and experience joy in the embrace of the man and his dog, in the power of a relationship that says ‘we have each other.’ People and tables of food surround them in parkland. The environment is alive. It marks a hopeful stage in the journey through homelessness.
    Pivoting between the hopelessness of a non-existent future and the hopefulness of a future with meaning, the stories impress me with the simplicity of their reporting style. Their directness carries the stamp of truth. I am proud to know these people. I laud the restraint shown in the editorial process and the sensibility and aesthetic awareness of the many who contributed to the wholeness of the book design. I am awed by the scope of human experience within its covers and the support of people that can kindle new life.

Homeless in Kindy

By | The Coast

By Marilyn Sanderson

In 2009, six weeks into the school year, my kindergarten class was in full swing and into an established routine. It was a routine which made a number of assumptions. It assumed that students lived in a home where meals could be prepared; lived in a place which had adequate light to practice the reading of their leveled books and revise their sight words; had access to a bathroom where they could wash to maintain personal hygiene; had laundry facilities and a toilet; had a safe place to play and a bed which allowed for a good night’s sleep free from fear of assault.
    So when Bonnie arrived in week six I was obliged to rethink these assumptions. Bonnie’s mum, Natalie, explained that the family were living in their car and she was finding it difficult to manage.
    ‘I suffer from depression,’ she explained averting her gaze. ‘My husband is a hard worker but he can’t read so well, so, he needs manual work. He has just got a job but we haven’t been able to find a place yet. My two older kids are at high school but they hate it. Kids can be so cruel.’
    I thought of Bonnie’s siblings turning up at school where they were confronted with yet another set of assumptions and expectations. Natalie had done her best to dress Bonnie in the school uniform but the lack of laundry facilities soon became evident. The family was relying on relations to assist them but ‘it is strain to accommodate the five of us’. And so they were obliged to negotiate the logistics of finding shelter each night.
    Bonnie was at once excited and anxious to be starting Kindy but structured literacy activities proved a challenge. She much preferred to play in the home corner where she practiced mothering on the assortment of dolls. Whenever playdough or other craft materials were available Bonnie’s eyes would light up. But it was apparent that she had had little experience in using scissors or pencils.
    As Natalie’s depression deepened, Bonnie’s attendance dwindle. The school had yet to commence its breakfast program which in the following years provided food and fun in a nurturing environment for children from struggling families.
    An economist friend once informed me that the average wage earner was approximately six weeks from bankruptcy if they lose their job. I considered my own situation and thought ‘Yep. Without the support of family and friends that would do it.’


By | The City

By Ellen Shelley

The world spins
an awkward apparition
changes step only when the wind swirls
riding out the storm
gathering up your waif frame
finding peace,
a crutch within your veins.

The rain is the city
a melodic trance
tapping your walls
weeping acceptance like
music on hollowed reeds
your skin blisters then falls
marking your beat.

A cold gust of night
urges your shift

smoke engulfs              your face
invisible on swollen streets
a thorn in the wind
lost in all directions.

Homes fit for heroes?

By | The City

By Christine Bramble

I learnt recently that work will begin soon to (yet again) make a start on renovating the former Newcastle Post Office, that grand but sadly neglected Federation era sandstone building on the corner of Hunter and Bolton Streets. In preparation for the work the colonnade has been fenced off to deter the homeless from sleeping there. This latest episode in its history reminded me of the role that the Post Office has played in almost one hundred and ten years and how its treatment by government since its closure is a metaphor for another kind of neglect.
    At the time that it was built and throughout the twentieth century the Post Office was an important piece of community infrastructure supporting communication for commerce and for private individuals. This was where you went to buy stamps and send letters and postcards, business letters, bills and telegrams before the age of electronic communications. By virtue of this role and its dominance in the streetscape it was – and is – a landmark, during the Great War an easily identifiable meeting point for displays of patriotism such as marches. This is why a memorial to Newcastle men who died in that conflict was installed outside the Post Office in 1916.
    There is no way of knowing whether any of the homeless people evicted from the Post Office colonnade in 2017 were returned soldiers from Australia’s more recent involvement in overseas conflict. But there is no doubting that war is a great disrupter of lives and often leads to homelessness. Something that ought to disappoint every Australian during the centenary years of the Great War, when more than half a billion dollars is being spent by Australian governments and corporations on the commemoration – far more than any other participating country – is that the emphasis of commemoration has been on battlefields and heroes and has almost completely ignored the wider story of the war.
    Long before the Armistice in 1918 soldiers deemed medically unfit began returning to Australia. They were often unable to find work either on account of illness and disability or high unemployment caused by the global downturn in trade. The war at sea made it more difficult for goods such as coal to be moved around the world and exports to enemy nations were curtailed. Unemployment made it more difficult for people to afford suitable housing. One reason for the difficulty in finding accommodation was profiteering by some landlords who sold their properties for a profit then invested in War Loans which were free of taxation. This reduced the stock of housing for rental and pushed up prices. Times of crisis bring out the best and the worst …
    One solution to providing both homes and work for returned men was the Soldier Settlement Scheme. In NSW the state and commonwealth governments combined to create one such at Frenches Forest in the Northern Beaches area of Sydney. Here volunteers worked to build houses for homeless soldiers who were eligible for loans to buy small holdings that would support them and their families. Many other settlements of this sort were established throughout the country over the years. They were on the whole not a success. Some who took up land had no previous experience of farming; the nineteen-twenties in Australia was beset with especially extreme weather; and often the land provided was not really suitable for small-scale agriculture.
    In 1919 the Australian Army had the task of repatriating several hundred thousand men from various theatres of war. Newspapers began reporting on groups of returned soldiers sleeping rough in the public places of the big cities and towns, a situation that continued for years. In Sydney it was the Domain. Under the headline “Homeless and Starving” it was reported that in May 1922 – three and a half years after the end of the War – thirty returned soldiers were sleeping in the Domain and that the Red Cross was stretched to breaking point in attempting to feed them. In the short term the NSW Government stepped in to provide more funding for the Red Cross. One of those sleeping in the Domain was hauled before Sydney Police Court on a charge of begging. He told the Court that he had walked all the way from Queensland, looking for work along the way without success and that he had sometimes not eaten for three days. The Commonwealth government was eager to send Australians to the horrors of the Western Front but there were no effective plans for their long-term care and rehabilitation on their return. And all too often the solution defaulted to the hands of voluntary organisations. The Limbless Soldiers Association of NSW resorted to fundraising concerts towards paying for a hostel for those of its members who were homeless.
    It was not only returned men who became homeless as a result of Australia’s involvement in the Great War. In May 1917 the Sydney Sunday Times featured the story of a mother of four whose husband had joined the AIF. With no breadwinner to support her family she was living in a humpy, described as a “poor, makeshift tumbledown of a house”. For people of “enemy alien” status it could also be difficult to find work and accommodation. Communities on the Allied side of the conflict were outraged when a German submarine sank the American passenger liner Lusitania in May 1915, with the loss of 1,200 lives. The truth was that the liner was carrying armaments as well as civilians and was thus a legitimate military target, but the censors didn’t let the truth get in the way of a good bit of propaganda. As a result some industries in Australia went on strike until any Germans in the workforce had been sacked. This was the fate of mine worker Bruno Domke who in June 1915 was sentenced in Newcastle Court to two weeks in gaol for vagrancy.
    Perhaps the saddest story of homelessness amongst returned soldiers from the Great War comes from the German side of the conflict. By the end of 1918 the German economy was on its knees and its government in a poor position to provide meaningful help to returned men. The London Times Berlin correspondent reported that a returned German soldier, unable to find a cottage, had put skills learnt in the trenches to good use by building himself a dugout in a field. So just as our once proud post office has been effectively abandoned to the elements, governments and communities wave off the young and the strong as heroes to fight on their behalf but when they return damaged in body or in spirit either cannot or will not care for them.

The opinions expressed in this piece are the author’s alone and do purport to represent the opinions of any other member of the Hunter Writers Centre.


[i] Honest History website:  David Stephens, http://honesthistory.net.au/wp/stephens-david-constructing-emotions-centenary-spend/ & Douglas Newton  http://honesthistory.net.au/wp/newton-douglas-first-world-war-centenaries-that-really-matter-are-looming/

[ii] Daily Herald (Adelaide, SA : 1910 – 1924), Thursday 4 March 1920, page 2, https://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/106503069

[ii] State Library of NSW, Soldier Settlement Schemes & Emma Brown, ABC Country Hour “First World War veterans faced ‘ongoing battle’ with farm resettlement scheme”

[iv] Sun (Sydney, NSW : 1910 – 1954), Wednesday 17 May 1922, page 1, http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article223949010  Brisbane Courier (Qld. : 1864 – 1933), Tuesday 16 May 1922, page 7, http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article20543748Northern Standard (Ulverstone, Tas. : 1921 – 1923), Saturday 20 May 1922, page 6, http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article232741490

[v] Morning Bulletin (Rockhampton, Qld. : 1878 – 1954), Saturday 15 July 1922, page 9, http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article54008031

[vi] Sydney Morning Herald (NSW : 1842 – 1954), Friday 29 July 1921, page 10, http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article15933244

[vii] Sunday Times (Sydney, NSW : 1895 – 1930), Sunday 27 May 1917, page 2, http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article122789373

[viii] The Guardian Australia, 1 May 2014, “Lusitania divers warned of danger from war munitions in 1982, papers reveal”, https://www.theguardian.com/world/2014/may/01/lusitania-salvage-warning-munitions-1982; National Archives UK, “Propaganda 1914-1918”,   http://www.nationalarchives.gov.uk/education/britain1906to1918/g6/background.htm;  Bramble C, “What will you give? – The Home Front”, in Broadmeadow to Villers-Bretonneux, Newcastle Regional Museum 2002, pp38-39

[ix] Reported in Daily News (Perth, WA : 1882 – 1950), Monday 21 March 1921, page 1, http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article84745193