One sunny morning, as I walked through the arches that lead to my flat, I saw what I thought was a film set. There was stuff everywhere: a TV, an umbrella, a surfboard, a suitcase spilling with clothes. Where I live, film crews are a regular sight, so I assumed these were props, temporarily abandoned. Yet that evening, I walked past again and heard a voice coming from inside the pile. It gave me a fright. Tucked into the middle of it all was a small makeshift enclosure. And inside it, a man.
That was when I realised: this wasn’t a set. This was someone’s home.
I felt two things at once. A flicker of compassion, and then, much more strongly: not here, not on my doorstep. I didn’t want a homeless man outside my building. I told myself it was about safety, but as the days went on, that became harder to justify. He kept himself to himself. He wasn’t aggressive or erratic – he didn’t bother anyone. The discomfort stayed, but the logic behind why I didn’t want him there started to fall apart.
I’ve always thought of myself as a raging liberal, the kind of person who believes in housing rights, the end of structural inequality, and compassion. I’m a documentary director. I’ve spent years filming people experiencing homelessness, addiction, mental health struggles, trying to understand how lives unravel. And yet, when it was outside my own front door, all of that empathy seemed to evaporate. Instead, I became hyper-aware of him. The mess. The spread of his belongings. The way it disrupted the neatness of the building. I didn’t like it. Not because of who he was but because of what it looked like.
I soon became the busy-body of my building’s Facebook group, posting photos, reporting him to homeless service Streetlink, encouraging others to do the same. My neighbours got involved. One resident suggested contacting the local councillor and we all dutifully thumbs-upped the post. The language we used to justify it: “safety”, “public health”, “hazard”.
Of course, we did want him to get housed for his own good, not just for the sake of the building’s aesthetics. But underneath it, the truth was simpler. None of us wanted him there. Only one neighbour showed the kind of compassion I should have had from the start. She works with homeless people and talked to him, she told me he was “pleasant” and that I shouldn’t feel threatened.
And that’s when I started to get under my own skin. There was this annoying voice that kept getting louder and louder until I couldn’t ignore it. His presence was holding up a mirror to me, to my politics, to my ideals, to what I say I believe in. And I didn’t like what I saw.
Because it’s easy to say you believe in compassion when it’s an “over there” problem, a documentary, a statistic, a story happening through a screen. It’s much harder when it’s right outside your doorstep, messy, visible and very inconvenient. That’s the bit no one likes to confront.
Weeks later, he’s still there. His stuff is still everywhere. It doesn’t look like the council is housing him anytime soon. But something in me has shifted. Not into some grand act of charity or the sudden discovery of a moral compass. Just acceptance. He’s there. He’s not going anywhere. And that’s the reality of homelessness in London right now.
I’ve stopped posting in the residence group. I’ve stopped trying to work out who owns the land or how he might be moved on. And yet, despite being someone who talks to everyone for a living, I still haven’t said hello. If I could go back, I’d probably do some of the same things. I’d contact StreetLink. I’d try to get him help through the council. But I’d do one thing differently. I’d leave my own discomfort at the door. I’d say hello. I’d acknowledge him. Maybe even ask if he needed anything. Maybe I’ll try to soon.
Because the truth is, it’s easy to call yourself a liberal when nothing is being asked of you.It’s much harder when it’s right outside your front door and you can’t look away.
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