On
7 September 2022, the Australian
Senate
referred an inquiry into the extent and nature of poverty in
Australia to the Senate
Community Affairs References Committee
for inquiry and report by 31 October 2023.
Its
Terms
of Reference
indicate it was
to investigate the extent and nature of poverty in Australia with
particular reference to:
(a)
the rates and drivers of poverty in Australia;
(b)
the relationship between economic conditions (including fiscal
policy, rising inflation and cost of living pressures) and poverty;
(c)
the impact of poverty on individuals in relation to:
(i)
employment outcomes,
(ii)
housing security,
(iii)
health outcomes, and
(iv)
education outcomes;
(d)
the impacts of poverty amongst different demographics and
communities;
(e)
the relationship between income support payments and poverty;
(f)
mechanisms to address and reduce poverty; and
(g)
any related matters.
To
date it has held public hearings on 20 October, 6 and 13 December in 2022, as well as on 31 January 2023. That appears to be the extent of
the public hearings which had been planned.
On
that last hearing day Liberal
Senator
Jane
Hume
(Vic)
and Greens Senator Penny
Allman-Payne
(Qld)
— both
members of the Senate Community Affairs References Committee
— were
quoted in the mainstream
media
bagging the Albanese Government for “a
broken promise”
(Hume) and for making “cost
of living pressures worse for people" (Allman-Payne).
Apparently
both are open about the fact that they want to use this inquiry “to
probe the federal government's energy policies”
while seemingly ignoring the fact that poverty is a many-faceted
life-altering experience.
Here
are a
few personal experience excerpts
from the transcripts of the first
three hearing days
of
the Inquiry
into the extent and nature of poverty in Australia.
They
are the voices of poverty, in a wealthy,
first
world country which has
increasing taken a judgmental, punitive approach to the poor and
vulnerable within
its borders
these last fifty years — culminating in the horror years of the
Abbott-Turnbull-Morrison federal governments.
Rita:
Thank you for letting me speak today. Since 2019, I've been living in
abject poverty. Since 2019 I've lost 50
kilos, I've had a stroke, I've lost my teeth and I've been diagnosed
with community acquired malnutrition. I'm now unemployable. That's
all I'm going to tell you about myself, because, frankly, I'm sick
and tired. I'm tired of telling my story and nobody hearing it.
What
I will tell you about is poverty. I want to dispel the myth that
poverty is just about being hungry. Poverty is living on $48 a day.
Poverty is a political choice. Poverty is being a woman and having to
wear bits of rag when you have your period because you can't afford
pads or tampons. Poverty is watching your son be homeless and you not
being able to help him. Poverty is eating out of dumpsters. Poverty
is being isolated and housebound because you can't even afford a bus
fare. Poverty is having to go and look for work feeling sick and
nauseous because you haven't eaten for four days. Poverty is losing
your teeth because you can't afford dental care. Poverty is having to
go to interviews bleeding through your pants because you can't afford
pads or tampons. Poverty is not being able to replace your glasses. I
can't see any of you, sorry, because I've lost my glasses. Poverty is
rationing life-saving
medication until you have a stroke. Poverty is only eating once a
day. Poverty is when you've got a sick
child but you can't afford medication, not even panadol. And now to
dispel the myth that poverty is our fault—it's not. Poverty is a
political choice. You choose to keep us in poverty. You choose to
keep us homeless. You choose to keep us hungry. You choose to keep us malnourished.
You choose to keep us in poverty. Poverty is a political choice.
Homelessness is a political choice. Thank you.
Genevieve:
Thank you for giving me this opportunity to speak. I'm a sole parent
and my young son and I are facing
a future of homelessness and poverty, which I've written about in a
piece that was published in the Guardian
in August; I circulated that to your organisers. It was entitled,
'Sole parents like myself are facing homelessness.
It's time our PM realised this is not the Australia he grew up in'.
When
my son turned eight last year I was transferred from the parenting
payment single to the JobSeeker payment, losing about $100 a week in
support. The family tax benefit part B was also reduced when my son
turned five. I only get $30 a fortnight from my son's father, who is
estranged and lives overseas now. The average child support for
single mothers is around $100 a week, so I'm getting a minute amount.
As a sole parent I have no other support from my son's father.
There's no shared or co-parenting, like other single mums often have.
Being
a sole parent is a particular situation; I have to say, it's probably
the worst in terms of parenting situations.
One
of the many issues I'd like to bring up with the Senate is the fact
that child support payments are incredibly low. From an estranged
father who's on a Centrelink payment, a child support agency would
only collect about $8 a week—so $8 a week would go to the mother,
who is caring for her child or children, in terms of child support.
This is an issue that's been completely overlooked by politicians. In
the case of an estranged father he only has to pay $8 out of his
Centrelink benefit if that's his main source of income, whereas the
mother, who's relying on a Centrelink payment—in my case, the very
low JobSeeker payment; I have to pay the majority of my payment to
raise my child. This is something that needs to be addressed.
In
my own case, my total income per week is under $550. On this amount
it's impossible to find a rental through a real estate agency, as
prices are exorbitant now and ever increasing. You can hardly find a
basic twobedroom unit for under $400 a week now. I have no chance. On
total income—that's with the family tax benefits and a tiny bit of
child support, with JobSeeker—I have under $550 a week to support
myself and my son. Therein is the problem about us being homeless.
My
son has serious health issues. When he was a baby and a toddler I was
completely consumed by his serious health issues, which resulted in
him having anaphylaxis, multiple food allergies, hypothyroidism and
asthma. This prevented me from being able to work. As my son is often
home from school—he's in primary school now—this severely
constrains my ability to look for paid employment. At my age, being
out of the workforce for the last 10 years since I was pregnant, I
have very little chance of being able to find employment that will
provide enough income to support myself and my son.
The
current story to us becoming imminently homeless is that my long-term
home—the home that I actually grew
up in and lived in for the last 23 years on my own, until my son came
along, when he was born—was sold this
year behind my back. I had no notification whatsoever. I only found
out after settlement by the appalling real estate agent who sold the
house and the new property developer/buyers. This was a great shock
to me. Since then the entity—that is, the property developers—have
been waging a series of threats and demands on me, which resulted in
me having to call the police when the real estate agent that sold the
house to this entity came along to the house with one of the parties,
one of the buyers, trying to smash the windows in the house and
barging through the back gate and demanding that I come out and talk
to them and telling me that I needed to leave and that I was
trespassing. It was absolutely outrageous. So I called 000 and they
came and told them they needed to follow proper legal processes. That
has now resulted in them taking me to the County Court to have me
evicted.
These
thugs that bought the house have been enabled to buy up older homes
to knock down or renovate and on-sell
for a profit by an economic system that gives property investors huge
tax breaks and makes housing unaffordable
for low-income families. This is an issue that desperately needs to
be addressed by parliament.
Housing
is a basic human right and should not be for profit. How can a child
thrive without a home to grow up in, and how can a parent find and
hold down paid employment without a home to live in?
I
have registered for public and social housing. The local housing
organisation tells me that the waitlist is 15 years. There's no
transitional priority housing available. They also told me on several
occasions that my son and I will be homeless, as is the
case—apparently there are mums and babies, mums and young children,
living in cars in Australia, in this affluent country. I don't have
any family or friends to stay with, so our situation is dire. I'm
under enormous stress. I'm both physically and mentally exhausted.
The prospects of being evicted from my longterm home, where I've
grown up and have lived for the past 23 years, as I said, with my son
when he was born, is utterly
devastating.
In
the piece that was published in the Guardian I outlined some possible
solutions. The first issue I put there is to prioritise public and
social housing for sole parent families so the threat of homelessness
is not a reality for mums and their kids. There are actually some
great examples in European countries, where the government has built
healthy ecofriendly dwellings for low-income families on shared land
so that they can grow their food and the kids can play together, and
it's absolutely amazing. I saw that 20 years ago when I was doing
some research in Austria.
The
second thing that should happen is increased rent assistance in line
with market-value rental prices. The maximum
rent assistance for a single parent is $89 a week, but, as I said
before, for a very basic two-bedroom unit you'd be hard pressed to
find anything under $400 a week. The next thing that really needs to
happen is to cap rental prices so families on low income are not
paying more than 30 per cent of their income on rent, which is the
benchmark used by real estate agents to determine if an applicant can
afford a rental. The real estate industry needs to be regulated. I
suggest there should be an auditing body that inspects rentals before
they are rented out to ensure they meet health and safety guidelines.
No landlord should be able to rent out substandard accommodation at
the high places of today. It's actually utterly immoral….
Sarah:
It's very hard to follow on from what Rita had to say. I would've
said all of that myself. I guess what I really
want to say is that, like Rita said, we tell our story hundreds of
times in different ways—different interviews,
different groups—hoping that something will change, and we are
losing hope. There are hundreds of thousands of people in this
country—there's no point to life, and that's wrong when you have
something you can do about it. We can talk about it until we turn
blue but there is something you could do about it.
I
can't get a job now, because of mental health, back issues and being
56—that seems to be a disability—and I've
been pretty much written off by my government and a lot of government
departments. But Rita and I just put on
an event on the weekend and fed over 100 people who were hungry and
struggling just like us on our own with no resources. It's really sad
that the government doesn't see what it's losing from all the people
living in poverty whose potential is lost in the struggle of every
day.
We
could be doing great things if we were supported in any way. I could
have had a job when I first lost mine if
I'd had some support around my post-traumatic stress. I would never
have got agoraphobia, to be stuck in a house and have to find my own
way out of that, because there are no supports and I had no money to
pay for anything. My children had to watch all of that. There was
nothing I could do about it. I feel ashamed and guilty for what my
children went through. I feel really sad that so many children in
this country are going through the same thing, not knowing if they're
going to eat every day and having to watch their parents fall apart
because they can't provide them with basic needs. They have to go to
school and be shamed by other kids because they don't have a uniform
that's reasonable or washed properly, because their parents can't
afford washing powder, because they can't afford food.
This
is Australia. We feel like we're at war with our government. We
really don't know why it's okay for so many
people to have their whole being destroyed by poverty. When I look at
the kids who come to some of our events, I think, 'There could be a
Mozart or Stephen Hawking here, but we will never know that.' We are
losing opportunity. We are losing the potential of generations of
people simply because there's no political will to deal with it.
Yes, we are invisible and we are quietly going about it in the shade
because we're too ashamed to speak up, but I'm not, because this is
not something I wanted. I spent my whole life working and helping
other people in a whole heap of areas. I've worked as a personal
assistant for members of parliament, and yet now I'm invisible and I
don't matter to my government. I don't matter to just about everybody
I have to deal with every day of the week.
I
just want you to do something about it. All these people who are
going to be speaking to you, telling you how bad it is—make it
matter and do something about it. I know it's not just you, because
you're here, which shows you have an interest, but we have to make
the rest of the people who have the power understand what they're
doing. It's not economically viable, because I could be way more
productive if I had a job—even if I was allowed to do volunteer
work instead of applying for pointless jobs that are way beneath my
capacity. It's not good for us economically as a country. It's not
good for us as a country that's supposed to be about a fair go.
Where's the mateship when it comes to people living in poverty?
That's all I wanted to say. We do matter, we are here and we deserve
better.
Glenys:
I am a single age pensioner. I am 71. I live in regional Victoria in
a town of approximately 9,000 people,
which is a good town. I would like to read a letter I wrote to the
paper out of sheer frustration, anger and worry. This letter is a mix
of the experience of people I know but most of it relates to me. The
letter was titled: ‘Do you know this person?'
'She
lives quietly, her existence at the mercy of the government—local
state and federal—and her landlord. Every
second week she shops for the few groceries she can afford. As the
prices increase, she suffers depression and anxiety. Can she afford
biscuits this week or bread and butter? She buys meat only for her
dogs, frozen vegetables on special because it is too expensive to buy
fresh. At the chemist she plays Russian roulette with her
medications—which one can she afford this fortnight, which ones can
wait? She doesn't take anything that is not on the PBS, even if it is
prescribed, because she cannot afford it. She buys clothes at the op
shop because she can't afford new. Even chain stores are a luxury.
She could shop out of town if transport was available but it is not.
Loyalty
and no petrol in the car prevent that, besides which her car needs
servicing and new tyres, so maybe next year.
Her
lease is coming up for renewal. I am one of the lucky ones who has a
very fair and very good landlord.
Basically,
if my rent goes up in November when my lease is due for renewal, I
will have to find somewhere else to live. Even worse than the rent
going up, is her home going to become yet another Airbnb or holiday
let—we have hundreds of them—or maybe just re-rented to someone
else at a much higher price? For example, a two bedroom home I lived
in four years ago was $210 a week. It has just been re-rented for
$370 and nothing has been done to it. Rents are alarmingly high, and
affordable rentals are almost non-existent. There are huge waiting
lists.
The
ministry of housing has over 60 applications unfilled for Mansfield.
Beyond Housing, a charity which works
with the Department of Housing, advises her that nothing is available
in Mansfield, and there is not even a will waiting list because
demand is so high. If she wants public housing, she will have to
leave Mansfield. Where would she go? She was born there; her children
were born, raised and educated there; her parents are buried there;
her life is there; her heart is there. Where would she go? She
already pays more than half of her pension in rent and exists on
approximately $250 a week, so the heater mostly stays off and she
cuts down on the lights. She worries about elderly appliances or her
car breaking down because there is no public transport and no money
for repairs. We have a community bus that runs one day a week for two
hours and that's it.
Do
you know this person? She is your parent, your relative, your friend,
your neighbour. She feels invisible, redundant
and irrelevant. Her commitment to this town means nothing now. Do you
know this person? Yes, you do. This person is me. I am a member of a
forgotten generation. I am a single pensioner.'
I
put that on paper and signed it with my full name, much to my
family's anxiety, because I wanted it to have a face. I have good
friends and people I know who are in equal if not worse conditions at
home. I am one of the lucky ones. Like I said, my family is very
supportive. But anyone here will tell you that the last thing you
have is your pride, so you don't ask your family for help all the
time. They do what they can, what I let them do.
We
are a tourist town. We have Airbnbs, holiday lets, short-term
rentals, which remove more homes from the local
market and raises the rents more. A two-bedroom brick unit that is
about 15 years old in Mansfield has just been rented for $480 a week.
When you are living on $250 a week, how do you do that? You don't. We
have people not going to the doctor of their choice because they
don't bulk bill. We have people relying on our food bank, St Vinnies,
other charities, to eat—not live to any standard, just to eat.
I
have worked all my life, raised three kids on my own, paid tax, paid
everything I owe. I believe I am better than
this at this stage of my life. I deserve better than this. I've never
bludged. But you can help fix this. We can all help fix this if we
listen, if we think and if we look at the person next to us and say:
'I can help you.' I would ask you: please, in your deliberations,
remember this and to try and help us. We are all sinking together,
and I don't know what to do about it. Thank you for your time.
Jo:
Before I begin, I would like to acknowledge the traditional
custodians of the land on which we meet, the Wurundjeri
and Boonwurrung people of the Kulin nation, and pay my respects to
elders past and present, and Aboriginal people here with us today. I
also acknowledge the sovereignty of these lands was never ceded.
Thank you for the opportunity to give evidence today during
Anti-Poverty Week. I'm a comic artist and I volunteer with Housing
for the Aged Action Group. I wish I could tell you my story in a way
that makes me appear brave and strong and clever and resourceful.
Here are some numbers: I am 58 years old. I have been waiting for a
total hip replacement for 14 months. I get $683.40 per fortnight on
JobSeeker. It should be more than that, but Centrelink have not
recognised my new lease that I have uploaded three times or answered
my calls. I am not on the disability support pension because my hip
can be operated on, so presumably I can be returned to full
functionality and productivity. I pay a social housing charity
$168.65 per week for a very fancy flat in Brunswick purchased by
request for women like me. This is the lowest rent I have ever paid
to live on my own; it is life changing.
I
am going to lose this tooth because I can't afford to see a dentist.
I have been to the dental hospital a few times
this year to let students play with me but it is really public and
there is the risk of COVID. I have already had it once and it really
ruined me. I'm not over it yet, so I am quite anxious about going to
the dental hospital. It's like stalls, if you've been to it—amazing.
I
think I've lived in more than 70 homes, mostly short-term private
rentals, mostly with other people—very little
on my own. But, when I have lived on my own, it's been pretty
amazing. I've been homeless several times: in the eighties, when I
ran away from home; in 2010, when my rent went up every year but my
income stayed pretty much the same; and, in 2017, when I was
'gentrified' out of Brunswick. I also had a creative fellowship at
the State Library at the time, so I had an office to work in. That
was useful.
I've
never learnt to drive. I've mostly been single. Unresolved menstrual
problems prevented me from holding down even contract cartooning and
illustration jobs in the nineties, when I was trying to get off the
dole. But those jobs all dried up. Many of my mental health struggles
have lessened over the last five years, while I've been living in
secure housing, even though my mother died and we were all in
lockdown. My income doubled briefly, and I was in secure, stable
housing, and I saved money. I bought new things. It was amazing. I
ate better. I paid bills without calculating how much money was left
in my account.
I
have limited my horizons in the past. I've been unable to participate
in skill building or community projects that
require money. I've exhibited regularly since 1984—so I keep
working. But the people who buy my work continue
to be friends and family, so I can't gouge them; I can't charge
anything near the amount the work that I've put into any art is
worth. Recently, I swapped one of my paintings for an
induction-compatible frying pan.
I
knew being an artist in Australia would mean I would not own property
or enjoy the security many people take
for granted, but I underestimated the effect poverty would have on my
inner life. Stable, low-cost housing combined
with the pandemic supplement money mean I do not have the same noise
in my head, which I considered
as just artistic personality for 50 years. So mine's a happy story,
really. Thank you.
Peter:
Good afternoon. Thank you for the opportunity to speak with you
today. I'm 58 and I'm a disability support
pensioner. The rate of the disability support pension is presently
$1,036 per fortnight. It's very difficult to live on that, but I will
also acknowledge it is more than the JobSeeker amount. Prior to going
onto the disability support pension, I was on JobSeeker for a period
of time.
My
background is that I was in the workforce for over 33 years. I worked
in banking. I worked in retail for a period.
A number of years ago, I was a pedestrian legally crossing the road,
I was struck by a motor vehicle, I went onto the bonnet of that
vehicle, I hit the windshield and I broke it, so there was a lot of
force involved in that. I was off work initially for a period of
seven months. I eventually managed to get back to work. However, as
the years have passed, I've become less young, as we all have; my
conditions have deteriorated; and I struggle to maintain employment.
I
attempted, on numerous occasions, return-to-work programs. At one
stage my life insurer, AMP, were very helpful.
It's very rare that insurance companies are helpful, but they were on
this occasion. They provided me with an occupational therapist. She
indicated at the time that the problem a lot of people have is that
they go back to work too quickly on too many hours. I started back on
four hours per week. Over a period of time I built that up to 30
hours a week. I became ill with the flu. I was severely ill. My
doctor gave me a certificate to cover that absence. My employer
terminated my employment on the basis that I had breached my
return-to-work conditions.
I
am over 50, so I am discriminated against on the basis of age. I have
a back condition: I have bulging discs in my
cervical spine, my thoracic spine and my lumbosacral spine. I have
plantar fasciitis, which affects the feet. So it is difficult to
maintain work on that basis.
There
is a link between mental health, physical health and poverty. Medical
expenses are high. It's very difficult
when you are on an income support payment. I, because I was involved
in a motor accident, was covered by the Victorian Transport Accident
Commission, so a lot of my costs were covered. Believe it or not, in
an act of bastardry—if I may use that term; forgive it—yesterday,
I was contacted by the Transport Accident Commission, who sent me
four letters and indicated to me that they were going to curtail a
lot of my payments and cut off a number of my treatments. If I have
to pay for those treatments without the assistance of the Transport
Accident Commission, it's a very, very high impost—almost
impossible. To give an illustration, hydrotherapy, which my doctor recommended, would cost $30 to $40 per fortnight. The Transport
Accident Commission declined that payment.
To
be on income support and have no money is very dispiriting. It is
crushing. It is soul destroying. You become
socially isolated. It gets to the stage where your friends stop
asking you out because you decline invitations.
I raised this with one of my previous MPs. I said to her: 'I've
become socially isolating. I can't even go out for a cup of coffee.'
She, in a Marie Antoinette moment, replied to me, 'Invite them around
for coffee and a biscuit.' At that stage, Newstart was about $500 a
week. Even a jar of coffee—the little one—is about 10 bucks.
And
that's the cheap stuff; you're not enjoying a nice latte or something
like that. So there is a link between money
and mental health.
The
anniversary of my mother's death occurs on Saturday. That is a very
painful memory for me. The reason is this: when she died, the family,
as families do, came together. Families, as you know, buy food. You
might buy pizzas. You might buy chicken. Somebody will buy salads.
Somebody will buy bread. I had $5 in my pocket. I couldn't afford to
pay my share. I felt shame. I was ashamed. It was a silly emotion—I
accept that—but I felt it. It was horrible.
I
am fortunate in that I own my home. However, it is almost impossible
to maintain it. To illustrate, my hot water
service broke down a number of years ago. I have never fixed it. It's
too expensive to repair it. I have cold showers,
or I boil water on the stovetop and wash in the basin. I have lost—I
think it was Glenys or Genevieve who
referred to this—teeth. I lost teeth. To repair it would cost me
$1,600, so I am now toothless. In terms of owning my home, I accept
that I am in a fortunate position, compared with many. Rent is
unaffordable. I know that the maximum rental assistance is $151 for a
single person per fortnight. That is per fortnight, not per week.
Who
even rents at $151 per week? It is not paid to somebody who has a
mortgage. It is not paid to somebody in transitory accommodation. A
person who is couch-surfing from friend to friend or living in their
car does not receive that payment.
Older,
ill and disabled workers are discriminated against. This is a true
story: when I was at my former employer,
a senior manager looked me in the face and said, 'If I had my way, I
would terminate all employees over
the age of 50 and replace them with young, fit casuals.' That's a
true story. I was in Canberra recently. We were talking about ageism
at a ministerial roundtable. It used to be that ageism occurred to
people over the age of 55. Then people gave evidence that ageism now
occurs at the age of 50. Dr Kay Patterson, the Age Discrimination
Commissioner, was present. She noted that some research is now
indicating it occurs at the age of 45. Particularly, areas like IT
and technology are where ageism is starting to occur. There are
concerns around aged and disabled workers that they are
technologically slow, that there is higher absenteeism and that there
is a real risk of liability, duty of care and legal issues.
I'll
leave it at that. I think that fairly covers it. I do appreciate the
opportunity to speak up. It is soul destroying. That's a very
important point. Mental health is a very important issue.
Abigail:
Good morning. My name is Abigail, I'm 46. In my 20s I was on top of
the world. I was a very, very talented
computer programmer. I had a partner, I had a family and I had
everything. I had a brilliant career, and then
in my early 30s I developed soul-crushing depression and lost
everything. I became homeless, I became alone, suicidal and unable to
work. I lived in my car. I ended up in public housing, and it was one
of the things that saved my life. I went on the disability support
pension and, together with the public housing, those were
instrumental—they were life altering. I can't stress that enough.
Despite
that, life is hard—even with them. Even though the DSP is more than
Newstart was at the time, after the
rent is taken out—and it's taken automatically out of your
Centrelink payments—it only leaves roughly $600 a fortnight for
everything else. You only get to roughly choose which area you want
to live in and I was placed in the inner suburbs of Melbourne. It's
great; I love it there. It suits my character. But, because of
gentrification, things are very expensive. But I was happy to put
down roots; I could finally stop living out of cardboard boxes and it
worked wonders for my mental health. I was able to be happy. But,
yes, I had to make sacrifices.
After
about five years of living there my son had to move in. He was 12 and
it was under difficult circumstances;
he had to escape violence from where he was living at the time. So he
moved in and we had to make
more sacrifices. Energy prices went up, inflation went up and the DSP
did not. I had to start making difficult
decisions. I couldn't save money, it was just impossible. There were
some fortnights where I had to decide
whether I was buying myself groceries or paying electricity bills. I
had to make sure that there was an internet
connection for my son so that he could study, but I would go without
so that he could survive.
I
couldn't save. Everything I got had to be spent just on survival. And
so that feeling of happiness and stability that
I got when I moved into stable housing had that background noise of
anxiety about: 'When is this going to be happy again? When will I be
able to afford to take my son to the movies again?' It's just simple
things. I want to buy a packet of chips for my son and have a movie
night, but I can't afford it this fortnight.
But
as difficult as it was, and still is, it's so much worse for so many
other people. At least I have somewhere to live;
I have a stable roof over my head. I don't have vices: I don't drink
or smoke or anything like that. Just some cola and a videogame is all
I need! I play Fortnite with my son, when he demands I, and that's
fine!
But
I have a friend who can't get stable housing. He lives in a—like my
apartment is smaller than the room we're
in now and his apartment is smaller than my bedroom. He lived there
for years with his partner. He was on the waiting list for public
housing for over a decade, which is insane—literally insane. He's
still waiting. I got on a priority list because of my depression, but
because he has a good outlook on life he didn't. He's one of the most
optimistic people and yet he's got so many health problems. He needs
stable housing and he can't get it. It's heartbreaking. He and I and
people I know, we are people. We are human, we're just like every one
of you. We deserve our dignity, and most of us want to contribute to
society as much as we can.
I
would love to be able to do a full day's work. Sometimes I can't.
I've developed chronic pain and chronic fatigue from depression. The
three are very comorbid—I call them the 'axis of stuckiness'. Just
from the stress of being able to afford to eat can debilitate you,
and then there's dealing with Centrelink. People often tell me that
Centrelink is broken, but I tell them that Centrelink, as
fundamentally flawed as it is, it is working exactly as designed. It
is designed to be cruel and it is designed to punish people. It is
designed to obfuscate its help to as many people as possible. The
government did this, and you can change this and help us.
That's
where we need to go for help, and it punishes us for asking for help.
How did it get to this? How did we get
to this point? This system is your system. Please help us. Thank you.
Witness
A:
Hi, I'm autistic. I'm not fully diagnosed properly, but I have
recently been diagnosed with it and ADHD
combined. I was originally diagnosed with autism back when I was 28,
but there are lots of issues involved.
I've kind of written this to the way my brain works, so please. If I
wasn't poor, my trauma would be recognised. I would be treated for my
diagnosis. I wouldn't be so isolated. I would have access to safe
housing. I'm on JobSeeker after 15 years of being on carers for my
ex. I would not need the intensive support I now need. If I wasn't
poor I could seek expert and narcissistic abuse trauma therapy. I
could get stellar trauma recovery for the PTSD. If I wasn't poor, I
would be completely and properly diagnosed, properly medicated and
supported. Cognitive therapies appropriate to my needs would be
available. I would have my physical health if I wasn't poor. I'd have
my mental health. I'd be able to get expensive medical tests to
diagnose my autoimmune issues.
If
I wasn't poor, it would not have taken a horrendous assault at
Hanover Launch Housing—approximately one to two weeks after telling
staff about the threats and being dismissed by them—breaking my jaw
amongst other things in an assault—she had the same hair and reach
as my ex—resulting in more PTSD and my face looking like this. She
was charged with and found guilty of intentionally causing serious
injury, and this is what it took for me to get access to appropriate
counselling.
As
I said before, my diagnosis would be recognised. I wouldn't be scared
all the time, because I could afford security,
a sleep study, a psychologist, hypnotherapy, a proper bed, and
advocacy as a patient. My needs would be important. My health care
would be based on prevention, not bandaids. The bare minimum should
simply not be acceptable. I'd have a voice. My trauma responses would
not be triggered as severely, because I'd have better support systems
and behavioural directions in place. I would not be homeless. I would
not look like this.
If
I wasn't poor, maybe somebody would have asked for my side of the
story. I would have been able to afford the
drug tests that I wanted to get to prove that I don't use anymore, as
I quit and haven't used heavy drugs for two years. If I had been able
to get these drug tests, that would have negated the resultant
systemic abuses in service, affording me proper wraparound with
supportive health care instead of treating me like a junkie chasing
diagnosis for legal drugs—because that's how it's been.
If
I wasn't poor, I would have been able to afford a lawyer when I was
discarded after 25 years of narcissistic abuse, and I would have had
access to half his super for this time period, meaning I would not
have been homeless, meaning I would not have eight broken bones from
being so. I would not have been raped again. I would not have been
thrown from a building, three months after leaving him, by friends of
his. It would have been investigated. I'd still be a parent to my
children, as the police would have charged him and taken him away all
those years ago. I would have got appropriate counselling then. I
then would have known that I had been a victim of trauma and abuse
all my life. I would not have ended up with, or stayed with, a victim
of Mr Stinky—because he did to me what they did to him.
I
could afford studio space so I could explore my potential as an
artist and, hopefully, have a career. I could smile without being
self-conscious. I could afford to get the reports I need to get the
damage from the centre assault fixed. I would not be invisible. I
would not be in pain. If I wasn't poor, I'd have justice in my life.
I would be safe and have time to heal. Other people would be held accountable for their actions. I would not have slipped through the
cracks my whole life. I could afford dreams. If I wasn't poor,
securing proper healthcare services would not depend on my
likability. I would be harder to victimise. I would have teeth. I
would not have cursed my children to the same generational trauma I
have been through. I would not be unsupported in the H2H system or
kicked out—I'm not sure which it is at the moment. I'd have a next
of kin. I would have the exact support I actually need. I would not
be emotionally dysregulated, nor would my nervous system be. I would
be able to fully explore my neurodiversity and learn how to be,
instead of fighting to defend myself for being so and having to
defend myself for needing medication, cognitive therapies and
support. I would be safe.
I'll
finish on this: if I wasn't poor, the fact that the NDIS does not
recognise ADHD as requiring funding—this is
going to keep me in poverty. It is going to keep in this, because I
need the help and the support with the things I need the help and the
support with. Thank you.
David:
Thank you for the opportunity to talk today. My name is David. I was
born into a family that awkwardly
straddled the line of being lower middle class and poverty stricken.
This meant receiving a novelty coloured flat tennis ball from Santa,
and the few family holidays were courtesy of staying at accommodation
owned by the church or a nun.
My
family environment was not a healthy one, and I saw myself living
rough at age 13. This was noticed by a teacher
at school, and I was eventually put into foster care. When I was
released from foster care, I ended up having
my first suicide attempts. During my time in hospital, I had a
treating nurse give me instructions on how to commit the act
correctly. Due to the embarrassment, and my parents being unable or
unwilling to continue paying for my education, I left home and found
myself work.
After
years in hospitality, I found myself a role as a retail store
manager. Things were starting to improve immensely.
I was being headhunted by a few other companies, including for a
high-salary FMCG position and a career change option as an electrical
engineer. Financially I was doing well, having recently purchased a
new car, and I was finally able to apply for a mortgage. I was
socially active, attending regular live music venues and clubs. I was
an avid reef tank keeper and bushwalker, active member of the Demons
supporter group and a regular gym junkie, and I had been invited to
join the local indoor cricket team and football team.
However,
in November 2003 that all changed. Driving home from the city after a
night out, a man ran a red light
and crashed into my car. I sustained over 43 fractures and an
acquired brain injury, later found to be a peripheral vestibular
dysfunction. My car insurance refused to pay on a technicality. I was
in rehabilitation for eight years as both an inpatient and an
outpatient. My work at the time made me sign a new contract which
took away 80 per cent of my previous salary, in which my OT convinced
me this was my best and only move.
Unable
to support myself or my animals, I gave them up and started staying
with assorted family members during
my recovery. When I sought advice and support for job training, I was
constantly denied. Eventually, I was permitted to seek assistance
with the CRS, Commonwealth Rehabilitation Service. They told me, as I
was in a wheelchair, the only position I was suited to was a
cabinet-maker.
I
rejected this premise, and, using the little money I had, I went back
to adult education to secure my VCE in Melbourne.
I accomplished that and moved to Adelaide, getting first class
honours in a Bachelor of Science in animal
science, made possible by access to student accommodation and a
Commonwealth scholarship. I then moved to Queensland to undertake my
PhD in veterinary microbiology, researching antimicrobial
resistance—again, made possible by an APA and NAVTA's animal health
scholarship. As is often the case, my PhD journey took longer than
the three years of the scholarship. I picked up slack tutoring at
campuses in Gatton and the city.
These
were only ever casual contracts, and eventually mine were not renewed
when universities and schools started
tightening their purse strings.
Struggling
to make ends meet and with the stress of my complex PTSD and
everything else, I was recommended by my GPs to go on the DSP. I
needed to get my body and my head right. It was their hope that I might
also be granted help from the NDIS for my mental health sessions, as
well as pain management and some surgeries
on my left knee. Whilst I possessed two certificates of serious
injury, the entire lengthy process for the DSP was dehumanising,
difficult, embarrassing and painful.
In
the meantime, on JobSeeker and mutual obligations, I was sent to
useless and demeaning employment providers.
At one firm, when I asked if I should disclose details of my
disabilities in the acceptance of a job interview
form, my case manager screamed at me, 'Do you even want a fucking
job?' So I didn't. Then I had an episode
at work when I was forced to go home, and my request to use my point
stick at work was denied. Another firm, Sarina Russo, told me in my
first meeting, 'We don't get people like you in.' I'm still unsure
about what they were referring to.
Finding
employment privately has been just as challenging. I've had responses
like, 'Your resume is very intimidating'—again, I'm not sure if
that is code for, 'You are too old and disabled.' I've withdrawn four
times in the past few years from doing my master's, due to poverty. I
eventually started my own tutoring business to make ends meet. Even
though I overestimated my potential income, well below the allowance,
I'm actually worse off with the reduction of my DSP, especially now
that schools have finished and my clients are on holidays, and of
course there are holidays throughout the year.
After
the floods in late February, I was drained of all my savings just
trying to escape and survive the disaster.
My
real estate increased my rent twice in a matter of months. I tried
desperately to find alternative accommodation.
Despite my five-star rental rating, I was unsuccessful. Now, with my
DSP alone, I am left with $177 for the fortnight after I pay rent. Of
course, I can't do that all the time. I need to keep fuel in my car
and money to pay for credit to contact prospective clients. I'm
currently around five weeks in arrears; I'm just waiting for my
eviction notice.
I
swallowed my pride and sought assistance at Housing Queensland. The
first time I tried, I was turned away due
to the number of people requiring help. When I did get an
appointment, I was given a very erudite observation:
I don't earn enough money. I was told that I needed to go and find
more clients and then get back to Housing Queensland so they could
perhaps help me.
I've
been working six days a week as a tutor, and I do one morning per
week as a volunteer at the wildlife hospital
and RSPCA. If I'm not working, I'm in bed. I'm exhausted, not only
because I'm doing more than what I should
be but because of the stress of everything else that most people take
for granted. I'm forgetful, I'm fatigued,
my diet is horrible, yet my GP wants me to take extra vitamins—with
what, when I'm making the hard decisions between buying food or
buying medicine? He also prescribed treatment for my chronic pain. I
have not had a pain-free day in almost 20 years. I can't afford these
treatments, so I'll never know if it would work. I no longer go out,
I don't date, I don't socialise. I can't afford to. Also, I can't
afford not to. Thank you.
Jennifer:
Thank you for letting me speak off the cuff. I have lived experience
in everything, from poverty to homelessness
to being a single parent to living on Centrelink for most of my life.
I started because my partner left, and I got left to raise children
on my own. Being that I had no family support, and children, I did
not have an option to work. It was financially not viable for me,
with no training and no career to move forward into, to do anything
else. Back then, it was supportable to manage renting a home, owning
a car, paying insurance and feeding my children. It was a struggle,
it was tight and it had to be budgeted, but it was doable. Over the
years, I have gone harder and harder into making a budget stretch. I
know that there have been indexes and increases, but they have
definitely not kept up with the cost of living for anybody. And this
is not just recent. 1993 was when I had my first child.
I
became a victim of homelessness because of legal rental laws. My
landlord decided that she was not going to renew my lease. She only
gave me two weeks notice. There was nothing I could do about it. It
was end of lease, and it was completely lawful. I had nowhere to go
and still had no family support. I had an eight-year-old son, then. I
actually brought him on a holiday to Millicent. We stayed in a
caravan for a couple of weeks, and he had a great time. He didn't
know we were homeless. I had to bring him back to Adelaide because he
had to go to school, and we still had nowhere to live. I was lucky
that I got a place in the Middle Beach caravan park. He then had to
move schools. My son, who is now 24, is still experiencing
homelessness. This is normal to him. This is his life now. It's the
only thing he knows. I was never able to keep him at the same school,
because I had to move over and over again, through boarding homes,
through trying to keep a roof over his head.
He
got to year 12, and I couldn't do it anymore. I knew I wasn't going
to be able to house him. I had to hand over
my son to a father who had not been in his life for over 16
years—someone he didn't know at all. I had to put him with a
stranger so that he could finish school. I didn't have a choice in
that. That was my choice, but I felt I didn't have a choice in it. I
felt he had every right to have a childhood and every right to have a
career. That left me completely unsupported in every aspect, because
the one thing that I'd been holding onto was now gone. I had no
children anymore. I had no support anymore.
I
got all the answers that everyone else gets. I've got a car to sleep
in. I'm not homeless; I have a roof over my head!
That is the government's opinion. That is the services' opinion. It's
not the opinion of anyone who is homeless.
That's not an opinion that I carry. I spent nearly eight years
sleeping in my car because I couldn't find anywhere suitable to live.
The longer I went without anywhere to live, without an address, the
harder it became for me to find anywhere suitable to live. What land
agent is, realistically, going to rent a home to somebody who doesn't
have a rental history for eight years? How do you explain that you've
been homeless for eight years to somebody?
As
for work, I got lots of jobs, casual jobs, while I was homeless. As
soon as they found out I was homeless, I'd lose my job. It didn't
matter that I was at work every day, clean, tidy, early. That doesn't
matter to any employer. I worked full time, homeless—sleeping in
caravans, sleeping in my car, sleeping in hotels. That was the
contract I had for Centrelink. I had people screaming at me that I
had no idea what they were going through. I knew exactly what they
were going through. I couldn't get any help. I worked full time. I
fell through another gap. I was on a low income. I wasn't even on a
government income. I couldn't even afford to stay in a hotel every
day of the week. I was still sleeping in my car because I couldn't
afford to stay in motels.
There
are so many people slipping through the gaps in our society. We are
supporting individuals as we can, but
it's not okay. Homelessness isn't okay for anybody. Poverty isn't
okay for anybody. For First Nations, 'it's been addressed'! What I
learnt from the wonderful conference that SACOSS put on recently is
that we're missing something very fundamental in this country. Our
First Nations people are in poverty. They are the biggest
poverty-sufferers, and that is not being addressed, they are not
being supported and they are not being helped.
And
I really, honestly believe that, until we address the discrepancy
across the board, through everybody, First Nations
or any other society within this country, we cannot move on. We are
stuck with people living in poverty, and it has to be addressed.
I
really just want to end there, so thank you for listening to me
today.
Nijole:
Thank you for letting me speak today. I'm speaking from my experience
being at university and doing honours part time while having
endometriosis and a few other health issues. I'm on jobseeker. This
last year has been incredibly difficult for me. To give you an
example from my study: I've felt like quitting numerous times this
year, even though it was the final stretch for me, because I couldn't
afford to buy lunch when I was at university. I would have to go home
to eat. I finally figured out that if I took my groceries to uni and
stuck them in the fridge I'd be able to have a sandwich. But I didn't
have enough money to have two sets of groceries, so I'd go home and
then I wouldn't have any there. I don't like telling you guys this. I
don't enjoy vomiting out my personal, depressing details so you guys
get an idea, but I guess I have to do that so you guys get an
understanding of what people have had to deal with.
I
approached the university student welfare section, and I was given a
voucher for a certain food charity. I went to go use that voucher,
but I didn't realise that I had to pay for it when I went there. I
had no money. I used this voucher on a Friday. I first went to the
wrong section. I wasn't told by the university that it had moved, so
I wasted petrol one day going there. They shut early. I finally
managed to get enough energy and went to the second place, and they
were like, 'We can't do it.' They managed to give me some bread, a
couple of potatoes and stuff,
but I couldn't get anything from the shelf. The onions were rotten.
This happens quite often with food charities,
which people don't like hearing. It's very hard logistically,
obviously, for them to always have fresh stuff,
but I'm not eating rotten onions, and I'm not going to feel grateful
for being offered rotten food. That's not fair.
I would put to you guys: how am I supposed to reach my potential of
getting a good grade if I cannot afford a sandwich? I'm not trying to
be aggressive here, but it's impossible.
How
can I function if the most basic things for me are so laden with
administration, exhaustion and constant running
around? Put that on top of me having to speak to my job network,
which refuses to acknowledge my disability,
and ever since they had a management change now refuses to give me
phone credit, refuses to give me any vouchers, harasses me and tells
me to get a sick certificate. I have to get a sick certificate and
then put it in so I can avoid being harassed, even though I'm at
university. I've managed to finish my program for the time being at
university, but I didn't get the grade that I wanted or that I know I
was capable of.
I
don't want to take up too much time, but, from my perspective, just
remember that food charities should not be used or seen as being the
end in helping things, because they're struggling as much as everyone
else. I've also been unable to afford medication and pain meds. Just
to finally top it off, I don't think I'll be able to afford to
preserve my fertility. With my endometriosis, I have to think very
carefully in the next year, and that's a very upsetting thing for me,
because I don't think I'll literally be able to afford it. They
charge the same amount for creating embryos as they do for storing
eggs. So that's a big thing.
I
would ask you to think, when you talk about increasing payments and
increasing obligations on people, do you want people to not have
kids? Do you want people to not be able to afford medication? Do you
want people to quit university and just give up? Because that's what
happens when you're poor.
