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.
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