Alpha Centre before the lockdown - a volunteer’s perspective
The door is opened by a welcoming worker: ‘Good morning, good morning’ and men flood in. They scramble for their favourite seat, a charging point, a cup of fresh tea, the use of a clean toilet… the space fills fast and the atmosphere thickens with heat and airlessness. Volunteers move through the crowd, smiling, greeting, clearing, refilling… one of them carries a stack of cups in one hand and a cloth and cleaning spray in the other. Another returns a little girl to her mother in the women’s space. The volunteer knows the child’s name and addresses her warmly.
An older lady comes to the desk, speaks rapidly, loudly. She makes no eye contact. She shows her hands: back and front. They have some small wounds. She seems to be responding to sounds others cannot hear; she sings a little, dances. Her son is at the end of his strength. He says: ‘my mother sick with her head. I don’t know what to do.’ He is directed to the free clinic to ask if maybe, just maybe, they could make a referral for her to the new psychology service; already running at full capacity. He takes the map thankfully, a little hope. The mother dances out of the door again and down the road.
Suddenly voices are raised: two men erupt to their feet and are face to face, close together, shouting. There are accusations, insults, threats. The tension in the room rises rapidly. In moments a co-ordinator is beside them, carefully moving them to the exit door and into the street. Volunteers circulate, calmly asking bystanders to step away, repeating ‘no problem, no problem.’ The door closes quietly.
The conflict is resolved for now; the men must leave for the day but are welcome again tomorrow if they are able to maintain peace between them.
Very small children run between adult legs, shout obscenities in several languages, accompanied by gestures they have learned; who knows how? One aims a fist at another. Down at his level, a worker says the same words as always: ‘we don’t hit. We are all friends.’ The little ones are led back to the children’s’ area to be distracted by play – a song, a piece of paper to draw on.
The day sweeps on, a constant flow of people in, people out. Tea tea tea sugar sugar sugar cups cups cups…
The spectre of the camp looms always, around the corner, just up the hill.
As the last shift ends, the announcement is made that the centre is closing. People leave slowly, reluctantly, to go back to their dreary reality. As they leave, each is told with real affection: ‘we hope to see you tomorrow’.
A man rushes to reception in utter distress – his phone is missing, He has attended a Law Clinic session and left it unattended. He is incoherent with the enormity of what this means for him. Everyone there tries to help - searches, takes his details, says they will ask others. He rushes out.
In half an hour, as the building is once again being cleaned and restored to order, he is back. He has with him a man from another country who had recognised the phone and rescued it, thinking the man had left for the day without it. He had gone to his tent and given it to him. The owner is so ecstatic he hugs everyone: the staff, the rescuer. There are tears in his eyes.
The door is closed again and the day is done.
Tomorrow is another day.
