Some time ago, I visited a direct provision hostel that is within walking distance of the Dáil. Although it is so centrally located, no one to whom I mentioned my visit knew that it was a hostel for asylum seekers.
When I emerged into the sunshine after my visit, I felt as if I had just spent time in some kind of dystopian parallel universe. Among other disturbing sights, I had witnessed a large family living in two small rooms, each of which was originally designed as accommodation for one university student. In another case, two teenage sons shared one small room with their mother and father.
All toilets and bathrooms were shared with numerous other people. Small children told me of their fears of visiting the communal toilet at night, afraid of the scary strangers they might meet.
One listless teenager had to be prompted to tell me about her excellent Leaving Cert results, depression evident in every line of her slumped body as she told me in a monotone that no, she had no prospect of attending university, even though she had the points.
A primary-school-age child with a strong Dublin accent talked to me about how she hated it when the school had a day off, because it meant just hanging around the hostel.
The Government operates a system of direct provision for asylum seekers, so that each adult gets €19.10 a week, along with accommodation and food. People languish for years in a system originally intended to be a temporary measure for six months or so.
They can’t work. They can’t cook for themselves. Their children can’t bring friends home.
Leave to remain
You might imagine that getting leave to remain in the State must be heaven, a chance to finall y fully participate as equals in Irish society.
However, this paper reported this week that 600 people are stuck in direct provision – even though they have leave to remain in the State legally – because they cannot afford accommodation.
By coincidence, my husband also told me that a friend of his, whom I will call Kathy, an asylum seeker who had left Mosney, one of the direct-provision centres, was desperately struggling to survive.
Kathy arrived here from Zimbabwe eight years ago. Her brother had been involved in a Zimbabwean opposition party. President Robert Mugabe led a reign of terror against the opposition, including rapes, torture and forced disappearances. When her brother went into hiding, Kathy's family became a focus of threats. Kathy fled, going first to an uncle in South Africa, and then to Ireland.
On her first day here as an asylum seeker, she met a kind woman who told her that there would be help and care for her here. That was 2007. She only received permission to remain in Ireland this year, nearly eight years later. Her story is not at all uncommon.
Kathy is a soft-spoken, educated person, who describes direct provision as like being in a prison but with no idea when your sentence will end.
Mosney’s management
She is generous in her praise of Mosney’s management, who were humane and kind, and particularly concerned for the teenagers and children. There are often good individuals within systems, but the system stinks, not least because Mosney generated €5.4 million in profit in 2009 alone for the company that runs it.
Kathy watched the people around her slip into depression, particularly one young woman who gradually took to sleeping all day, and drifting around like a wraith when she did emerge.
Kathy took part in voluntary work with other asylum seekers. This brought her into contact with Irish people who were interested in reaching out in some way to newcomers to Irish society.
After she left Mosney, she had a terrible struggle to secure accommodation for herself and her daughter. Dublin was prohibitively expensive. In other places, some people just hung up when they heard her accent. Or waited until she mentioned rent allowance, and then hung up.
She eventually discovered a house she thought she could afford, in the west.
Her daughter has settled into school, but Kathy has no savings – not surprising when you have lived on €19.10 a week for nearly eight years, without being able to work.
She needed a deposit and a month’s rent in advance, but could get no rent allowance from the State until she had an address and could also prove that she did not own property in Zimbabwe, no easy task when you have fled years before.
Kathy had Irish friends who could help, including putting her in contact with the Society of St Vincent de Paul (SVP). But what about those who have no such friends, or perhaps even little English?
She feels as if the State has cut her adrift after almost forcibly institutionalising her. She doesn’t want to be dependent, even though she is grateful to her friends and the SVP. She is longing to work in order to provide for her family.
Her neighbours are lovely, devoid of the reflexive prejudice that often greets asylum seekers. Her landlady is kind and understands Kathy’s dilemma. If only the State would reflect that humanity.