Sleeping outside
I thought I knew what the Social bump in the neighborhood difficult, with youth in care, or returned to HP after the colon. I was wrong.
Association Don Quixote
conducting an awareness campaign on the condition of SDF. This one is to sleep outside with them in tents, to live the horrors of the cold. 
It seemed interesting to carry out AgoraVox my own experience. After a summer holiday in the Cevennes, I decided to enjoy the heritage days (mid September) to offer me a weekend in Amsterdam. I met the first train of the day a homeless Parisian origins Guyanese around 35-40 years, Jose. We sympathized about a game he had proposed with great success to two children's car (a leader never misses an opportunity to complete its range).
We considered not to sleep at night to enjoy the nightlife of the capital, and give us a rest in the morning in a park. On our arrival, which was an option became a requirement: Due to an agreement, the tourism office only offered rooms at 160 euros and more, that neither one nor the other could allow ourselves . Speaking proper English, I would undertake translations (the Dutch speaking to everyone I met impeccable English) and we left both in mop in the lakeside town, making our food shopping in local supermarkets (expensive ) and taking a fast food snack of seafood The first day was pleasant. The city was beautiful, and we strolled through its streets until exhaustion. Jose, a little too wet, often get the ire of merchants and passers-by who were offended to see him pretty busy asking him to pose with the photos on his disposable camera. I pulled the sensitive situations, as it sometimes did not doubt. For his part, and while I was looking for a roof for the night, he saved me from robbing me by a group of miscreants in anticipating the problem. is the first observation that I do. The homeless and we have not even read the world. They are exposed to unexpected risk of those who have a safe place to spend the night. They know the street and its codes, and have learned, sometimes at their expense, how to manage hazards.
that day I heard many stories from the traffic Subbutex Romanians (who got their doses legally making the rounds of general practitioners), indecent proposals made by the deranged sex tramps Chatelet. How he had returned to life after being homeless and housed employee time.
Night fell, and having neither the one nor the other wanted to squat a coffee shop (we
no attraction for substances that it provides), we headed to a large rectangular square dance focusing many bars and nightclubs (Leidseplein, it seems more likely or Rembrandtplein) that we had been recommended by Sammy, a large black met in a bar.
On our way we saw be another face of Amsterdam, full of skinheads, punks, who watched with my partner aggression, and the apostrophe in Dutch.
I then felt for the first time the brutality of the vilest racism. This constant fear of slipping on the other. Some will say that in France it is the same, but I've never felt with such acuity.
Sensation which was specified in the Brazilian bar where we spent our early evening. The Dutch danced with great strength, and our styles (especially that of José !) Contrasted sharply with their own. I was invited by my friend who paid me to drink a few shots, which confirmed to me that people give a lot of little. The bar was packed, and my friend just had it up and danced with the young women of the box had formed a front against him. The smoky atmosphere (I had to leave the room until my eyes stung) and promiscuity added to the oppression of the scene. We finished our drinks and left the morbid place, which leaves my impression that the female animal is a good group, a resource not to fall into the hands of foreigners. As a return time caves.
I stood several minutes prone on a bench in the square, still under the effect of the situation we had to live. Jose did not admitting defeat by stupidity room, returned all go into the bar. After a few minutes he came back to me. To hold my head between my hands to protect my eyes, I had to look more like a junkie as a tourist.
A light rain began to fall, and we esseyâmes in vain to enter night club with our backpacks and our sweat shits wet. If our attire did not seem problematic at bouncer, we could not leave our bags at the deposit, which we refused entry to the nightclub. After a few
hesitation, we decided to return to the park that we visited during the day, the Vondelpark. The rain had people chase the gallows crossed sooner, and we sat under the canopy of a fine grove in the park pérphérie.
The night was extremely hard for me to pass. Paralyzed by the cold which surprised me for a day in September so sweet, my cotton sweatshirt is not enough to protect myself. Jose offered me his jacket, that I did not accept. I spent the night shivering, making the 100 steps and hopping there to get warm. The ground was muddy and cold, moisture penetrated into the fabric by capillary action when I lie down. Jose was lying on its side. I stayed up all night with the feeling that it was the least I can do.
the morning, I caught rabbits come to visit us. I saw scroll morning joggers and a few freaks who were returning from evening. When he awoke, José worried about my sleep, and we began looking for a water point, a place to shower, my companion still nine days left in town.
We finally left after a coffee on the esplanade of the Rijksmuseum. I used the toilet this one to change the T shirt and underwear, to remove and clean myself a bit of earth on the night of my sweatshirt.
I did not forget to thank him for being there for me. Very simple and almost embarrassed, he said it was normal and went away. We did never seen again.
the evening I found my cousin and her boyfriend in Brussels. I felt different from when I left. I was returning from a strange adventure, and had the impression that having a roof for the night put an expression on my face as readable as the one I wore to the front few hours earlier: "I am homeless, vulnerable, easy prey".
This experience, even told in great detail, must be experienced to be understood. Connivance what I felt on seeing my computer screen
the initiative of the Children of Don Quixote
. They included: one had to live it to believe it.
Espérence 43 years of life. 86 000 by Inserm, 400 000 by the Abbé Pierre Foundation, 3.2 million badly housed under the same organization.
These figures, statistics.
A frozen to death in Paris Tuesday, December 19, before the declaration of the level 2 general plan cold.
When I shudder at the memory of this experience described in September, I can hardly imagine the cruelty of treatment in the current climate. We keep our pets warm when our "brothers die under bridges and everyone who cares" (AMI).
From this, I could m'accomoder, if it were an inevitable fate. But the cynicism of Nicolas Sarkozy, who claims that after 5 years in power there will be more homeless people (while the mayor of Neuilly preferred to pay fines rather than build its quotations for housing), that of the Minister social cohesion Catherine Vautrin (which condemns this intiative
"decoy address the problem of social exclusion"
,
"is touching but it's easy"
face the revolt of the Don Quixote Terry Gilliam, Jean Rochefort, and
"I said Yesterday there was a manipulation of these people who are in difficulty "
) I can not stand. The intolerable
has its limits.
48% of French
think they can one day become homeless. Stop everything
two minutes: Sego and Sarko, Armadinejad and Kim Jong Il, the 300 million in Japan and the hole in the safety, Johnny and Katie Holmes in Switzerland enclosure, the groin of Ribery and Lead Balloon Mendy, "the baby's bottle, the babysitter coming tomorrow, the food, rent, bank to repay" (Tryo), buy your season, your exams, and wake you.
There is no vision without political will of the people.
that day I heard many stories from the traffic Subbutex Romanians (who got their doses legally making the rounds of general practitioners), indecent proposals made by the deranged sex tramps Chatelet. How he had returned to life after being homeless and housed employee time.
Night fell, and having neither the one nor the other wanted to squat a coffee shop (we
no attraction for substances that it provides), we headed to a large rectangular square dance focusing many bars and nightclubs (Leidseplein, it seems more likely or Rembrandtplein) that we had been recommended by Sammy, a large black met in a bar.
On our way we saw be another face of Amsterdam, full of skinheads, punks, who watched with my partner aggression, and the apostrophe in Dutch.
I then felt for the first time the brutality of the vilest racism. This constant fear of slipping on the other. Some will say that in France it is the same, but I've never felt with such acuity.
Sensation which was specified in the Brazilian bar where we spent our early evening. The Dutch danced with great strength, and our styles (especially that of José !) Contrasted sharply with their own. I was invited by my friend who paid me to drink a few shots, which confirmed to me that people give a lot of little. The bar was packed, and my friend just had it up and danced with the young women of the box had formed a front against him. The smoky atmosphere (I had to leave the room until my eyes stung) and promiscuity added to the oppression of the scene. We finished our drinks and left the morbid place, which leaves my impression that the female animal is a good group, a resource not to fall into the hands of foreigners. As a return time caves. I stood several minutes prone on a bench in the square, still under the effect of the situation we had to live. Jose did not admitting defeat by stupidity room, returned all go into the bar. After a few minutes he came back to me. To hold my head between my hands to protect my eyes, I had to look more like a junkie as a tourist.
A light rain began to fall, and we esseyâmes in vain to enter night club with our backpacks and our sweat shits wet. If our attire did not seem problematic at bouncer, we could not leave our bags at the deposit, which we refused entry to the nightclub. After a few
hesitation, we decided to return to the park that we visited during the day, the Vondelpark. The rain had people chase the gallows crossed sooner, and we sat under the canopy of a fine grove in the park pérphérie.
The night was extremely hard for me to pass. Paralyzed by the cold which surprised me for a day in September so sweet, my cotton sweatshirt is not enough to protect myself. Jose offered me his jacket, that I did not accept. I spent the night shivering, making the 100 steps and hopping there to get warm. The ground was muddy and cold, moisture penetrated into the fabric by capillary action when I lie down. Jose was lying on its side. I stayed up all night with the feeling that it was the least I can do.
the morning, I caught rabbits come to visit us. I saw scroll morning joggers and a few freaks who were returning from evening. When he awoke, José worried about my sleep, and we began looking for a water point, a place to shower, my companion still nine days left in town. We finally left after a coffee on the esplanade of the Rijksmuseum. I used the toilet this one to change the T shirt and underwear, to remove and clean myself a bit of earth on the night of my sweatshirt.
I did not forget to thank him for being there for me. Very simple and almost embarrassed, he said it was normal and went away. We did never seen again.
the evening I found my cousin and her boyfriend in Brussels. I felt different from when I left. I was returning from a strange adventure, and had the impression that having a roof for the night put an expression on my face as readable as the one I wore to the front few hours earlier: "I am homeless, vulnerable, easy prey".
This experience, even told in great detail, must be experienced to be understood. Connivance what I felt on seeing my computer screen
the initiative of the Children of Don Quixote
. They included: one had to live it to believe it.
Espérence 43 years of life. 86 000 by Inserm, 400 000 by the Abbé Pierre Foundation, 3.2 million badly housed under the same organization.
These figures, statistics. A frozen to death in Paris Tuesday, December 19, before the declaration of the level 2 general plan cold.
When I shudder at the memory of this experience described in September, I can hardly imagine the cruelty of treatment in the current climate. We keep our pets warm when our "brothers die under bridges and everyone who cares" (AMI).
From this, I could m'accomoder, if it were an inevitable fate. But the cynicism of Nicolas Sarkozy, who claims that after 5 years in power there will be more homeless people (while the mayor of Neuilly preferred to pay fines rather than build its quotations for housing), that of the Minister social cohesion Catherine Vautrin (which condemns this intiative
"decoy address the problem of social exclusion"
,
"is touching but it's easy"
face the revolt of the Don Quixote Terry Gilliam, Jean Rochefort, and
"I said Yesterday there was a manipulation of these people who are in difficulty "
) I can not stand. The intolerable
has its limits.
48% of French
think they can one day become homeless. Stop everything
two minutes: Sego and Sarko, Armadinejad and Kim Jong Il, the 300 million in Japan and the hole in the safety, Johnny and Katie Holmes in Switzerland enclosure, the groin of Ribery and Lead Balloon Mendy, "the baby's bottle, the babysitter coming tomorrow, the food, rent, bank to repay" (Tryo), buy your season, your exams, and wake you.
There is no vision without political will of the people.
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