We are proud to have partnered with the Orwell Foundation to offer the Orwell Prize for Reporting Homelessness. Over the past 6 months, we asked for entries from people experiencing homelessness and from journalists who shine a light on the problem and its potential solutions. In this blog, Zohra Naciri shares their piece that was shortlisted for the prize. The piece describes the experience of 'hidden homelessness' in the UK, reflecting on their life, work, and struggles with finding affordable housing in London.

Please note that this is a small extract of Zohra's piece. Read the full piece.

An Existence

The tartan bow tie, the name badge, the tightly pulled-back hair and tucked-in white shirt, who is this  person in the mirror? I ask myself. The mind spirals, the questions, the questions…How did I end up  here? Am I a bad person? Do I deserve this? Does anyone truly care about me? Is it my fault? Is this karma or a lesson I was supposed to learn in life? Am I mentally ill? Am I being selfish? Let’s face it,  many others are far worse off. I should be grateful really.  

My story is a story shared by many unheard Brits today. We are the hidden homeless. 

At some point in life you are led to believe that if you do the right thing, get an education, always  work, a comfortable life awaits. When I say comfortable, I mean the basics – a roof over your head,  a bed, a bathroom, food, heating and a sense of community. It turns out this is not true.  

One year and three months shy of fifty, I expected I'd be sorted by now. I started work at the age of  twelve, delivering early morning newspapers before school, and have undertaken numerous roles  between then and now. A qualified primary teacher currently employed as a hotel receptionist  (housekeeper last month) in order to have a roof over my head in my country.  

What image comes to mind when you think of the homeless? I have learned that anyone can end up  homeless in the UK, including those with enough money to buy a property like me.  

Between ages eighteen and thirty-seven I lived in many house shares. House sharing with strangers  is rarely fun, though you might meet a buddy or two. There will likely be a tenant you can’t stand or  fear, the one you dread bumping into, and it always feels transient – never like home.  

Unforgettable memories were the girl trying to top herself, the guy pulling his own tooth out and  ending up in hospital (he always left a black ring around the bath too), the guy cornering me red faced with fists clenched in an empty house and accusing me of stealing his shoe (psychosis I reckon),  the girl that kept stealing things and framing me because I had become friendly with her favourite  housemate, and the two old men walking around in their teeny five-inch-almost-budgie-smuggling  shorts no matter how cold it was. 

Then there was the tenant in the room below me blasting his electronic music at Ministry of Sound  levels every Sunday causing my room and everything in it to shake (a regular Sunday ruck ensued),  the European mocking our benefits system and boasting about receiving housing benefit despite  earning £400 a week in cash delivering pizzas, the girl stonewalling me because my native British  friendly “Morning” or “Afternoon” greeting got on her nerves, and the guy asking if he could sleep  in my room as there was a poltergeist in his. (He looked petrified. Anything’s possible.) 

I did meet some great house sharers too and made the odd friend from time to time but, I think, the  overriding feeling when living with strangers in random house shares, paying off landlords  mortgages, is one of anxiety and restlessness. As a clean and tidy person, I never got used to other people's mess, filth and noise. People can be gross. Sharing kitchens and bathrooms is tricky –  especially when different standards are at play.  

Quite often you are imprisoned in your bedroom as the communal area is too crowded or small, if  one exists outside the kitchen. The days of shared lounges are gone as greedy landlords use every  inch of space to earn more profit. Why is no amount of money ever enough for the greedy? 

During these years I taught overseas a couple of times. This allowed me to experience my own place and relax at home which were both new to me.  

By my early thirties, back in London, I was hearing about housing schemes and initiatives introduced by the government. Encouraged by this, I studied and analysed the “affordable housing” schemes on  offer and came to the conclusion that most were scam-like or rather fishy indeed. I sensed that this was a future scandal in waiting – perhaps if owners tried to sell and found they could only sell within  the scheme, or when they came to retire and did not own their properties as staircasing was for people  with disposable cash.  

I'm still trying to work out why Sadiq Khan’s annual salary is £140K. He seems pretty useless to me.  No offence.  

There was nothing affordable about the housing on his website for a single person on a lower to  average wage the last time I checked. The Report a rogue landlord or agent form on the Mayor’s  website sounded super. It led nowhere. I tried a few times after I was swindled by a very dodgy  agency called Spacelet in London and realised that hundreds, possibly thousands, of others were  being cheated by them daily. Kensington and Chelsea Council fobbed me off too as I didn't live in  their borough where these wild cowboys operated. Notting Hill, no less. 

Somewhat disappointed that these housing options would not work for me, I came to the conclusion  that the only way to get out of house shares and buy in London would be to teach overseas again. At  reputable British international schools I could save a decent housing deposit. This goal took me to a  few different countries.  

After years moving around London and stints overseas, I became increasingly desperate to settle  down somewhere. Home was where the heart was and my heart was in London. Perhaps I should  have given up on London way before I did.  

Was it too much to ask to want to live in your home city?  

After two childhood friends died in close succession, I wanted to be back where I came from more  than ever. If I could get a well-paid teaching job, I could probably rent a studio flat and finally be  where I belonged. I could then look into what I could afford with my deposit or the possibilities of living in a commuter town. 

Regardless of what you hear in the news, teachers on the whole are not well paid. Yes, they appear to  do all right on the teacher pay scales and they have decent pensions (or they did before changes).  Appear is the key word here. The truth is that very few get paid the higher rates if they are paid to  scale at all. The more experienced they become, the more likely they are to be bullied out of the  school or profession. That way schools don’t have to pay the higher rates – salaries that used to reward  experience.  

Others have moved into management to get higher pay. Many are offered a certain wage with a like  it or lump it attitude. My friend, a fantastic teacher with sixteen years experience, was offered an  annual salary of £25000 to take up a permanent position. The role would probably demand a fifty to  sixty hour working week. Needless to say, she went overseas instead.  

In decades past, things were very different.  

What you don’t get told is that supply teachers are often earning close to minimum wage because the  unregulated supply agencies lie their backsides off to both teachers and schools, banking tremendous commissions paid for by the taxpayer. I have even seen supply agency ads offering lucrative salaries

and private healthcare to prospective recruiter colleagues. Again, fully funded by us taxpayers. 

A supply teacher may earn as low as £20000 a year while the agent earns £40000, and they cannot  access the teacher pension scheme. I am not exaggerating but I digress… 

The first part of the plan came together. I landed a maternity cover at a prestigious French school in  London. I went private to try and earn enough to live in London, you see. I was contracted on £48000 plus teacher pension for a much easier role than those generally found in British state schools. (They  would have paid me far less.)  

Starting in May 2019, I stayed with a friend and expected to be able to find somewhere to live the  first week of the school holidays if not before. What surprised me was how the London rental market  had changed. In the past, I would pop to the local lettings agency or arrange viewings myself, see  three or four rooms the same day, pick my choice then move in. Simple. Simple no more. I spent the  five school holiday weeks, morning till night, researching and trying to book viewings on SpareRoom  or directly with estate agents.  

Since the job was on a temporary contract, I didn't want to sign up to a flat for over a grand in case it  didn't go permanent and I got landed with an unaffordable tenancy. It seemed sensible to find a room in a house share or a reasonably priced studio until I was sure of my longer-term income.  

During these five weeks I attended twenty-six viewings. For all the work I put in and all the ads I  contacted, this was a very small number, yet far more than I would have anticipated. Twenty-four  were either not really studios as advertised or bedrooms/properties that could only be called a disgrace.  

I was shocked that shameless landlords were getting away with renting these hovels. Some were  absolutely filthy and unkept – black grime over walls, food-stained carpets, wallpaper falling off,  holes in the floor or windows. Others were cramped. Most were a piss-take. £850 a month plus bills  for a two-metre by three-metre shithole? 

I knew I would need a decent place to live in order to teach properly. By decent, I meant normal, not  the type of room you might put up with in a war zone. After twenty-four viewings I tried hard to rent  a room with a live-in landlord as surely they would keep their own place in good shape. I managed  to secure two such viewings.  

One was a stunning bedroom in a gorgeous house. They were interior designers. While they had a  separate mini kitchen for lodgers, there was nowhere to sit with my food which would mean taking it  back to my bedroom every day. I felt I wanted a little more space if signing a pricey six month contract.  

The final viewing was with a live-in landlady in Chiswick where I grew up. I traveled three hours  there and back, and spent an hour being interviewed by her. She gushed about her Tinder dates and  the things she’d been up to. We hit it off. The next day she texted to say the room had gone to someone  else. 

This modern world of landlord interviews, competition for hideous rooms, unacknowledged  expressions of interest, costly and time-consuming city-wide journeys had taken its toll. I wasn't  actually that fussy. A bedroom and clean, tidyish shared spaces please. I didn't ask for much.  

By the start of the school term, I remained trapped in temporary housing. Over the six months spent  at the French school, I rented a friend’s flat one month, I house sat for a few weeks, I stayed on friends’  sofas or in vacated rooms for days here and there – the rest of the time I based myself at hostels. First  I was at backpackers then I discovered hostels for long-termers. Long term being a fortnight minimum. 

Wherever I stayed, I shared dorms with strangers.  

The French school was clueless about my living situation. The irony was that I was teaching the  children of the French elite in London, mixing with very wealthy individuals at a school whose fees  were over £20000 per year. I adored those children and they adored me – we clicked. I got on well  with their families too.  

By December 2019, when I could no longer take it, when I was close to cracking and exhausted, when  there was no patience left to listen to bullshit meetings about unimportant things like whether to use  a green or highlighter pen for marking, I handed my notice in. (I must point out that this was a Brit,  not a French co-worker. Only a brainwashed numpty from our British system could spout this tripe.)  

Had the job been permanent, this could have been avoided. But it wasn't. The parents kicked off.  They were upset that I was leaving. They wanted me to stay for their children as did their lovely  children. I was sad and proud in equal measure. In spite of my outside struggle, I had clearly done very well.  

The decision was made. I would have to brave moving to a different city outside London where I  knew no one and start from scratch in my forties.  

Where do you go if you know no one? Which city would be right for me? Which would offer decent  job prospects and housing? If I went to the one city where I knew someone, would I be crashing in  on her life? 

I had tirelessly surfed the net and was still unsure. Certain regions had trained too many teachers, allowing agencies to pay criminally low rates like £80 to £90 a day before tax. I wasn't going there. 

Over the years I had visited Manchester, Birmingham, Liverpool, York, Leeds and Newcastle,  knowing one day I might be forced to move away from London. Nowhere ever felt right.  

Where to go? 

Realising that commuter towns were now unaffordable as well, I finally opted for the East Midlands.  I could try both Nottingham and Derby. A two-for-one pin-on-a-map jump into the unknown. From  there I would be able to travel back to London in a few hours to see friends if I wished to. I registered  with four agencies covering the region ready for my move.  

Before relocating, I planned a month break in Ireland where I have family. During my stay there, the news about a virus in China surfaced with words like epidemic and pandemic thrown into the mix. I  waited a little longer to see what happened. Lucky I did as everything soon shut down in the UK. I  might have found myself without accommodation or a job had I rushed my return.  

A Netflix year later, I moved back as soon as things opened up in March 2021. Relieved to be going  back to my country, nervous about starting from scratch in a new region, the plan was to rent a studio  or one bedroom flat, supply teach, find a long-term or permanent job and buy a property. I would then  start rebuilding my life and trying to make friends.  

I was in for a shock, however, as now the country had reopened, the housing frenzy had begun. 

I tried to make it work for about a year then gave up and accepted a teaching job overseas. I went to  Ireland to see family, recover and rest before moving abroad. Unexpectedly, the employer reneged on  the contract, saying my covid positive result months earlier would block entry into the country. (A shame they didn't share this risk before I’d spent money and time on paperwork!) 

After deciding against two other iffy international posts, I could neither face looking for teaching jobs  nor housing. When couch potato-ing in rural Ireland had run its course, I started applying for  hospitality live-in jobs in the UK as the news kept banging on about employee shortages in the sector.  I thought it might provide somewhere to live and a base from where to try and start over. Again.  

Now you know how I ended up here wearing a tartan bow tie. 

My housing situation was never stable. I moved around quite a bit. With this kind of instability, it was  very difficult to create an ‘ordinary’ life, the kind others might take for granted, the kind that didn't  involve worrying about where to live next week, next month or, in worst case scenarios, tomorrow. 

Please note that this is a small extract of Zohra's piece. Read the full piece.

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