Maria's first night in the Self-Managed Night Shelter at the Princehof drop-in center on the Oudezijds Voorburgwal is a short one. As early as five o'clock the alarm clock rings: cleaning at Albert Heijn. Hopefully she can get enough rest here to keep up her work and find a place to live again.
"Welcome," says janitor Govert of the Self-Managed Night Shelter. It comes from the bottom of his heart. Maria, thirty-nine years old and small in stature, smiles with her mouth closed. She still has her coat on. On her back, she is lugging her life with her in the form of a huge backpack. Packed, she climbs the narrow steps of the drop-in center where some eighty people come during the day for a cup of coffee, a meal, a chat and clean clothes. Now the place is quiet. Maria stands in an empty little office. The employees have gone home and won't be back until tomorrow morning. Govert grabs a bag of clean bedding from the closet and tells her where she can store her things. "Feel safe," he says, "only women are allowed in here. The men sleep downstairs."
Trust
Maria is one of the working homeless people who come to various De Regenboog Group drop-in centers in the evenings for Night Shelter in Self-Help (NoiZ), a project entirely about trust. "We're good at that at the Rainbow," says Princehof's site manager Wendy Broekhof, "we trust the people who come to us." And that's why Govert has the key to the drop-in center. He is homeless himself: "I went out thirty years ago and I still am, living with God and angels, I do see what bubbles up in the water." At the Rainbow, we know Govert well. A man of great responsibility. When asked, he describes his role as janitor: "I want the people who sleep here to feel safe. Peace and quiet. That's what they need. And if they want that, I offer a listening ear, but I don't go into their heads. I don't need to know at all where they come from or what they've been through. That's not what I'm there for. Telling their whole story to a social worker is hard enough for most people. I'm there to let them in and put them at ease."
Compassion
It is now a quarter past six and Maria has to get going again. In the evening she works in a kitchen, in the morning at Albert Heijn. "You have my number?", Govert checks. "Call me and I'll open the door for you. Even if it's 2:30 in the morning." Maria thanks him for the hospitality, waves and walks down the stairs. Govert, meanwhile, finishes what he started: making Maria's bed. Then he shakes his head: "Two jobs! She works and has to sleep on the street. That's the raw state we're in now." No, he doesn't have pity: "With pity you don't understand the situation, with compassion you do. And that's what I have for Maria: compassion." Besides Maria, two more women are sleeping at the drop-in center tonight. They hardly ever come downstairs. "The ladies are very keen on their privacy," Govert has been noticing for some time, "like a snail, they crawl into their own little house."
Winning stone
Forty-eight-year-old Rodney could often be found downstairs when he slept here. When I slept outside, I really missed the domesticity." Outside, Rodney built his own tent from tarpaulins. Then he had standing room. But when enforcement came, he had to leave everything behind. You don't easily lug a tarp around. At the Rainbow, he was able to catch his breath by becoming a "NoiZer," in other words, participating in the Self-Managed Night Shelter project, intended for people with a job but without a roof. "Kind of weird to sleep in an office," Rodney recalls the first night, "but already after a few nights I felt much fitter and then you go to work differently. I'm at the gray supply, cleaning waste containers, as well as taking training courses." Then, out of nowhere, Rodney unzips his coat: "Look!" From his inside pocket he pulls out an elastic cord with a house key attached. He holds it between his thumb and forefinger. Like the winning pebble of a game.
* Mary is a pseudonym for privacy reasons.
Text: Nicolline van der Spek I Photography: Merlin Michon