Hunger pains: The realities of food poverty

Every Wednesday at about 8.30am, a queue forms at the Capuchin Day Centre on Bow Street in Dublin City Centre. A little earlier, in the storeroom, cheerful volunteers walk clockwise around the shelves, filling blue plastic bags with sugar, cheese, beans, butter, tea, and packets of cooked chicken. They pack 1,700 bags.

At 9am a door opens and a young man called Stuart Larner starts distributing them. Most who come to him are neatly dressed. The majority walk. A few cycle. Some chat with friends and leave openly carrying the blue bags. Others rush away, concealing their packages in branded shopping bags they brought themselves. There is a constant stream of people.

“It’s good exercise,” says Larner, who started volunteering here as a schoolboy. He doesn’t stop passing bags for more than a moment in two-and-a-half hours.

“The demand has grown threefold since the Celtic Tiger,” says Alan Bailey, the centre manager, a light-hearted retired garda who now “works for a living”.

“These are the new food poor,” he says. “Many have a house or a home, but don’t have anything in the fridge.”

According to 2013 data from the Department of Social Protection, 600,000 people experience food poverty in Ireland. This was measured for the first time in 2010, at which point there were 450,000 people in the category.

Food poverty is determined, Sinead Keenan, project coordinator of Healthy Food for All tells me, by questions such as: “Have you gone without a meal in the past week? Have you been unable to afford a meal with meat, fish or a vegetarian equivalent? Have you missed a meal in the past two weeks due to lack of money?”

Keenan feels there’s a need for a cross-departmental National Food Strategy. “Food is becoming more and more of an issue for the people we work with,” she says. “The cumulative effect of austerity budgets is having a real impact on families’ ability to put food on the table. When families are struggling, food is the flexible item. They can’t cut-back on rent. Food is where they cut.”

Outside the Capuchin Day Centre, I start talking to people carrying blue bags. A young man named Stuart Comerford tells me he’s lived in a hostel since his landlord decided his lease was up two years ago. Currently his best hope is to “get one of these prefabs they’re meant to be building.” He sighs. “I can’t see that happening.”

His aunt allows him into her house to cook the food he gets here. “It really helps,” he says, holding the bag to his chest.

“I’ve experienced hunger a few times,” he says. “It’s not nice. You get weak. You’ve no energy, walking around depressed. It’s mental torture.”

A friend, who wants to remain anonymous, adds: “The mental effects are worse than the physical effects, I’ll tell you that,” he says. “You’re hungry. It’s physical. Then it shoots to the mental because you’re trying to distract yourself from the fact you’re so hungry.”

“A lot of people would be lost without this place,” says Comerford.

Ryan Dominic lives in a squat with a group of artists. “They live off what they find and you’d be surprised how deep that burrow goes,” he says.

“But that’s a whole way of life and you need a group helping you. You can’t just be an old fogey roaming around.”

Everybody needs a plan, he says. He has a business idea, but “can’t say anything about it”. In the meantime, he says, “I couldn’t have a decent life without this place. I’m glad of it. I’m not ashamed.” The centre, he says, “keeps people fed and happy and from falling into the criminal side of Dublin because of hunger.”

Has he been hungry? There have been times, he says, “where I survived on a biscuit or two.”

What’s that like? “Similar to some sort of madness, I guess; a serene madness. You become a little bit dizzy, a little bit lightheaded.”

He sighs. “Time goes on anyways.”

When Brother Kevin Crowley founded the centre in 1969, they fed 50 people. Now, as well as distributing 1,700 food bags weekly, they cook 250 breakfasts and 480 lunches daily. They now see a lot of young families who live in hostels and hotels. “Some days we have 40 children here,” says Brother Kevin. “I’m praying and hoping that, please God, it will ease off at some stage.”

Mariana Varvara from Romania is here with her baby, Luca (“You’re famous!” she says to Luca when we take their photo). She has two children, one who has special needs, and the money she saves with this food, she uses to buy “warm clothes and things they need”.

She’s been in Ireland since last December. Her husband, who works as a cleaner, arrived earlier and had nowhere to stay for a while. That’s when he found out about the Day Centre. They relied on it a lot as a family initially. Things are better now, she says, so she comes just once a week for the food parcel. “And they give me nappies and baby-wipes,” she says.

Her husband works very hard, she says, but their rent is high. She doesn’t think they could get by without the help they get here. Did anything surprise her about the place? She pauses. “In Romania people on the streets are ...” she does an exaggerated scowl. “In Ireland, even here, people smile.”

Tony Kane and his wife recently moved and are waiting for their rent allowance to come through. In the past he’d go to his mother’s house for dinner when stuck, but that’s several buses away now. A new neighbour told him about the food bags. “This feeds us five days a week,” he says pointing at the bag. “My wife makes a curry with the chicken and that does four days and then you have the cheese and beans.”

The first day he sat in the cold flat with nothing in his fridge. “I felt like moving back to my mother’s,” he says.

Food poverty is not just about having no food, though many at the Day Centre have experienced that, but also the ability to consistently source healthy food. Disadvantaged communities have higher instances of obesity, cardio-vascular disease, diabetes and many other dietary issues. In 2009, the Food Safety Authority examined how affordable it was to eat healthily.

“We did extensive studies,” says Dr Mary Flynn, the FSA’s chief specialist in public nutrition. They looked at the most common households and then, for each one, established what they needed and priced that food, in supermarkets, budget supermarkets and corner shops. “We found out that a healthy diet was just out of reach of families who were on social welfare.”

She talks about the poor availability of good supermarkets in disadvantaged areas, the difficulty of shopping effectively if travelling by bus and how much cheaper it is to load up on food rich in fat, salt and sugar.

“People get annoyed at me when I say that healthy eating is expensive,” says Flynn, “but it is. Because I’m well-off I can afford to buy the loveliest tomatoes, you wouldn’t need any dressing with. I can open a packet of blueberries and toss them in a salad. If you’re on a limited income … it’s very challenging. Anyone I’ve worked with who is disadvantaged, I’ve found to be much better managers than I would ever be. There’s no margin for error. To eat healthily on a very limited budget you need a lot of knowledge and skill.”

Dennis Cowap comes to the Day Centre every second week – the weeks when he doesn’t get his fortnightly pension payment. He retired from “the corpo” seven years ago and has been finding it hard. “The novelty of not having to get up in the morning wears off,” he says. “I split from my girl and hit the drink, but I’m getting back to normal … it can be hard. It came to the stage where I wasn’t able to buy enough messages for myself. I was always a proud kind of person but sometimes you have to put your pride in your pocket. This is about surviving, more or less.”

The first time here, he “felt a bit embarrassed. But they don’t ask you any question. They just hand you a bag, no matter who you are. Every creed and denomination comes here. They treat you as a human being and that’s a great tribute to that man that’s organised it.”

He’s happy to have a photo taken as long as we “touch it up. ’ll be a celebrity for the hunger games,” he says and grins.

An ageing ex-soldier called Thomas Fay tells me about leaving school at 14 (“you were just bet around there”) and teaching himself to read. He lives in a hostel and is fed there. “So to be honest with you. I give [this bag] to someone who’s more unfortunate than myself.”

He’s not the only person I meet who does this. Thomas Buckley, a once homeless man with a mod-haircut and a social conscience, lives in Ballybough on disability payments. He comes every Wednesday but usually distributes the contents of the bag among his neighbours. “We have to be kind to each other,” he says.

Food is about community, says Sinead Keenan, and Healthy Food for All was established in 2007 to address food poverty on a community level and to identify how policy impacts people’s ability to eat healthily. “[It’s about] supporting local communities to address the food needs in their own area,” she says. “We’re managing a three-year programme which funds 10 projects [Community Food Initiatives] across Ireland – running a garden, supermarket tours, cookery classes, talking about the issues and the challenges that people face in accessing healthy diets.”

Food, when it is sufficiently abundant and healthy, can be a source of community bonding and joy.

In the F2 Centre in Fatima, Roisin Ryder, who oversees the Fatima Groups United Food Project, shows me a book, Food 2 Enjoy, written by their Wednesday cookery group to be published on December 15th. Each page has a recipe submitted by a member with a photo and a title such as, for example, "Coddle is a Doddle".

This area has been very badly hit by austerity, she says, “and there are people who don’t have enough to eat in the community.”

But that’s a personal issue. While many in this group haven’t necessarily experienced food poverty (though some have) they’re all committed to spreading healthy eating and cooking through the community.

Downstairs, a room full of women are baking banana bread. “Hello Patrick!” they say in unison and feed me cake.

Every Wednesday, they meet to cook, talk and share tips. The camaraderie is strong. Many of them holiday together. “Fifteen women away for the weekend? Can you imagine?” asks Ann Fagan.

“I’ve seen people come in and just totally defrost,” says community health worker Rachel Byrne. “Each woman has experience and it’s about valuing that and encouraging them to bring their recipes and share with each other. That’s where the power is.”

Food skills aren’t being passed on anymore, says Margaret Foley. When she was growing up her father was a great gardener. “He’d be giving [vegetables] to me. I’d say ‘I’m not bringing that grass home’. I used to call salad grass,” she chuckles.

They share knowledge about shopping and cooking on a budget. They sometimes cook with food grown in the community garden. Though getting people involved with that is a harder sell than the cookery groups.

“We’ve a funny picture of one of the women digging while wearing high heels,” says Ryder.

Most discovered the group by accident. Mary Lyne was learning mandolin in the building. "I didn't have a note in my head. I learned Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." She fares better cooking. "I cooked a lot before, but not the healthy way."

“You think more about what you put into your mouth,” says Ann Fagan.

“Though when we go away, we do lash out,” Mary points out.

“The rule is 80 per cent good [food] and 20 per cent bad,” says Ann. “You need your treats.”

Ann Madden, a retired secretary and childminder, is also part of a knitting group. “We knitted a model of the Mansion House for the Lord Mayor,” she says. “It’d be terrible not to have this. I cook here and I pass on bits of information whether they want to hear them or not.” Such as? “Collect your butter cartons and make your soup and freeze it [in them].”

Tamara Chernechenko from Russia comes here after dropping her grandchild to the crèche. She’s here to bring a touch of Russian cooking to the group and to learn English.

“She makes a big effort,” says Ann. “Her daughter phones me and says ‘Ann, mammy wants to know what you were talking about this morning?’ ”

“It is very interesting,” says Tamara, in faltering English. “Irish cooking, Irish culture, interesting Irish women.”

Now when walking around the neighbourhood she’s constantly being stopped by people. “How do you know these women?” her daughter says.

Does she like Irish food? “I like Irish food,” she says.

“You have to say that!” says Ann. Tamara fetches a plate of Irish-influenced Russian pancakes. “Flour, eggs, Guinness” she says.

“Now Patrick when you go home you have to make those pancakes,” says Ann.

I do not make the pancakes (sorry Ann), but I do ring Healthy Food For All to ask about other projects I might visit. They point me towards the Breakfast Club at St Eithne’s National School in Edenmore.

On Monday at 8.10am, I find myself sitting in a room full of small girls eating cereal. It’s warm, the radio is on, and a volunteering parent, Catherine Brennan, is making toast. The principal, Janet Lynch, is greeting children.

“Fan nóiméad,” she says kindly to one girl and gives her a tie. “We’re strict on uniform. We want everything to be nice and for them to feel that they’re the best. Break the cycle, you know? We don’t want them to feel disadvantaged. They take pride in themselves and their school and they’re lovely children.”

St Eithne’s has run a breakfast club since 2013. This year they’re funded by the Department of Social Protection (they fund around 650 such clubs nationwide). Before that, “It was beg borrow and steal,” says Lynch. She recounts how they got help from Kellogg’s, how Brennan secured donations from Johnson Mooney and O’Brien and how “a lady from Cork heard us on the radio and sent money”.

She has long known there was a need for this. One in five children goes to bed hungry and she knows that some of them are in her school. “There would be kids in the yard in the morning before we’d even be here,” she says.

“And we knew that some didn’t have breakfast. We’d give them a snack mid-morning and you’d find some of them asking for extra, taking home spare lunches. There’s a kind of scavenging mentality that’s sad to see. As the morning goes on, the child might be more aggressive, more stressed. The whole day starts off badly.”

There are a number of reasons why a child might turn up early and hungry. “They’re maybe living in temporary accommodation, in a hotel, without a table and chairs, with nowhere to eat or cook,” she says. “Or it could be that mammy’s got a job cleaning and she’s gone very early in the morning and there’s no-one else to mind them.”

In some sadder cases, she says, “they just want to get to school because it’s a safe place and they don’t want to be at home.”

She doesn’t want to stigmatise any child. “It’s not their fault that they’re hungry,” she says. Some 61 of the 121 pupils in the school are signed up. Some of them would have a good breakfast with or without the service, but it’s there for those who would not.

There’s a lovely atmosphere here with music and soft chatter and the smell of toast. “We thought it would be difficult to supervise, but they’re actually really calm,” says Lynch.

“It’s a warm place where people are nice to them and ask about them. They’re talking to their friends. They’re singing along to the radio. We see if someone is sitting on their own or is a bit quiet. You nip things in the bud early in the day. They clear up themselves. They learn about organisation.”

Joy from fifth class, who really likes school “unless I’m tired or cranky” explains how it works. “We come into school and put our bags down and if it’s quarter past you go in to breakfast club and if it’s not you have to wait outside because you’re too early.”

“We help too,” says Katie from third class. “We give out the milks.”

“When you eat breakfast and go to class your brain switches on,” says Chantell.

“We’re also trying to educate them about healthy eating,” says Lynch.

Is Ms Lynch a good principal? In unison they say: “Yeah.”

Not all schools do breakfast, I observe. “I wouldn’t like that,” says Ellie. “I prefer to have breakfast with my friends.”

“It’s good to have breakfast with your friends,” says Jessica, Katie’s cousin. “You can talk properly.”

“I don’t like having breakfast at home as much,” says Joy, “I don’t keep up with the gossip at home. When I’m in breakfast club I can keep up with the gossip.”

“I wasn’t aware of the gossip,” laughs Janet Lynch, later. “I wonder what the gossip is in primary school, over the Rice Krispies?”

The conversation goes on some interesting tangents.

“What’s your name?” asks Joy.

“Patrick,” I say.

“My brother is called Patrick,” Joy tells me. “He was born on Patrick’s day.”

“My uncle is named Patrick,” says Katie.

“My dad’s name is Patrick,” says another girl.

“No it’s not!” says Joy. “Your dad’s called Nigel.”

They laugh.

“Are we going to be on the news?” asks Chantell.

“In the newspaper,” I say.

“In the newspaper tomorrow?” asks Katie.

“No, because I’m slow at writing,” I say.

“I’m really fast at writing so I could help you,” says Chantell.

There's a bit of a discussion about how much I should pay them to be assistants. "€50" is the going rate, apparently. Joy decides they probably shouldn't run off to join the Irish Times. "We don't want to be marked 'absent'," she says wisely.

At the next table a group of even littler girls are eating toast and cereal and, in one instance, wearing a furry panda-themed hat. They unanimously agree that it’s good to be in school early.

Do you come every day? “Not every day,” says Kacey. “Sometimes on Monday my mam isn’t ready.”

Do they like it? “Yes,” says a girl called Kaycee. “You get to meet all your friends and at home you don’t.”

This conversation also goes on a tangent.

“We have the same name,” Kacey says.

“My name is the hardest though,” says Kaycee, before spelling it. “There are six letters.”

That’s not the only difference between them. “I don’t eat the crusts,” says Kacey, pointing to a plate of toast crusts.

“I love the crusts,” says Kaycee. “It helps your brain if you’ve loads of breakfast. You feel better.”

Lynch and Brennan both say what a pleasure it is to run the breakfast club. Lynch would like to see them rolled out in more schools. “We anticipated this would be a chore but it just isn’t,” she says. “We see the children in a different light – just chatting away – and they don’t see you as a teacher here. We’re all just having breakfast.”

To donate or volunteer at the Capuchin Day Centre go to capuchindaycentre.com or call 01-8720770

[ irishtimes.com/food ]