Source: Orlando Sentinel
Homeless people to tell teens about life on the street
Kristen Reed
Sentinel Staff Writer
[published] August 27, 2007
David Pirtle thought the worst of homeless people. They were bums, derelicts, worthless.
They were lazy, crazy and smelly.
It was a notion he believed as a teen and a young adult.
"Right up until I became homeless," he said.
Now, the Washington, D.C., man shares his story with youths across the country in the hopes of breaking down stereotypes and putting an end to violence against homeless people.
The message is coming to a city near you.
The National Coalition for the Homeless is creating up to a dozen local speakers' bureaus in Florida cities this fall. Daytona Beach and Orlando are among them.
The effort began in the early 1990s when a "Faces of Homelessness" speakers bureau was established in Washington. Small panels of people who have been or still are homeless speak at high schools, colleges and youth groups and share their experiences on the street.
That group travels across the country, and a handful of other bureaus have popped up in cities. But this is the first time the coalition is targeting an entire state.
"Florida is one of the meanest states for the homeless," said Michael O'Neill, head of the Washington-based bureau.
Florida has experienced more attacks against the homeless than any other state, according to the coalition. Statistics show eight homeless people died here in 2006 as a result of attacks, mostly at the hands of young people.
Groups try to stop attacks
In 2005, Michael Roberts was killed in the woods of Holly Hill when four teens repeatedly beat him with sticks, fists and logs. Earlier this year, John D'Amico suffered lifelong injuries when a cinderblock was smashed into his face in Daytona Beach during an attack by a 17-year-old and two 10-year-olds, who are thought to be the youngest attackers of the homeless.
Organizers also say Florida has a record of criminalizing homelessness by enacting policies that target the group.
The Orlando City Council last year passed an ordinance that prohibits groups from feeding the homeless on city property downtown without a permit. Each group can get two permits a year.
"When cities debate, pass and support such laws, it gives the impression that homeless people are the scum of the Earth," said Michael Stoops, executive director of the National Coalition for the Homeless. "The city wants to get rid of them, so young people think they'll do it."
His organization will coordinate with local homeless coalitions and assistance groups to set up the panels of speakers, who will receive a small honorarium for their time. They should be in the schools by November.
George Crossley president of the Central Florida chapter of the American Civil Liberties Union, welcomes the speakers.
"I am all for anything that will cause young people to stop thinking about homeless people as worthless," he said. "I think that is some education that's much needed."
Raymond Adkins has been homeless for seven years. He thinks having homeless people go into the schools would debunk stereotypes and show teens what it's really like to live on the streets.
"It would show the kids to not mistreat the homeless," he said outside the Homeless Assistance Center in Daytona Beach, where meals are served each afternoon. Adkins, who lost his home and business after a "nasty divorce" and also served time in prison, said he would be willing to share his story. "It's rough out here."
Daniel Hargett, who is passing through Daytona Beach on his way back to Ohio, said it would probably be better to make the teens hit the streets with the homeless.
"Take all the kids that throw the rocks and put them on the streets with [the homeless] . . . and see how they live," he said. "They wouldn't make it one day without their mommy."
Barbara Burns, the sister of Michael Roberts, already shares her brother's story with youth groups and told the coalition she would participate in a panel discussion. Her hope is that the speakers will be able to motivate teens to become activists for the homeless.
"It just starts with one," she said. "Then it just carries on over."
'Earth-shattering'
Pirtle, who lived on the streets for three years, already is seeing change by telling his story.
He had a "normal" life and worked as a restaurant manager in Phoenix until he began experiencing symptoms of schizoaffective disorder, a type of schizophrenia. His unexplained actions caused him to lose his job and his apartment, and he started hopping trains east.
He slept on park benches, rummaged for food in garbage and stayed in abandoned houses before heading to Washington, where he stayed in a shelter.
"I remember the very first night -- it was earth-shattering," Pirtle said. "It's a completely other world when you're standing outside in the middle of the night and you realize you have no place to go."
He began speaking to teens last fall and said it's amazing to see teens change their attitudes and get out in the community to help the homeless.
"No matter what you think about people who are homeless, you are wrong," he said.
Kristen Reed can be reached at kreed@orlandosentinel.com or 386-851-7924.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Friday, August 24, 2007
Federal Judge Strikes Down Vegas Ban on Feeding Homeless
Vegas Ban on Feeding Homeless Struck
By Associated Press
8:10 PM EDT, August 23, 2007
LAS VEGAS - A federal judge permanently barred the city from preventing people from feeding the homeless in parks, but upheld some other park restrictions that critics targeted as equally unfair.
The ruling Wednesday by U.S. District Judge Robert Jones allows the city to continue to enforce other laws, including trespassing laws, permit requirements for park gatherings of more than 25 people and the right to designate certain park areas for children's use only.
Jones ruled that the plaintiffs had not met the burden of showing that the laws showed a discriminatory intent.
"The City has a significant government interest in protecting children and providing public parks for their safe enjoyment," Jones wrote.
The ruling is the latest development in a 14-month-old federal court battle between the city and civil liberties and homeless advocates.
Allen Lichtenstein, general counsel of the American Civil Liberties Union of Nevada, said he plans to appeal.
City Attorney Brad Jerbic said the ruling affirms the city's position that the trespassing ordinances were solely intended to discourage criminal behavior in parks. One ordinance allows marshals to ban individuals from parks if they commit crimes on city property.
"It never had to do with being homeless; it had to do with conduct," Jerbic said.
Homeless advocate Gail Sacco [from Las Vegas Food Not Bombs], a plaintiff in the case who frequently hands out food and water in parks, said she is glad the ordinance prohibiting that was permanently blocked. But she is concerned about the law requiring permits for large gatherings because it's hard to predict how many people will show up when she is at a park.
"We aren't doing this to be arrogant," Sacco said. "We go where people are hungry. The food is a way to build a sense of community."
By Associated Press
8:10 PM EDT, August 23, 2007
LAS VEGAS - A federal judge permanently barred the city from preventing people from feeding the homeless in parks, but upheld some other park restrictions that critics targeted as equally unfair.
The ruling Wednesday by U.S. District Judge Robert Jones allows the city to continue to enforce other laws, including trespassing laws, permit requirements for park gatherings of more than 25 people and the right to designate certain park areas for children's use only.
Jones ruled that the plaintiffs had not met the burden of showing that the laws showed a discriminatory intent.
"The City has a significant government interest in protecting children and providing public parks for their safe enjoyment," Jones wrote.
The ruling is the latest development in a 14-month-old federal court battle between the city and civil liberties and homeless advocates.
Allen Lichtenstein, general counsel of the American Civil Liberties Union of Nevada, said he plans to appeal.
City Attorney Brad Jerbic said the ruling affirms the city's position that the trespassing ordinances were solely intended to discourage criminal behavior in parks. One ordinance allows marshals to ban individuals from parks if they commit crimes on city property.
"It never had to do with being homeless; it had to do with conduct," Jerbic said.
Homeless advocate Gail Sacco [from Las Vegas Food Not Bombs], a plaintiff in the case who frequently hands out food and water in parks, said she is glad the ordinance prohibiting that was permanently blocked. But she is concerned about the law requiring permits for large gatherings because it's hard to predict how many people will show up when she is at a park.
"We aren't doing this to be arrogant," Sacco said. "We go where people are hungry. The food is a way to build a sense of community."
Homeless Camp Is Site of 3rd Killing in 10 Months
Note: The victim has been identified as Stephen M. King, 49.
Homeless camp is site of 3rd killing
Walter Pacheco
[Orlando] Sentinel Staff Writer
[published] August 23, 2007
The slaying of a transient in a wooded area just half a mile west of tony College Park is the third killing in 10 months in the same camp frequented by homeless people, police said.
Orlando police on Tuesday arrested transient Robert Lloyd Davis, 47, on charges of first-degree murder in the death of a man whose body was found off John Young Parkway and W.D. Judge Drive. The victim's identity was withheld until relatives could be told.
Homeless camps offer open spaces, privacy and a chance to indulge in freedoms not allowed at shelters. But law-enforcement officials, advocates for the homeless and experts fear that homeless people are living under a false sense of security in the woods -- and they say the recent violence at the camps is proof.
"That area off John Young Parkway has been a homeless camp for the last 20 years," said Orlando police spokeswoman Sgt. Barbara Jones. "It's very dangerous and dark there at night and detectives said the area has booby traps to keep outsiders from entering the camps. The only time officers enter the area is when we receive a call of shots fired or a body in the woods."
In December, a homeless man at the camp shot another transient in the torso during an argument over a dog. Also found in that wooded area were the unidentified remains of a homeless woman. Police suspected foul play in her death.
Dennis Jackson bled to death on New Year's Day in 2006 at a camp off Technology Drive and John Yong Parkway -- about a half-mile south of Tuesday's killing -- after being stabbed in the leg. Charged was Richard Wayne Phillips, another transient.
But the violence isn't limited to the homeless camps on that stretch of road in Orlando. Four such homeless camps are in a three-mile stretch of John Young Parkway between Princeton and Columbia streets.
Deputies in January found the body of Michael Cowan in a homeless camp in the woods near Forsyth Road and Muskogee Street in east Orange County. Cowan had a gunshot wound to his torso.
Officials at the Coalition for the Homeless of Central Florida estimate that more than 7,500 transients live in Orange, Osceola and Seminole counties.
Social scientist Jim Wright, a professor at the University of Central Florida who also sits on the coalition's board of directors, conducted a study in January and estimates as many as 2,000 homeless people could be living in east Orange County -- more than half of them in homeless camps in the woods.
Racial lines divide homeless people between the camps and the shelters, according to Wright.
"The men living in the woods are predominantly white and feel uncomfortable in the shelters, which house mostly black men. They feel vulnerable in that closed environment," Wright said. "However, some of these men have been diagnosed with mental issues and they self-medicate with alcohol. That could certainly lead to violent altercations with each other."
Coalition spokeswoman Muffet Robinson said that despite these dangers, some transients still prefer the fragile freedom of the outdoors.
"We have these rules so we can provide the homeless with a safe environment," Robinson said. "But some people choose to stay in the woods because there they can do whatever they want and not have to abide by anyone's rules."
Walter Pacheco can be reached at wpacheco@orlandosentinel.com or 407-420-6262.
Homeless camp is site of 3rd killing
Walter Pacheco
[Orlando] Sentinel Staff Writer
[published] August 23, 2007
The slaying of a transient in a wooded area just half a mile west of tony College Park is the third killing in 10 months in the same camp frequented by homeless people, police said.
Orlando police on Tuesday arrested transient Robert Lloyd Davis, 47, on charges of first-degree murder in the death of a man whose body was found off John Young Parkway and W.D. Judge Drive. The victim's identity was withheld until relatives could be told.
Homeless camps offer open spaces, privacy and a chance to indulge in freedoms not allowed at shelters. But law-enforcement officials, advocates for the homeless and experts fear that homeless people are living under a false sense of security in the woods -- and they say the recent violence at the camps is proof.
"That area off John Young Parkway has been a homeless camp for the last 20 years," said Orlando police spokeswoman Sgt. Barbara Jones. "It's very dangerous and dark there at night and detectives said the area has booby traps to keep outsiders from entering the camps. The only time officers enter the area is when we receive a call of shots fired or a body in the woods."
In December, a homeless man at the camp shot another transient in the torso during an argument over a dog. Also found in that wooded area were the unidentified remains of a homeless woman. Police suspected foul play in her death.
Dennis Jackson bled to death on New Year's Day in 2006 at a camp off Technology Drive and John Yong Parkway -- about a half-mile south of Tuesday's killing -- after being stabbed in the leg. Charged was Richard Wayne Phillips, another transient.
But the violence isn't limited to the homeless camps on that stretch of road in Orlando. Four such homeless camps are in a three-mile stretch of John Young Parkway between Princeton and Columbia streets.
Deputies in January found the body of Michael Cowan in a homeless camp in the woods near Forsyth Road and Muskogee Street in east Orange County. Cowan had a gunshot wound to his torso.
Officials at the Coalition for the Homeless of Central Florida estimate that more than 7,500 transients live in Orange, Osceola and Seminole counties.
Social scientist Jim Wright, a professor at the University of Central Florida who also sits on the coalition's board of directors, conducted a study in January and estimates as many as 2,000 homeless people could be living in east Orange County -- more than half of them in homeless camps in the woods.
Racial lines divide homeless people between the camps and the shelters, according to Wright.
"The men living in the woods are predominantly white and feel uncomfortable in the shelters, which house mostly black men. They feel vulnerable in that closed environment," Wright said. "However, some of these men have been diagnosed with mental issues and they self-medicate with alcohol. That could certainly lead to violent altercations with each other."
Coalition spokeswoman Muffet Robinson said that despite these dangers, some transients still prefer the fragile freedom of the outdoors.
"We have these rules so we can provide the homeless with a safe environment," Robinson said. "But some people choose to stay in the woods because there they can do whatever they want and not have to abide by anyone's rules."
Walter Pacheco can be reached at wpacheco@orlandosentinel.com or 407-420-6262.
Teen Calls Beating of Homeless Man 'Wrong'
Teen calls beating of transient 'wrong'
Kristen Reed
[Orlando] Sentinel Staff Writer
[published] August 23, 2007
DAYTONA BEACH [,Fla.]--Jeremy Woods wishes he had just walked away.
Instead, he punched a homeless man, initiating a fight that drew national attention to youth violence against the homeless.
The one blow could cost him more than a year in prison.
The 17-year-old pleaded no contest Wednesday to beating John D'Amico and will be sentenced next month. The plea did not come with an agreement on sentencing, but the prosecutor is recommending that Woods be sentenced as a youthful offender to 15 months in prison followed by 47 months of probation.
Woods was the last of three youths to face charges for the March 27 attack on D'Amico. The case made headlines because two 10-year-olds, Drew and Jordan, are the youngest to be charged with beating a homeless person.
"What I did was wrong," Woods told the Orlando Sentinel last week while in the Volusia County Branch Jail awaiting his court date. "I just want to go home," he said in his first media interview.
Drew and Jordan each were sentenced to spend time in a juvenile-detention facility. Drew made a deal with prosecutors and will spend at least six months incarcerated. Jordan might be in state custody until 2018. The Sentinel is not publishing the boys' last names because of their ages.
A hard life in jail
Woods said if he could go back to that day, "I would have walked away from it all."
He said the arrest was the first time he had ever been in serious trouble.
Life in jail is hard, he says. Woods goes to school, reads and watches television. He's scared about where he might end up.
His lanky frame is swallowed by the jail-issued orange jumpsuit, and he's quiet, keeping his head bowed and saying little during the visit.
Woods said he was a normal teenager who enjoyed surfing and hanging out at the beach. He played high-school football in Georgia.
"I like to have fun. I don't like to get into trouble," Woods said. "I stay on the right track -- that's what my mom always told me."
But Woods' life was on a troubling track at the time of the attack. He had come to Florida from Georgia in December to live with his mother. A week later, she was picked up on a warrant out of Georgia. She was sent to prison, but Woods doesn't know why.
Woods had left behind his ailing father, who died within a month of his arrest.
Alone in Daytona, Woods found a job and moved in with Jordan's family because the boys' mothers had been friends. He worked doing odd jobs at the Daytona International Speedway, which happened to be where D'Amico found work as a day laborer.
Woods said he didn't know D'Amico was homeless when the attack began. He said he has never had a problem with other homeless people.
"I feel bad for a lot of them because they don't have anything," he said.
The boys' case added fuel to the fight seeking stiffer penalties for attacks on the homeless and for better record-keeping of the assaults. After the attack, Michael Stoops, executive director of the National Coalition for the Homeless, declared Volusia the second most-dangerous county to be homeless in Florida, a state that sees more homeless beatings than anywhere in the United States.
"It's a young-person thing to attack the homeless," Stoops said, citing statistics that show 13- to 19-year-olds are responsible for nearly 70 percent of the beatings. "For whatever reason, it continues to be a problem."
Teen threw 1st punch
Woods, who was charged as an adult, said he played the smallest role in the attack with fists, stones and a cinderblock.
He said he threw the first punch in retaliation. Jordan, whom Woods lived with and regarded as his "little brother," had told him D'Amico had punched him earlier in the day.
"I didn't hit him hard enough to make him fall or put a mark on him," Woods said of D'Amico.
Then, Woods said, he left. He thought the younger boys were following, but the attack continued and a cinderblock was smashed into D'Amico's face.
The assault left D'Amico, who has adamantly denied initiating the attack, with lifelong injuries. Woods wonders what scars from the attack will linger in his life. He had hoped to complete his high-school equivalency diploma, join the Army and become a military-police officer.
"I don't know if that's going to happen anymore," Woods said.
Copyright © 2007, Orlando Sentinel
Kristen Reed
[Orlando] Sentinel Staff Writer
[published] August 23, 2007
DAYTONA BEACH [,Fla.]--Jeremy Woods wishes he had just walked away.
Instead, he punched a homeless man, initiating a fight that drew national attention to youth violence against the homeless.
The one blow could cost him more than a year in prison.
The 17-year-old pleaded no contest Wednesday to beating John D'Amico and will be sentenced next month. The plea did not come with an agreement on sentencing, but the prosecutor is recommending that Woods be sentenced as a youthful offender to 15 months in prison followed by 47 months of probation.
Woods was the last of three youths to face charges for the March 27 attack on D'Amico. The case made headlines because two 10-year-olds, Drew and Jordan, are the youngest to be charged with beating a homeless person.
"What I did was wrong," Woods told the Orlando Sentinel last week while in the Volusia County Branch Jail awaiting his court date. "I just want to go home," he said in his first media interview.
Drew and Jordan each were sentenced to spend time in a juvenile-detention facility. Drew made a deal with prosecutors and will spend at least six months incarcerated. Jordan might be in state custody until 2018. The Sentinel is not publishing the boys' last names because of their ages.
A hard life in jail
Woods said if he could go back to that day, "I would have walked away from it all."
He said the arrest was the first time he had ever been in serious trouble.
Life in jail is hard, he says. Woods goes to school, reads and watches television. He's scared about where he might end up.
His lanky frame is swallowed by the jail-issued orange jumpsuit, and he's quiet, keeping his head bowed and saying little during the visit.
Woods said he was a normal teenager who enjoyed surfing and hanging out at the beach. He played high-school football in Georgia.
"I like to have fun. I don't like to get into trouble," Woods said. "I stay on the right track -- that's what my mom always told me."
But Woods' life was on a troubling track at the time of the attack. He had come to Florida from Georgia in December to live with his mother. A week later, she was picked up on a warrant out of Georgia. She was sent to prison, but Woods doesn't know why.
Woods had left behind his ailing father, who died within a month of his arrest.
Alone in Daytona, Woods found a job and moved in with Jordan's family because the boys' mothers had been friends. He worked doing odd jobs at the Daytona International Speedway, which happened to be where D'Amico found work as a day laborer.
Woods said he didn't know D'Amico was homeless when the attack began. He said he has never had a problem with other homeless people.
"I feel bad for a lot of them because they don't have anything," he said.
The boys' case added fuel to the fight seeking stiffer penalties for attacks on the homeless and for better record-keeping of the assaults. After the attack, Michael Stoops, executive director of the National Coalition for the Homeless, declared Volusia the second most-dangerous county to be homeless in Florida, a state that sees more homeless beatings than anywhere in the United States.
"It's a young-person thing to attack the homeless," Stoops said, citing statistics that show 13- to 19-year-olds are responsible for nearly 70 percent of the beatings. "For whatever reason, it continues to be a problem."
Teen threw 1st punch
Woods, who was charged as an adult, said he played the smallest role in the attack with fists, stones and a cinderblock.
He said he threw the first punch in retaliation. Jordan, whom Woods lived with and regarded as his "little brother," had told him D'Amico had punched him earlier in the day.
"I didn't hit him hard enough to make him fall or put a mark on him," Woods said of D'Amico.
Then, Woods said, he left. He thought the younger boys were following, but the attack continued and a cinderblock was smashed into D'Amico's face.
The assault left D'Amico, who has adamantly denied initiating the attack, with lifelong injuries. Woods wonders what scars from the attack will linger in his life. He had hoped to complete his high-school equivalency diploma, join the Army and become a military-police officer.
"I don't know if that's going to happen anymore," Woods said.
Copyright © 2007, Orlando Sentinel
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Z Mag Article on Orlando Food Not Bombs
Note: Orlando Food Not Bombs is an active member of Stop the Ordinance Partnership (STOP)
Source: Z Magazine Online
http://zmagsite.zmag.org/curTOC.htm
July / August 2007 Volume 20 Number 7/8
Helping the Homeless
The Right To Food
By Dan Read
Eric Montanez could hardly be considered a criminal. As a volunteer with [Orlando] Food not Bombs (FNB), Montanez worked distributing food to the homeless in his native Orlando, Florida. Just 21 years of age, he is one of many volunteers who serve meals to the hungry and work to create a community atmosphere with those in need. If you find yourself wondering how such a person could be considered a clear and present danger requiring police intervention, nobody could blame you.
But on April 4, Montanez was working his usual stint, dishing out rice and stew to 30 or so dispossessed citizens that populate Orlando’s streets. Meanwhile, his actions were being monitored by two plainclothes police officers, who called for assistance to arrest Montanez and take a vial of stew as evidence of his crime.
Despite vibrant protest from other FNB volunteers, he was swiftly hauled off to a local police station. Phone calls to the mayor and other civic officials were not returned, but fortunately Montanez was released from custody later in the day after posting bail.
Montanez was the first to be arrested under a new city ordinance against “large group feedings.” Aimed at stopping individuals or groups from feeding the poor and homeless, the new rule claims to address the concerns of business owners who fear that customers may be put off shopping by the sight of a “rough sleeper.” Other Orlando residents have also complained that parks are being “turned into soup kitchens,” despite the fact that such activities fulfill a vital role in the lives of many of the city’s poor.
Even though the official word coming from local government is that the legislation would not be enforced until ratified by a court decision in 2008, unofficially the Orlando Police Department appears eager to begin. Keith McHenry, one of the co-founders of FNB, commented that the recent police actions amount to “a pattern of trying to drive the homeless out of sight.” Indeed, it’s hard to imagine any other reason for the city ordinance other than restricting the movements of the homeless to preordained areas, paving the way for further gentrification of working class neighborhoods and brushing poverty under the carpet. Such measures have been tried on and off over several years, with authorities in a number of urban areas across America often toying with the idea of reintroducing them, despite the staunch resistance they have provoked in the past.
Unfortunately, after having been inspired by the example of Las Vegas—which has successfully cracked down on the feeding of the homeless in city parks—various Orlando political figures seem eager to quash any further resistance. Orlando FNB is now witnessing a constant police presence at their feedings, with officers on at least one occasion being fully outfitted in SWAT uniforms. FNB feels that the police presence is intended to intimidate both the volunteers and the homeless, in the process paving the way for the expected full- scale implementation of the ban next year.
A Turbulent History
The situation may not be as grim as some fear. FNB has a proud history of vocal opposition to anti- poor legislation, having endured widespread surveillance and persecution over the course of its existence. Since its beginning in 1980 in Cambridge, Massachusetts, FNB now has hundreds of chapters, each playing an important role in the lives of the homeless. Activists not only hand out food, but also political literature that takes a strong stand against the occupation of Iraq and the ongoing “war on terror.”
Over its 27 year existence it has been a vocal component of the wider progressive movement for peace and social change. The first recorded arrest of a volunteer was on August 15, 1988, when nine activists were taken into custody at Golden Gate Park, San Francisco. Over the next 9 years, over 1,000 similar arrests took place; 700 of them directly due to an alleged violation of a court order prohibiting the feeding of homeless citizens.
FNB has been dubbed one of the country’s “most hardcore terrorist groups” by the U.S. military. How such a label could be applied was difficult to see, but after September 11, FNB clearly lived up to its “terrorist reputation” by supplying hot meals to rescue workers returning from the disaster area. In the wake of the Asian Tsunami, FNB helped feed many who might otherwise have gone without. In New Orleans FNB volunteers were among the first to respond after Hurricane Katrina.
In a climate of fear, it does not take much for organizations opposed to the status quo to be branded as “terrorists,” no matter how absurd it may seem. The difficulties affecting FNB and other organizations are a reflection of the current reactionary epoch. In order to change, we need a refreshing breeze of progressive politics to counter the stuffy rhetoric of capitalism and stake a claim to a future where food is not a privilege, but a universal right.
Z
Dan Read is an activist based in the UK.
Source: Z Magazine Online
http://zmagsite.zmag.org/curTOC.htm
July / August 2007 Volume 20 Number 7/8
Helping the Homeless
The Right To Food
By Dan Read
Eric Montanez could hardly be considered a criminal. As a volunteer with [Orlando] Food not Bombs (FNB), Montanez worked distributing food to the homeless in his native Orlando, Florida. Just 21 years of age, he is one of many volunteers who serve meals to the hungry and work to create a community atmosphere with those in need. If you find yourself wondering how such a person could be considered a clear and present danger requiring police intervention, nobody could blame you.
But on April 4, Montanez was working his usual stint, dishing out rice and stew to 30 or so dispossessed citizens that populate Orlando’s streets. Meanwhile, his actions were being monitored by two plainclothes police officers, who called for assistance to arrest Montanez and take a vial of stew as evidence of his crime.
Despite vibrant protest from other FNB volunteers, he was swiftly hauled off to a local police station. Phone calls to the mayor and other civic officials were not returned, but fortunately Montanez was released from custody later in the day after posting bail.
Montanez was the first to be arrested under a new city ordinance against “large group feedings.” Aimed at stopping individuals or groups from feeding the poor and homeless, the new rule claims to address the concerns of business owners who fear that customers may be put off shopping by the sight of a “rough sleeper.” Other Orlando residents have also complained that parks are being “turned into soup kitchens,” despite the fact that such activities fulfill a vital role in the lives of many of the city’s poor.
Even though the official word coming from local government is that the legislation would not be enforced until ratified by a court decision in 2008, unofficially the Orlando Police Department appears eager to begin. Keith McHenry, one of the co-founders of FNB, commented that the recent police actions amount to “a pattern of trying to drive the homeless out of sight.” Indeed, it’s hard to imagine any other reason for the city ordinance other than restricting the movements of the homeless to preordained areas, paving the way for further gentrification of working class neighborhoods and brushing poverty under the carpet. Such measures have been tried on and off over several years, with authorities in a number of urban areas across America often toying with the idea of reintroducing them, despite the staunch resistance they have provoked in the past.
Unfortunately, after having been inspired by the example of Las Vegas—which has successfully cracked down on the feeding of the homeless in city parks—various Orlando political figures seem eager to quash any further resistance. Orlando FNB is now witnessing a constant police presence at their feedings, with officers on at least one occasion being fully outfitted in SWAT uniforms. FNB feels that the police presence is intended to intimidate both the volunteers and the homeless, in the process paving the way for the expected full- scale implementation of the ban next year.
A Turbulent History
The situation may not be as grim as some fear. FNB has a proud history of vocal opposition to anti- poor legislation, having endured widespread surveillance and persecution over the course of its existence. Since its beginning in 1980 in Cambridge, Massachusetts, FNB now has hundreds of chapters, each playing an important role in the lives of the homeless. Activists not only hand out food, but also political literature that takes a strong stand against the occupation of Iraq and the ongoing “war on terror.”
Over its 27 year existence it has been a vocal component of the wider progressive movement for peace and social change. The first recorded arrest of a volunteer was on August 15, 1988, when nine activists were taken into custody at Golden Gate Park, San Francisco. Over the next 9 years, over 1,000 similar arrests took place; 700 of them directly due to an alleged violation of a court order prohibiting the feeding of homeless citizens.
FNB has been dubbed one of the country’s “most hardcore terrorist groups” by the U.S. military. How such a label could be applied was difficult to see, but after September 11, FNB clearly lived up to its “terrorist reputation” by supplying hot meals to rescue workers returning from the disaster area. In the wake of the Asian Tsunami, FNB helped feed many who might otherwise have gone without. In New Orleans FNB volunteers were among the first to respond after Hurricane Katrina.
In a climate of fear, it does not take much for organizations opposed to the status quo to be branded as “terrorists,” no matter how absurd it may seem. The difficulties affecting FNB and other organizations are a reflection of the current reactionary epoch. In order to change, we need a refreshing breeze of progressive politics to counter the stuffy rhetoric of capitalism and stake a claim to a future where food is not a privilege, but a universal right.
Z
Dan Read is an activist based in the UK.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Once homeless, east Orange woman fights to feed the needy
Once homeless, east Orange woman fights to feed the needy
Kate Santich | [Orlando] Sentinel Staff Writer
[published] August 14, 2007
Migdalia Pagan is hardly a wealthy woman. She lives in a modest east Orange County mobile-home park with two of her children, a nephew and her husband, who makes about $400 a week as a roofer.
Yet each weekday at noon for the past three months, she has prepared a hearty hot meal for about 20 homeless people, spending a quarter of her family's income and sometimes even pawning her jewelry to buy the groceries.
"Right now, I have a two-tone cross -- white gold and yellow gold -- at the pawn shop," said Pagan, 42. "I have to do something. I can't let these people eat out of dumpsters. They might get sick."
To the homeless of east Orange County, many of whom live in the woods and rely on bicycles or walking for transportation, Pagan is a godsend. To the private owners of the Shadow Hills mobile-home community where she lives, Pagan is an aggravation.
After three months of letting her use one of two spacious, air-conditioned community centers for the hot lunches, the owners locked her out Monday. They told her last week that she can use the facility only to feed people who live in the park.
"The clubhouse is there for the benefit of the community," said Scott Gesell, president of corporate operations for American Residential Communities, which owns Shadow Hills. "We have no problem with her using it for that purpose, but our understanding is that there are only two to three people from the community at her feedings, while there are 15 to 20 from outside."
Moreover, Gesell said, the homeless have a tendency to "loiter" after the meal -- a claim that Pagan denies.
"These people don't bother anybody," she said. "And I'm going to feed them regardless of whether they let me use the clubhouse or not."
Pagan said Shadow Hills officials told her that she could continue her venture if she rented out the clubhouse for feedings -- at $400 a day. No one at Shadow Hills would comment, and Gesell said there would be a fee, but he didn't know how much.
The facility sat empty Monday as Pagan scrambled to find some shade for the diners. She settled on the parking lot of a now-closed Pizza Hut on State Road 50 -- though the heat was oppressive. Pagan shuttled over two of the homeless in her car, while a friend took several others.
Once there, she served up trays of barbecued chicken, baked potatoes, green salad, corn, bread, pudding and iced tea.
"She's a sweetheart -- a very Christian woman -- to come out here and feed us," said 44-year-old John Hensley, who handed her a small floral arrangement to show his appreciation. "I think the world of her."
Hensley, homeless for 10 years, has Parkinson's disease. His hands trembled as he carried his plate of food to a spot on the curb. Mark Mesluk, 45, said he is a veteran with a son killed while fighting in Iraq. He now battles post-traumatic stress disorder and is bipolar.
"Without this lady here, I'd have to hit the dumpster," he said. "But this beautiful lady -- she is a gift from God."
Of the two dozen diners, some were freshly showered and looking for work, and some weren't. Some were sober, others not.
It didn't matter to Pagan.
"I was homeless myself at one time," she said later. "I had a daughter who died from SIDS [sudden infant death syndrome] and that drove me to depression, and the depression drove me to into a heavy alcohol habit.
"I've been where they are. I know what it is to be hungry."
Those days -- now more than a decade ago -- were desperate. She even served a month in jail once for having beaten a man who stole from her. She was arrested on a charge of stealing a can of soup.
"I don't like remembering my past," she said. "I did things I should have not have done."
But now, she says, she has dedicated herself to following her faith. Her New Vision Ministries, as she has dubbed her charity-in-the-making, is aimed simply at helping people with whatever they need.
Today, with the purchase of an open-sided tent to offer shade and some tables and chairs borrowed from her church, she plans to serve lunch on the small patch of grass in her front yard.
"The homeless will be my guests," she said. "I can have anyone I want as a guest at my home."
To help Migdalia Pagan's ministry, call 407-233-4203.
Kate Santich can be reached at ksantich@orlandosentinel.com or 407-420-5503.
Kate Santich | [Orlando] Sentinel Staff Writer
[published] August 14, 2007
Migdalia Pagan is hardly a wealthy woman. She lives in a modest east Orange County mobile-home park with two of her children, a nephew and her husband, who makes about $400 a week as a roofer.
Yet each weekday at noon for the past three months, she has prepared a hearty hot meal for about 20 homeless people, spending a quarter of her family's income and sometimes even pawning her jewelry to buy the groceries.
"Right now, I have a two-tone cross -- white gold and yellow gold -- at the pawn shop," said Pagan, 42. "I have to do something. I can't let these people eat out of dumpsters. They might get sick."
To the homeless of east Orange County, many of whom live in the woods and rely on bicycles or walking for transportation, Pagan is a godsend. To the private owners of the Shadow Hills mobile-home community where she lives, Pagan is an aggravation.
After three months of letting her use one of two spacious, air-conditioned community centers for the hot lunches, the owners locked her out Monday. They told her last week that she can use the facility only to feed people who live in the park.
"The clubhouse is there for the benefit of the community," said Scott Gesell, president of corporate operations for American Residential Communities, which owns Shadow Hills. "We have no problem with her using it for that purpose, but our understanding is that there are only two to three people from the community at her feedings, while there are 15 to 20 from outside."
Moreover, Gesell said, the homeless have a tendency to "loiter" after the meal -- a claim that Pagan denies.
"These people don't bother anybody," she said. "And I'm going to feed them regardless of whether they let me use the clubhouse or not."
Pagan said Shadow Hills officials told her that she could continue her venture if she rented out the clubhouse for feedings -- at $400 a day. No one at Shadow Hills would comment, and Gesell said there would be a fee, but he didn't know how much.
The facility sat empty Monday as Pagan scrambled to find some shade for the diners. She settled on the parking lot of a now-closed Pizza Hut on State Road 50 -- though the heat was oppressive. Pagan shuttled over two of the homeless in her car, while a friend took several others.
Once there, she served up trays of barbecued chicken, baked potatoes, green salad, corn, bread, pudding and iced tea.
"She's a sweetheart -- a very Christian woman -- to come out here and feed us," said 44-year-old John Hensley, who handed her a small floral arrangement to show his appreciation. "I think the world of her."
Hensley, homeless for 10 years, has Parkinson's disease. His hands trembled as he carried his plate of food to a spot on the curb. Mark Mesluk, 45, said he is a veteran with a son killed while fighting in Iraq. He now battles post-traumatic stress disorder and is bipolar.
"Without this lady here, I'd have to hit the dumpster," he said. "But this beautiful lady -- she is a gift from God."
Of the two dozen diners, some were freshly showered and looking for work, and some weren't. Some were sober, others not.
It didn't matter to Pagan.
"I was homeless myself at one time," she said later. "I had a daughter who died from SIDS [sudden infant death syndrome] and that drove me to depression, and the depression drove me to into a heavy alcohol habit.
"I've been where they are. I know what it is to be hungry."
Those days -- now more than a decade ago -- were desperate. She even served a month in jail once for having beaten a man who stole from her. She was arrested on a charge of stealing a can of soup.
"I don't like remembering my past," she said. "I did things I should have not have done."
But now, she says, she has dedicated herself to following her faith. Her New Vision Ministries, as she has dubbed her charity-in-the-making, is aimed simply at helping people with whatever they need.
Today, with the purchase of an open-sided tent to offer shade and some tables and chairs borrowed from her church, she plans to serve lunch on the small patch of grass in her front yard.
"The homeless will be my guests," she said. "I can have anyone I want as a guest at my home."
To help Migdalia Pagan's ministry, call 407-233-4203.
Kate Santich can be reached at ksantich@orlandosentinel.com or 407-420-5503.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Transient victims are often nameless as well as homeless
Transient victims are often nameless as well as homeless
April Hunt and Walter Pacheco
[Orlando] Sentinel Staff Writers
published August 1, 2007
Venus Martinez has a name in death because she had been arrested when she was alive. Other homeless die unrecalled and unrecorded.
The 29-year-old woman had no identification when her body was found late Sunday near Interstate 4 in Orlando. But police had her fingerprints from past charges, including a July 11 arrest for prostitution and possession of drug paraphernalia.
When the homeless die in abandoned buildings, from violent crime or in accidents, a police record could be the only way to determine who they are.
"Without a name, without ID, they're a marginally subhuman population," said James Wright, a sociology professor at the University of Central Florida.
Drivers licenses, Social Security cards and military identification are among the first things to be stolen or lost when a person hits the streets. Without it, the homeless can't get full-time jobs, stable housing -- or even a name on a death report.
"Every Monday I get calls from code enforcement or law enforcement, looking for help in identifying someone they found over the weekend," said Nancy Martinez, a senior outreach worker in Orlando with the Health Care Center for the Homeless.
Martinez, who is not related to Venus Martinez, comes into contact with many homeless people on the street and in camps. She said more homeless seem to be dying from being run over by cars, a major fear of transients.
'The driver never stopped'
"A few months ago, one of my clients was hit by a car, and I couldn't even identify him at first because of the tire marks on his face," she said. "The driver never stopped. The car just kept going."
Police records make identifying victims easier, as does help from other homeless people who knew them, said Orlando police Sgt. Roger Brennan, the department's homicide-unit supervisor.
But closing cases can be difficult because witnesses, who usually are other transients, move from one place to another without telling police or anyone else.
"Transient witnesses who leave no phone number or name are extremely difficult to locate so they can testify in court. That usually delays cases," Brennan said.
One of the best resources for identifying the homeless is the local media.
"We get most of our tips after people read about it in the paper or watch something on television," Brennan said.
Questions of identity come up regularly. Orange County spent $115,000 to give pauper's burials to 301 people during the 2005-06 budget year. And 231 unclaimed bodies have been buried in two county cemeteries so far this fiscal year, which ends Sept. 30.
"We have some John Does and some Jane Does out there," said Pete Clarke, deputy director of the county's department of health and family services. "If we have a name, we put a little plaque in the ground."
August Felix has a plaque at his grave. The 54-year-old man died in May 2006 after five teens beat him to death for sport. He was identified because he had a record for trespassing.
"We're pretty much lost while we're alive," said John, a transient who goes by only his first name and fears dying alone and nameless. "Only other homeless people know me, and they would not tell police who I was if anything bad happened to me."
Even if a homeless acquaintance can provide information, as at least one did for Venus Martinez, transients often know each other by only first names or nicknames.
Dennis Wayne Pickett, 47, was killed by a hit-and-run driver in January and carried no identification. Friends who also are homeless helped police identify him and his dog Gloria, who also died in the accident.
But Ernest, another homeless man who uses only his first name, figures that no one would care if he were killed. He has no identification and no family.
"I mean, it ends here if I die," Ernest said. "I don't think anyone could even ID me."
Police seek killer
Now that investigators have identified Venus Martinez, the remaining job is to determine who killed her.
Originally from New York, Martinez had arrests locally dating from 2002. An October 2004 arrest for marijuana possession shows she had a home in Orlando. Two months later, she was listed as homeless when she was picked up on a warrant for theft.
To Nancy Martinez at the Health Care Center for the Homeless, the young woman was someone afraid of leaving the streets.
Their paths crossed just a few months ago, when Nancy Martinez was talking to homeless gathered at Compassion Corner in downtown Orlando about getting health care and other help.
Venus Martinez's boyfriend, whose name was not available Tuesday, wanted to be helped. Through the center, he got into a detox program and was given a ticket to return to his family out of state.
He wanted Venus to come with him, but she wasn't ready.
"He occasionally will call and check in and is doing wonderfully," Nancy Martinez said. "But every time, he asks if I've seen Venus and if we could help her."
"The biggest thing is, because you're homeless, no one cares," she added. "Her boyfriend cared. He wanted her to come home to him. He was in love with her."
April Hunt can be reached at ahunt@orlandosentinel.com or 407-420-6269. Walter Pacheco can be reached at 407-420-6262 or wpacheco@orlandosentinel.com.
April Hunt and Walter Pacheco
[Orlando] Sentinel Staff Writers
published August 1, 2007
Venus Martinez has a name in death because she had been arrested when she was alive. Other homeless die unrecalled and unrecorded.
The 29-year-old woman had no identification when her body was found late Sunday near Interstate 4 in Orlando. But police had her fingerprints from past charges, including a July 11 arrest for prostitution and possession of drug paraphernalia.
When the homeless die in abandoned buildings, from violent crime or in accidents, a police record could be the only way to determine who they are.
"Without a name, without ID, they're a marginally subhuman population," said James Wright, a sociology professor at the University of Central Florida.
Drivers licenses, Social Security cards and military identification are among the first things to be stolen or lost when a person hits the streets. Without it, the homeless can't get full-time jobs, stable housing -- or even a name on a death report.
"Every Monday I get calls from code enforcement or law enforcement, looking for help in identifying someone they found over the weekend," said Nancy Martinez, a senior outreach worker in Orlando with the Health Care Center for the Homeless.
Martinez, who is not related to Venus Martinez, comes into contact with many homeless people on the street and in camps. She said more homeless seem to be dying from being run over by cars, a major fear of transients.
'The driver never stopped'
"A few months ago, one of my clients was hit by a car, and I couldn't even identify him at first because of the tire marks on his face," she said. "The driver never stopped. The car just kept going."
Police records make identifying victims easier, as does help from other homeless people who knew them, said Orlando police Sgt. Roger Brennan, the department's homicide-unit supervisor.
But closing cases can be difficult because witnesses, who usually are other transients, move from one place to another without telling police or anyone else.
"Transient witnesses who leave no phone number or name are extremely difficult to locate so they can testify in court. That usually delays cases," Brennan said.
One of the best resources for identifying the homeless is the local media.
"We get most of our tips after people read about it in the paper or watch something on television," Brennan said.
Questions of identity come up regularly. Orange County spent $115,000 to give pauper's burials to 301 people during the 2005-06 budget year. And 231 unclaimed bodies have been buried in two county cemeteries so far this fiscal year, which ends Sept. 30.
"We have some John Does and some Jane Does out there," said Pete Clarke, deputy director of the county's department of health and family services. "If we have a name, we put a little plaque in the ground."
August Felix has a plaque at his grave. The 54-year-old man died in May 2006 after five teens beat him to death for sport. He was identified because he had a record for trespassing.
"We're pretty much lost while we're alive," said John, a transient who goes by only his first name and fears dying alone and nameless. "Only other homeless people know me, and they would not tell police who I was if anything bad happened to me."
Even if a homeless acquaintance can provide information, as at least one did for Venus Martinez, transients often know each other by only first names or nicknames.
Dennis Wayne Pickett, 47, was killed by a hit-and-run driver in January and carried no identification. Friends who also are homeless helped police identify him and his dog Gloria, who also died in the accident.
But Ernest, another homeless man who uses only his first name, figures that no one would care if he were killed. He has no identification and no family.
"I mean, it ends here if I die," Ernest said. "I don't think anyone could even ID me."
Police seek killer
Now that investigators have identified Venus Martinez, the remaining job is to determine who killed her.
Originally from New York, Martinez had arrests locally dating from 2002. An October 2004 arrest for marijuana possession shows she had a home in Orlando. Two months later, she was listed as homeless when she was picked up on a warrant for theft.
To Nancy Martinez at the Health Care Center for the Homeless, the young woman was someone afraid of leaving the streets.
Their paths crossed just a few months ago, when Nancy Martinez was talking to homeless gathered at Compassion Corner in downtown Orlando about getting health care and other help.
Venus Martinez's boyfriend, whose name was not available Tuesday, wanted to be helped. Through the center, he got into a detox program and was given a ticket to return to his family out of state.
He wanted Venus to come with him, but she wasn't ready.
"He occasionally will call and check in and is doing wonderfully," Nancy Martinez said. "But every time, he asks if I've seen Venus and if we could help her."
"The biggest thing is, because you're homeless, no one cares," she added. "Her boyfriend cared. He wanted her to come home to him. He was in love with her."
April Hunt can be reached at ahunt@orlandosentinel.com or 407-420-6269. Walter Pacheco can be reached at 407-420-6262 or wpacheco@orlandosentinel.com.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Homeless vets: A hidden crisis
Source: Orlando Sentinel
Homeless vets: A hidden crisis
Darryl E. Owens
Sentinel Staff Writer
published: August 6, 2007
Often, when Ryan Svolto manages to sleep, he finds himself back in Iraq preparing for triage, awash in blood and bodies. But he can't find his medical kit, and, helpless, he thrashes awake, damp with sweat.
As an infantry medic, he patched up soldiers wounded in combat in Iraq. Now, Svolto, 24, is trying to fix his own wounded life after a recent stint at a Daytona Beach homeless shelter.
Svolto is one of a growing number of Iraq and Afghanistan war veterans who joined the ranks of Florida's homeless after returning home. Experts say a system already buckling under one of the nation's largest homeless populations might collapse under the weight of a new wave of veterans, many saddled with mental-health issues and crippling brain injuries.
"If I could identify and convince every homeless vet in the area to come to a shelter or a transitional-housing program," said Cathy Jackson, executive director of the Homeless Services Network of Central Florida, "we wouldn't have enough beds for them."
For Svolto, it's yet another battle, one he believes he won't be fighting alone.
"That's the scary part: when they get out of the Army and realize they're not who they used to be," he said. "It seems easier to disappear in the woods and live that way. A lot of these kids aren't going to be prepared. I wasn't prepared."
Nearly half of all homeless veterans served in Vietnam. Hamstrung by a lack of job skills, by drug addictions and psychological issues, they became homeless 12 to 15 years after discharge.
But veterans of the latest war are hitting the streets much sooner.
Problems emerge quickly
A recent report by the Swords to Plowshares' Iraq Veteran Project, a San Francisco advocacy group for veterans, says new vets "are already seeking housing services, some just months after returning from Iraq."
But few of them are asking for help so far in Central Florida. New veterans -- including those who served in Kuwait and now Afghanistan and Iraq -- account for just 1 percent of clients in the region using Veterans Affairs' Health Care for Homeless Veterans program, said Dan Robbin, homeless-network coordinator for the region that includes most of Florida.
But during the next decade, the VA is "ramping up" with new clinics and medical centers across the state to help new vets, he said.
What the VA doesn't provide is transitional housing, which grants vets safe harbor to kick drugs, build job skills and return to self-sufficiency.
"There is no 28-day treatment program that's going to wave the magic wand and throw a little bit of pixie dust out there and make it all right," said Thomas Griffin, CEO of The Transition House, a veterans-recovery program in Kissimmee.
It's a long, tough slog that largely falls to community-based programs. The VA paid $2.8 million in 2006 to partially defray 20 Florida programs, accounting for 450 transitional-housing beds. Another 50 beds are in the planning stages, Robbin said.
But that puts barely a dent in the problem, advocates say. The Department of Children and Families recently estimated that veterans comprise about 18 percent of Florida's homeless, with best estimates at about 18,000.
And women now count toward the tally: Though only a fraction of homeless vets (less than 5 percent in this region), new female vets are more vulnerable to homelessness than nonveteran women, a recent VA study found.
Stress tests relationships
Experts think thousands of new vets burdened with war-related psychological problems will make a bad problem even worse. A recent study in the New England Journal of Medicine found that nearly 20 percent of Iraq vets show clinical signs of major depression and post-traumatic stress disorder.
Similarly, about a fifth of them have traumatic brain injuries, often the result of being wounded by roadside bombs. Such injuries can produce personality changes, mood swings and impaired memory.
Undiagnosed veterans become vulnerable to homelessness as relationships wither because they "may be blamed for their behaviors and struggles," said Dr. Shari Balter, a psychologist with Stand Down House, a Lake Worth drug program for homeless male veterans.
Svolto, who missed his daughter's birth while in Iraq, left the military last year. But he and his wife soon separated. Post-traumatic stress gripped Svolto, and he turned to alcohol to dull memories of the war.
"We were newlyweds when I left, but once you get back from combat, you're nothing like you used to be," he said.
War memories slow to fade
Svolto says he couldn't hold a job because of his condition. He maxed out his credit cards trying to stay afloat and lost his home in October.
He turned to Serenity House of Volusia Inc., a homeless shelter and substance-abuse-treatment program that provides transitional housing for veterans. He graduated from the program about three months ago and is receiving VA help with his post-traumatic stress.
Now, he's living with his parents in Deltona and working to win back his family.
Svolto says Serenity "kind of helped me to learn to cope with things and live life sober, but nothing [the memories] really went away. It's just a matter of accepting it more and more."
Shelters are decent, if also limited, stopgaps, but experts agree community programs geared to homeless veterans achieve the best results. The best offer transitional housing, sobriety programs and job training.
"When we start to look at the size of the facilities that we have and the number of homeless vets in the area, we don't have enough," Transition House's Griffin said.
Darryl E. Owens can be reached at 407-420-5095 or dowens@orlandosentinel.com.
Homeless vets: A hidden crisis
Darryl E. Owens
Sentinel Staff Writer
published: August 6, 2007
Often, when Ryan Svolto manages to sleep, he finds himself back in Iraq preparing for triage, awash in blood and bodies. But he can't find his medical kit, and, helpless, he thrashes awake, damp with sweat.
As an infantry medic, he patched up soldiers wounded in combat in Iraq. Now, Svolto, 24, is trying to fix his own wounded life after a recent stint at a Daytona Beach homeless shelter.
Svolto is one of a growing number of Iraq and Afghanistan war veterans who joined the ranks of Florida's homeless after returning home. Experts say a system already buckling under one of the nation's largest homeless populations might collapse under the weight of a new wave of veterans, many saddled with mental-health issues and crippling brain injuries.
"If I could identify and convince every homeless vet in the area to come to a shelter or a transitional-housing program," said Cathy Jackson, executive director of the Homeless Services Network of Central Florida, "we wouldn't have enough beds for them."
For Svolto, it's yet another battle, one he believes he won't be fighting alone.
"That's the scary part: when they get out of the Army and realize they're not who they used to be," he said. "It seems easier to disappear in the woods and live that way. A lot of these kids aren't going to be prepared. I wasn't prepared."
Nearly half of all homeless veterans served in Vietnam. Hamstrung by a lack of job skills, by drug addictions and psychological issues, they became homeless 12 to 15 years after discharge.
But veterans of the latest war are hitting the streets much sooner.
Problems emerge quickly
A recent report by the Swords to Plowshares' Iraq Veteran Project, a San Francisco advocacy group for veterans, says new vets "are already seeking housing services, some just months after returning from Iraq."
But few of them are asking for help so far in Central Florida. New veterans -- including those who served in Kuwait and now Afghanistan and Iraq -- account for just 1 percent of clients in the region using Veterans Affairs' Health Care for Homeless Veterans program, said Dan Robbin, homeless-network coordinator for the region that includes most of Florida.
But during the next decade, the VA is "ramping up" with new clinics and medical centers across the state to help new vets, he said.
What the VA doesn't provide is transitional housing, which grants vets safe harbor to kick drugs, build job skills and return to self-sufficiency.
"There is no 28-day treatment program that's going to wave the magic wand and throw a little bit of pixie dust out there and make it all right," said Thomas Griffin, CEO of The Transition House, a veterans-recovery program in Kissimmee.
It's a long, tough slog that largely falls to community-based programs. The VA paid $2.8 million in 2006 to partially defray 20 Florida programs, accounting for 450 transitional-housing beds. Another 50 beds are in the planning stages, Robbin said.
But that puts barely a dent in the problem, advocates say. The Department of Children and Families recently estimated that veterans comprise about 18 percent of Florida's homeless, with best estimates at about 18,000.
And women now count toward the tally: Though only a fraction of homeless vets (less than 5 percent in this region), new female vets are more vulnerable to homelessness than nonveteran women, a recent VA study found.
Stress tests relationships
Experts think thousands of new vets burdened with war-related psychological problems will make a bad problem even worse. A recent study in the New England Journal of Medicine found that nearly 20 percent of Iraq vets show clinical signs of major depression and post-traumatic stress disorder.
Similarly, about a fifth of them have traumatic brain injuries, often the result of being wounded by roadside bombs. Such injuries can produce personality changes, mood swings and impaired memory.
Undiagnosed veterans become vulnerable to homelessness as relationships wither because they "may be blamed for their behaviors and struggles," said Dr. Shari Balter, a psychologist with Stand Down House, a Lake Worth drug program for homeless male veterans.
Svolto, who missed his daughter's birth while in Iraq, left the military last year. But he and his wife soon separated. Post-traumatic stress gripped Svolto, and he turned to alcohol to dull memories of the war.
"We were newlyweds when I left, but once you get back from combat, you're nothing like you used to be," he said.
War memories slow to fade
Svolto says he couldn't hold a job because of his condition. He maxed out his credit cards trying to stay afloat and lost his home in October.
He turned to Serenity House of Volusia Inc., a homeless shelter and substance-abuse-treatment program that provides transitional housing for veterans. He graduated from the program about three months ago and is receiving VA help with his post-traumatic stress.
Now, he's living with his parents in Deltona and working to win back his family.
Svolto says Serenity "kind of helped me to learn to cope with things and live life sober, but nothing [the memories] really went away. It's just a matter of accepting it more and more."
Shelters are decent, if also limited, stopgaps, but experts agree community programs geared to homeless veterans achieve the best results. The best offer transitional housing, sobriety programs and job training.
"When we start to look at the size of the facilities that we have and the number of homeless vets in the area, we don't have enough," Transition House's Griffin said.
Darryl E. Owens can be reached at 407-420-5095 or dowens@orlandosentinel.com.
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