I want to go home. 

I want to sleep in my own bed. I want to drink my mum’s tea. I want to drive my little car. I want to smell my dog (if you don’t own a dog, I promise, this is not weird). I want to lounge on a sofa as opposed to sitting rigidly on a chair with my head slightly stooped and my eyes fuzzy and only half open as a result of brain fog and overuse of iDiscovery.

I want to spend Sunday mornings in my bed reading the papers and watching Andrew Marr without the essay gremlins of my mind condemning my laziness. I want to sit at a table – an actual table, with chairs, not benches. I want to stay up late and waste time with my brother watching random YouTube videos (pandas, cats, I care not) as opposed to the occasional Snapchat exchange and the numerous failed attempts at achieving a ‘streak’. I want to use a dishwasher. I want to snuggle, light candles and watch films and spend time with my family. It’s been seven long, long weeks, and I want to go home. 

But what does it actually mean to be ‘home’?

Last week, I met a young woman – three or four years older than me. She was confident, bright and kind, and had this look in her eye, some tragic beauty that I couldn’t quite decipher. We met in the bank – lots of men in fancy ties, tiled floors gleaming with opulence (and most likely floor polish), and then this young woman slumped in the corner, charging her phone, averting people’s gaze. Beside her lay a puppy, a husky with soft grey-white fur, prominent ribs, and pale-blue eyes. The young woman stroked her, taking her time to transfer every last bit of affection to the dog, the dog reciprocating the love with occasional licks to her hand. There seemed to me to be this unbreakable bond between the two. I found it so moving that I had to speak to her.

“Homelessness in Cambridge is heart-breaking, but also deeply, deeply unnecessary”

I sat down on the floor with her, and we spoke for a while about her dog, whose name was Snowflake. The name was fitting, for the puppy seemed delicate, fragile, but also had this underlying, ethereal majesty about her. In contrast, the young woman was dressed in dark layers of clothing, had a backpack on her shoulders, her expression comprising both love towards her dog and an unshakable sadness. A friend of mine bought us all hot chocolate and the young woman something to eat. We chatted about her life. 

She’d been homeless for the best part of two years. She’d grown up in Cambridge – she liked it here, and felt as if she belonged here, so when things got tough she stayed. But she wanted to go travelling. She wanted to see the sea, to feel the sea air on her face and to eat fish and chips with her dog on the beach. She didn’t need her family, she had Snowflake – and Snowflake had her, and they clung to each other like they were the last beings on earth.

It was quite a striking dichotomy. The grandeur of the bank and the poverty of the young woman, whose richness came not from material wealth but from this ceaseless love towards her dog. The streets of Cambridge were her home, the comfort being provided not by the objects that I had so long craved for but by her dog. Snowflake gave her purpose, meaning, and a duty.

But Cambridge has a duty too. 

Homelessness in Cambridge is heart-breaking, but also deeply, deeply unnecessary. Despite the fantastic work of the likes of Streetbite and other schemes whose aim is to help homeless people, the issue does not seem to be going away. I do not know what the solution is, only that the cold winter months will cause greater suffering.

Homelessness in Cambridge

With students now preparing to go home themselves, and the infrastructure provided by student-run organisations being temporarily suspended until the new year, I wonder what will happen to the young woman and Snowflake. Where will they spend Christmas? One can but hope that the local charity sector will be able to bridge the gap – the young woman seemed sceptical of the help being offered to her by the Council. 

Last May of last year, Cambridge News reported a 41 per cent increase in homelessness compared with the previous year, particularly among families. We were told at the beginning of term not to offer money to the homeless – we should contact the police or homeless charities, as they would be best suited to deal with such things. I can’t say that I’ve stuck to this rule. To be political is to attempt to confront these issues – as so many students have done this term. But surely the University – or even the colleges, with their vast pools of wealth and investment – have a responsibility to do something too? It’s wonderful to see so many students engaged with the issue; perhaps the University will one day follow their lead or show their Christmas spirit to make sure that everyone feels they have a home for Christmas. 

But, for now, I know that I am not the only one who wants to go home. I do: I want to go home. And such a feeling, in my mind, is as human as it gets