There is a politics of place, and a life in locations. There are the intimacies of a home, and memories that lodge in the walls. None of these are easily accommodated, or even noticed, by a government intent on a Big Announcement – by a premier making one more state-changing innovation before he resigns.
So it was that on 20 September Tehiya Umer was surprised when, without warning, two women walked into the community room at the foot of the tower at 120 Racecourse Road, Flemington, and took away a chair and table.
They were from Homes Victoria, and were handing out literature announcing that the building – Tehiya’s home – was to be demolished, along with another 43 public housing towers across Melbourne.
Within the hour, the announcement was being made by the state premier.
The estates would be redeveloped, with a mix of “social” and “affordable” housing, the government said.
At one level, this was an announcement about place, about people’s homes. About those memories. At another, it was about Daniel Andrews.
Most consequentially, it is part of a trend sweeping across Australia, in which state governments retreat from public housing. Instead, there is a new term: “social housing” – homes built in partnership with the private sector and charities.
‘This place was everything to me’
Hardly anyone likes the ugly concrete public housing towers that loom over the inner suburbs. It is common for people who have never been into these homes to describe them as hellholes, which deeply offends the residents.
Umer’s home – the 20-storey building on the Flemington estate – will be one of the first to be demolished, although as the leaflet handed out by those women declares, “nothing is changing overnight”.
The demolition program will be an immense challenge – starting only after everyone has been moved out, and then floor by floor, with care. The buildings are full of asbestos.
Two days after Andrews’ announcement, Umer is sitting in the barbecue area at the foot of the tower. It is a modest space – a few chairs and tables, a few plants. It is sheltered from the street, and most people would never know it was there.
But for her, it has been everything. It was here, at these tables and chairs, that she first found her place in the new country 20 years ago.
“It was like family,” Umer says. “It was like my home straight away. I didn’t have a job, and I didn’t know anyone, but I could come down here and have coffee and find friends. This place was everything to me at that time.”
She arrived from Ethiopia at the age of 27. A community worker in her home country, she had criticised the way resources were allocated, and corruption in government. “Of course in my country they harass you for that. They kill you for that. And I did not want to die,” she says.
With her two children, and pregnant with her third, she fled, and was accepted into Australia on a humanitarian visa. Her youngest child is now 19, her eldest 27. All are working or studying. Umer has completed most of a bachelor of nursing, and has a job as a care and support worker.
She runs the homework club on the Flemington housing estate. She puts in hours of informal and unpaid work helping others to adjust to the new country.
“I believe in freedom. I love Australia,” she says.
It is not that she is against the demolition. She agrees with Andrews that the flats are past their useful life. She is cautiously optimistic about what the government will provide instead.
But why did the government give them such a cruel shock? “It is huge, you know, the way you tell people.”
Demolish or repair?
The Flemington and North Melbourne estates have a traumatic record with the government. On a chilly winter afternoon in 2020, they were placed into an instant hard Covid lockdown. Police swarmed in the wintry dusk, bathing the estates with flashing blue lights as Andrews was on TV announcing the lockdown.
The ombudsman, Deborah Glass, later found that the severe Covid outbreak response was justified on public health grounds, but the sudden implementation without warning was not, and caused fundamental breaches of human rights.
Since then the state government has refused to apologise, as Glass recommended, but has reached a legal settlement with the affected residents involving total payments of $5m.
Barry Berih, born in Australia to Eritrean parents, lives in the North Melbourne estate and has been involved in this ever since, during the lockdown, he used his phone and social media accounts to help organise the community response from his bedroom.
But he found out about the demolitions at the same time as everyone else. That was a slap in the face to him.
Meanwhile, Hamdi Ali, a former secretary of the residents association for the Carlton estate, says the sudden flooding of the estate with doorknocking, leaflet-bearing public servants “damaged people more”.
“They were saying ‘don’t worry, don’t worry’. So of course when someone tells you not to worry, you start to worry more,” Ali says.
“People are not necessarily against the idea of moving, but they are anxious about what it means, and whether they are going to be thrown on the street.”
Meanwhile, residents who spoke to Guardian Australia nominated similar wishlists for their new homes. Air conditioning. Windows that open wide. Verandas. Most don’t want to live so high up. They were frightened during Melbourne’s recent earthquakes. They worry about fire.
Architectural academics have suggested that renovating the towers, together with “infill” development, would be a better option for the estates.
Government insiders reject that as an option.
There are too many limitations hard-baked in the structures, they say. The “sewer stacks” are not adequate for the numbers of residents. The tiny lifts are always breaking down and expensive to repair. The flats are cold in winter, and ovens in summer.
The rise of social housing
So what will happen to these estates, and how will they be redeveloped?
There is a lot of slippery language around this, both by the government and its critics.
There is traditional public housing – built, owned and managed by state governments, which act as landlords.
Then, there is “social” housing, which usually means homes managed – and sometimes built by – not-for-profit community housing associations in partnership with state governments.
Finally there is “affordable” housing, which usually means homes rented at a discount to market rates. These are aimed not at social security recipients, but people who struggle in the private market.
The Victorian government has said the renovated estates, presently comprising 6,660 homes, will, when rebuilt, include a minimum of 7,300 “social” homes. There are now about 10,000 people living in the 44 towers.
Once they have been redeveloped, the estates will house about 30,000 in a mix of “social”, “affordable” and “private” housing. It’s a huge increase in density.
And the government has refused to give a breakdown between social, affordable and private, and has notably avoided using the word “public housing” in any of its announcements.
Asked what was meant by “affordable”, a government spokesperson pointed to a definition that stated rents would be capped at 30% of median income. That means, in theory, that in some circumstances “affordable housing” could cost the same as rentals in the private market.
The Greens describe this as “privatisation” and possibly the end of public housing as we have known it.
So what is driving the Victorian government, along with those in other states, away from public housing and towards the social housing model?
Vivienne Milligan, an honorary professor at the City Futures Research Centre at the University of New South Wales, has been an influential person in housing policy for decades. She outlines what she describes as an “anomaly” in public policy.
Public housing tenants are not eligible for commonwealth rental assistance, which is paid to all social security recipients in private rentals.
But community housing association tenants do get rental assistance. That means the associations, which are registered charities, can charge higher rents with no net impact on the tenants’ disposable income.
As well, community housing associations are charities, and exempt from both income tax and GST.
That means that community housing associations have an advantage over state governments in covering the cost of housing disadvantaged people.
On top of that, the associations can borrow money without adding to state government debt.
A cottage industry of associations now exists, and today includes big, not-for-profit corporations.
Does that matter? Milligan thinks not, so long as state government subsidies and regulation is adequate.
An annual survey by the Australian Institute of Health and Welfare has consistently found that tenants in community housing are more content with their landlord than public housing tenants.
“They’re a lot closer to the community and not controlled by politicians,” Milligan says. “There’s no reason to believe they can’t do a better job.”
What lies ahead?
Meanwhile, within earshot of Umer’s barbecue area, there is an example of what might lie ahead.
Nearing completion are 366 new apartments – 240 of which are “social” housing, and 126 “affordable”. The two categories are in separate buildings, but otherwise indistinguishable from each other.
The flats are not luxurious, but they are bright and well designed. There are big verandas, efficient air conditioners and induction cooktops. All the internal doors are wide enough for a wheelchair.
Asked if all the redeveloped estates would all look like this, a government spokesperson guaranteed that the new housing would adhere to the same design standards. Some of the residents of the demolished buildings will be moved to these new homes.
Umer hopes for the best. “I’m not feeling negative. I’m feeling positive,” she says.
Shadowing her optimism is the knowledge that nobody in government cared enough to speak to her properly, as though her future mattered.
“They don’t seem to think about us. Even if our buildings are old, we still have the memories. Can anyone know our memories?”
Margaret Simons is an award-winning freelance journalist and author. She is an honorary principal fellow of the Centre for Advancing Journalism and a member of the board of the Scott Trust, which owns Guardian Media Group
