The courage of those suffering can be devastating

The community meal we run in a South Melbourne church hall started with three guests, which has grown to 90, many of whom live in temporary accommodation, public housing, in their cars or on the streets. Over the last year, these folks have formed their own communities, moving to their regular spots with their dinner companions.

Those on one table share tips for rough sleeping: where the taps are, the quiet streets to park your van, where you will get moved on from. The old-timers talk to the ethereal young man with the moustache and the floral dress; they are eager with their advice and full of fatherly concern. Others discuss prison; private versus public, and stories of jailers once known. They slap the table for emphasis and the salt cellars go flying. The table of women from the local rooming house teach each other rude words in their many languages; they giggle and weep tears of laughter. They are fiercely protective of their table. They arrive and leave together.

One is dying of cancer; another makes everyone beaded bracelets and another has a dignity that is numinous. All are fleeing violence and despair.

Tonight, there are two people whose courage devastates.

He is still wearing a mask. Always wearing a mask. It’s been a year now, since they took out all his teeth. The free dental hospital promised him a “four week turnaround, in and out.” But here he is, a whole year later. “Any day now,” they say. “Any day.”

When I first met him, he was a cheerful chap, always ready with a story, always up for a chat.

He’s subdued now, doing his best. “I go up and down, you know, keep me self to me self.” He stands before me, choosing only the soft food and covering his masked face with his cupped hand. He can barely look at me, such is his humiliation. No teeth and nothing to be done.

He moves off to sit alone, with his soup and mashed potatoes and then, she arrives. She is bone thin, like a bird. One arm is broken and in a homemade sling.

She comes here every week to eat, and she is very particular about which piece of pumpkin will go on her plate. “No not that one – that one.”