Dora Parenteau has borne witness as a once unimaginable scourge has tightened its grip on Flin Flon.
Many residents were shocked this past spring when a report estimated that 100 Aboriginal homeless people now live in the area.
But Parenteau, manager of the hostel at the Flin Flon Aboriginal Friendship Centre, was hardly taken aback.
“Sometimes they just have the clothes on their back,” she says of the rising number of homeless coming through her doors.
At the root of the homelessness phenomenon is the decision by many First Nations people in the region to leave their home reserve for a new life in what by northern Manitoba standards is an urban centre.
Sometimes they burn bridges with their landlord or lack the know-how to find somewhere to live in the first place. Often, substance abuse, mental health conditions or both form added barriers.
“They have nowhere else to go,” says Parenteau, a kindly Métis woman with short dark hair and dreamcatcher earrings.
Orderly
The hostel, a clean, orderly sequence of 11 plain but comfortable suites on the top floor of the Friendship Centre, was originally meant to provide short-term lodging to First Nations people visiting Flin Flon for medical appointments.
But in recent years it has also offered a break from the streets for the homeless, provided they can scrape up the $27 it costs to stay there for a night.
A decade ago, Parenteau estimates that 90 per cent of her tenants needed the hostel for medical reasons and just 10 per cent were homeless. Today, the split is about 50/50.
What’s more, the ideal of short-term stays is increasingly impractical. Parenteau says it takes an average of four to six months for homeless people at the hostel to secure their own apartment. Some have lived at the hostel as long as a year.
Since the hostel carries a mandate to provide housing for medical patients, Parenteau accepts no more than five homeless tenants at a time. Room must be available when often-unexpected medical situations strike.
That puts Parenteau in the difficult position of having to occasionally turn people away.
“I get frustrated when I can’t help somebody because we just don’t have the space,” she says candidly.
That’s where Jane Robillard comes in. As a housing resource advocate for the Northern Health Region, Robillard works with both Parenteau and her homeless tenants to find long-term accommodations.
Robillard believes Flin Flon has enough housing for all 100 or so homeless people, but finding the right fit is not always easy.
An apartment might be too small for a single parent with multiple children, or the rent might be too high. In some cases at least, the hostel may offer safer housing than some of the low-end apartments on the market.
It’s true that safety is a priority for Parenteau. The hostel is equipped with security cameras (though not in the suites, of course), and Parenteau is strict when it comes to her ban on liquor and drugs.
“If they don’t follow the rules, they have to leave,” she says, adding that tenants rarely have to be shown the door.
“I want people to be safe and I want them to be comfortable,” Parenteau says. “Who knows what kind of situations they’ve been in? I don’t want to make it harder for them.”
At capacity
These days, between homeless and medical clients, the Friendship Centre hostel is full to capacity. On Wednesday, Parenteau was busy preparing one of two family suites – three beds on a white-tile floor – for a single mother with five children.
Homelessness aside, the increasing demand for the hostel may not be surprising. The four outside communities from which most tenants arrive – Pelican Narrows, Sandy Bay, Deschambault Lake and Pukatawagan – are quickly growing even as Flin Flon itself shrinks.
Housing shortages, lack of opportunity and safety fears are prompting First Nations people to leave those and other reserves across Canada at escalating rates.
“They want to move away from the reserve and get an education and better themselves, you know, [create] something more for their children,” says Parenteau.
Indeed some hostel tenants have had no problems other than their lack of housing. Students attending Northlands College and UCN, for instance, have lived there so they could go to school.
For those who need added support, Parenteau regularly refers tenants to services ranging from addiction counselling to the Lord’s Bounty Food Bank.
Parenteau herself can relate to many of her clients’ struggles. Originally from The Pas, as a child she experienced poverty – and more.
“I’ve seen a lot in my lifetime that probably a lot of people wouldn’t know,” she says.
