Two weeks ago, I had a theoretical introduction to the Housing Justice campaign, which calls for dignified housing for everyone. This campaign targets big corporations that profit from people’s inadequate and inhumane housing conditions.
This week, I joined the Housing Justice community group meeting, where members—either currently in asylum accommodation or formerly housed in it—gathered to raise concerns and discuss possible actions. During the meeting, we shared food cooked by community members using Migrants Organise’s kitchen. Cooking together is a classic, intimate communal act that I’ve witnessed repeatedly at Migrants Organise. People come, cook, and leave. It gets me thinking about the tiny blessings one has in life but rarely notices or often takes for granted. A kitchen is one of those. The ability to have agency over what and when to cook is not something asylum seekers usually enjoy.
While sharing a meal, the community organiser shared the vision for the action that was to take place the following day. Everything was thought out carefully. Each minute was planned, and every member was a valuable asset. The action was a simple act of protest against inhumane conditions at one of the asylum accommodations. Concerns included bedbugs, mistreatment, and poor-quality food. The plan was for two residents to deliver their complaints directly to management or a senior staff member, along with a letter that clearly articulated the issues, outlined demands, proposed steps forward, and requested a meeting where these deliberately silenced voices could finally be heard.
Immediately after the delivery, a group of Housing Justice members, local residents, activists, and two councillors gathered outside, chanting in solidarity to support the accommodation’s residents, amplify their concerns, and emphasize that this was not an isolated case. Many others had gone through similar experiences within the same system.
The community organiser appointed two leaders to guide the chants—one an established leader in the community, the other taking on this role for the first time. The meeting wasn’t just about outlining the plan for action; it was also about developing leadership and public speaking skills. I learned something valuable about organising: we’re all leaders, holding each other’s hands. Organising is an everyday practice.
Even though the plan was meticulous, one of the two residents had an appointment at the same time as the action, so it had to be adjusted. As someone joining this kind of action for the first time, I had never felt that loud in my life. I usually have a low-pitched voice, which sometimes requires me to repeat myself. But in that moment, as part of this group, I felt heard. I guess that’s part of what being in a community means.
Through this action, I connected with councillors, local residents who support the fight, and members who have endured the brutal system. It was an incredible moment of exposure and bonding. We’re staying updated on how the situation unfolds and how the management responds.
This week, I also joined the football group, which is quickly becoming my favorite. Being there every week helps me connect with members, learn their names, and build trust.
Over the weekend, I participated in an organising training for domestic migrant workers in the UK, delivered by the CEO of Migrants Organise. One ground rule stood out: “We are here in solidarity, not charity.” I appreciated this perspective—it rejects vertical hierarchies rooted in pity or mercy and replaces them with empowerment. It’s the classic “Don’t give me a fish—teach me how to fish” approach. This is a powerful leadership model: I don’t fight for you; you and I fight for us.
Another ground rule was: “We are here to build collective power, not to help the poor.” This framing is empowering. It disrupts hidden cultural assumptions that make some people feel less deserving or less powerful because of the labels they've been forced to carry. The training introduced concepts of human dignity and organising for power, where that power is shared—not wielded from above. That horizontal orientation felt radical at first, but soon made complete sense.