Beth Banks, centre, with other members of Housing Matters Bass Coast, including Cr Mat Morgan, second from right, and Jessica Harrison, right. By Catherine Watson
BETH Banks grew up in Wonthaggi at a time when ordinary working people could afford to buy a modest weatherboard home. Today, she says, even nurses and teachers – people with good secure jobs – struggle to afford the rent, let alone buy a house.
Now 83, the former community nurse knows the places where hidden homelessness lives around Bass Coast: the cars parked in quiet corners overnight, the humpies in the bush, the sheds with a mattress behind the mower, the couches offered to friends “staying for now.”
“They’re people who’ve run out of options,” Beth says. “No lease, no fixed address – just goodwill holding their lives together. Many of them are children.”
BETH Banks grew up in Wonthaggi at a time when ordinary working people could afford to buy a modest weatherboard home. Today, she says, even nurses and teachers – people with good secure jobs – struggle to afford the rent, let alone buy a house.
Now 83, the former community nurse knows the places where hidden homelessness lives around Bass Coast: the cars parked in quiet corners overnight, the humpies in the bush, the sheds with a mattress behind the mower, the couches offered to friends “staying for now.”
“They’re people who’ve run out of options,” Beth says. “No lease, no fixed address – just goodwill holding their lives together. Many of them are children.”
Her own wake-up call came six years ago after meeting a woman sleeping in her car outside McDonald’s in Wonthaggi. “She stayed there because the lights made her feel safer. That’s when I thought, ‘It’s really come to our town’.”
She reached out to local housing advocate Jessica Harrison and became a founding member of Housing Matters Bass Coast. For six years, with other members, they’ve lobbied for secure, affordable housing – a fight mirrored in towns and cities across Australia.
She reached out to local housing advocate Jessica Harrison and became a founding member of Housing Matters Bass Coast. For six years, with other members, they’ve lobbied for secure, affordable housing – a fight mirrored in towns and cities across Australia.
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Beth was born in Wonthaggi in 1941. Her mother was a solo parent, but the family had a safety net. Beth’s grandfather, a baker with a large house in Murray Street, welcomed them in. “He heard the gate open and came out: ‘Come in, lovey, you’re safe, this is your home.’ I slept in a drawer until they found a cot. We had a very happy childhood.”
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The figures
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Homelessness existed then, she says but it looked different. “There were returned servicemen who needed medical help, people with alcohol problems. Some slept at the beach or wandered the tracks. My mother was compassionate. She often called an ambulance so they could be bathed and fed before being sent on their way.”
Today’s homelessness, Beth says, is more desperate. “When I was growing up, even poor people had hope. Now there’s hopelessness. Even people in good jobs can barely afford to rent. Each rent rise means something else has to go – often food.” |
More than 400 households are on Bass Coast’s public housing waiting list but official numbers underestimate the problem. With a typical wait of over five years, many don’t bother applying.
“Couch surfers don’t get counted,” Beth points out. “And now we’ve got people in their 30s still at home because there’s nowhere else to go. That’s putting a lot of pressure on some families.”
Local agencies say the demand for emergency accommodation has never been higher, but the options are shrinking. The mining cottages and fibro rentals that once housed low-income families have been snapped up by investors, renovated into holiday lets, or demolished for new builds far beyond the reach of a pension or a casual wage.
In Wonthaggi there are no rows of tents in Apex Park or people sleeping under shop verandas. Unless you know the signs, homelessness hides out of sight: a young man in his ute at the beach car park, a woman drifting between friends’ houses, a couple crammed into a caravan without running water, older people going into aged care because they can’t afford rent.
Homelessness can be sudden and brutal. Earlier this year, 12 long-term residents of a Bass Coast holiday village – most elderly – were told they had to leave. “They were a community, helping each other. The notice was generous, but there was nowhere else they could afford. Some went into aged care even though they didn’t need it. But there was nowhere else.”
Older women are now one of the fastest-growing homeless groups. “They raised kids, worked part-time or not at all, missed out on super. When the marriage ends, they’re on their own. They don’t care whether it’s one or two bedrooms, they just need somewhere secure.”
“Couch surfers don’t get counted,” Beth points out. “And now we’ve got people in their 30s still at home because there’s nowhere else to go. That’s putting a lot of pressure on some families.”
Local agencies say the demand for emergency accommodation has never been higher, but the options are shrinking. The mining cottages and fibro rentals that once housed low-income families have been snapped up by investors, renovated into holiday lets, or demolished for new builds far beyond the reach of a pension or a casual wage.
In Wonthaggi there are no rows of tents in Apex Park or people sleeping under shop verandas. Unless you know the signs, homelessness hides out of sight: a young man in his ute at the beach car park, a woman drifting between friends’ houses, a couple crammed into a caravan without running water, older people going into aged care because they can’t afford rent.
Homelessness can be sudden and brutal. Earlier this year, 12 long-term residents of a Bass Coast holiday village – most elderly – were told they had to leave. “They were a community, helping each other. The notice was generous, but there was nowhere else they could afford. Some went into aged care even though they didn’t need it. But there was nowhere else.”
Older women are now one of the fastest-growing homeless groups. “They raised kids, worked part-time or not at all, missed out on super. When the marriage ends, they’re on their own. They don’t care whether it’s one or two bedrooms, they just need somewhere secure.”
"A secure home is often all it takes to turn someone’s life around.” |
She mentions a man who has been “quietly homeless” in Wonthaggi for a couple of years, sleeping in sheds with his belongings in a sleeping bag. Without an address, he couldn’t access benefits. The local police eventually helped find him a place. “Now he’s got a haircut, new clothes, a home and counselling. A secure home is often all it takes to turn someone’s life around.”
For Beth, home is about dignity and belonging. “I travelled the world, lived nine years in Canada, but the pull to come back to Wonthaggi was strong. When I returned, people in town said, ‘Hello, are you home? That’s good,’ it was a true sense of belonging.”
Stalled solutions
Social and community housing is being built in Bass Coast, but demand is rising faster than the houses. Beth’s frustration isn’t just the shortage – it’s the slow grind of the system. “Everyone agrees we’ve got a problem. We’ve got land sitting vacant, waiting for public housing. We’ve got builders ready to work. What we need is the political will to say, ‘This matters.’”
She knows how brutal the private rental market can be. Many years ago, as a community nurse, Beth visited a man in a St Kilda boarding house. “Only cold water, toilets always blocked. He had leg ulcers I couldn’t heal. I applied for public housing for him and one day got a letter saying he had a place in one of the towers. When we walked in, it was warm, there were hot showers, towels and soap ready. He started to cry.”
Public housing, she says, is crucial because rent is capped at 25% of income. “It’s predictable. People can survive on that.”
For Beth, home is about dignity and belonging. “I travelled the world, lived nine years in Canada, but the pull to come back to Wonthaggi was strong. When I returned, people in town said, ‘Hello, are you home? That’s good,’ it was a true sense of belonging.”
Stalled solutions
Social and community housing is being built in Bass Coast, but demand is rising faster than the houses. Beth’s frustration isn’t just the shortage – it’s the slow grind of the system. “Everyone agrees we’ve got a problem. We’ve got land sitting vacant, waiting for public housing. We’ve got builders ready to work. What we need is the political will to say, ‘This matters.’”
She knows how brutal the private rental market can be. Many years ago, as a community nurse, Beth visited a man in a St Kilda boarding house. “Only cold water, toilets always blocked. He had leg ulcers I couldn’t heal. I applied for public housing for him and one day got a letter saying he had a place in one of the towers. When we walked in, it was warm, there were hot showers, towels and soap ready. He started to cry.”
Public housing, she says, is crucial because rent is capped at 25% of income. “It’s predictable. People can survive on that.”
Building plans
- In late 2021, Bass Coast Shire Council identified six unused road reserves to be leased for 45 years to community housing organisations for social housing development. Only two have been taken up.
- Community Housing Ltd (CHL) proposes to build nine two-bedroom dwellings at George Street, North Wonthaggi, and five two-bedroom dwellings between Roydon Road and Wyndham Avenue, in Cowes. Both projects are being funded through the Big Build program and are expected to be completed in 2026.
- The Salvation Army was originally interested in the council's offer but dropped out.
- Bass Coast Health is building a two-storey development with 20 self-contained rooms on the Wonthaggi Hospital grounds next to the Kirrak House aged care facility. The project is the first health worker initiative approved through the government’s Development Facilitation Program.
- The Haven Foundation is building a supported accommodation complex for people with significant mental health problems in Caledonian Crescent, Wonthaggi. The complex will have 12 self-contained units plus communal facilities and accommodation for a staff member.
“We’ve been at it six years,” Beth says. “Sometimes it feels like we’re marking time, but we won’t stop. There’s a lot of goodwill here – you should see the food people put in the basket at Woollies every day.”
And there are enough wins to keep going. Housing Matters helped establish a winter shelter for homeless people at Cowes. After plans for Wonthaggi fell through, the idea was taken up by the Interchurch Council of Phillip Island, volunteers, and donations. Now it runs three nights a week through winter, with hopes of five next year.
Public talks are another way Beth and Jessica keep the issue alive. “Sometimes you think you’ve bombed – like the time in Leongatha when we talked to the Probus club and the room was silent. Then at the end they stood and clapped. People do care.”
On a recent Sunday, the group set up at Apex Park with the word HOMELESS spelled along the street. “Loads of people stopped to read the signs,” Beth says. “Even if the word just stuck in their heads, it worked. There’s more goodwill now than when we started.”
After all the meetings and submissions and dead ends, she can’t give up. “When someone tells you what it’s like to live in a car with two kids, you have to do something.”
And there are enough wins to keep going. Housing Matters helped establish a winter shelter for homeless people at Cowes. After plans for Wonthaggi fell through, the idea was taken up by the Interchurch Council of Phillip Island, volunteers, and donations. Now it runs three nights a week through winter, with hopes of five next year.
Public talks are another way Beth and Jessica keep the issue alive. “Sometimes you think you’ve bombed – like the time in Leongatha when we talked to the Probus club and the room was silent. Then at the end they stood and clapped. People do care.”
On a recent Sunday, the group set up at Apex Park with the word HOMELESS spelled along the street. “Loads of people stopped to read the signs,” Beth says. “Even if the word just stuck in their heads, it worked. There’s more goodwill now than when we started.”
After all the meetings and submissions and dead ends, she can’t give up. “When someone tells you what it’s like to live in a car with two kids, you have to do something.”