If you read nothing else, read this. 

                                          

Hello Dear Reader,

I read this today. I’m proud of the UK’s history of welfare state and NHS. Everything we hold dear is under threat. Austerity in the U.K. Is making monsters out of the most vulnerable: the poor, the poorly paid, the disabled, the young, low paid families and the elderly. Whilst it’s under threat and can still be fought for we all need reminding of the misery of poverty with the lack of healthcare. Please take time to read; it’s harrowing and deeply affected me. Froogs xxxx

The article is from The New Statesman

UK 31 OCTOBER 2014“Hunger, filth, fear and death”: remembering life before the NHS

Harry Leslie Smith, a 91-year-old RAF veteran born into an impoverished mining family, recalls a Britain without a welfare state.

BY HARRY LESLIE SMITH  

Over 90 years ago, I was born in Barnsley, Yorkshire, to a working-class family. Poverty was as natural to us as great wealth and power were to the aristocracy of that age. Like his father and grandfather before him, my dad, Albert, eked out a meagre existence as a miner, working hundreds of feet below the surface, smashing the rock face with a pickaxe, searching for coal.
Hard work and poor wages didn’t turn my dad into a radical. They did, however, make him an idealist, because he believed that a fair wage, education, trade unions and universal suffrage were the means to a prosperous democracy. He endured brutal working conditions but they never hardened his spirit against his family or his comrades in the pits. Instead, the harsh grind of work made his soul as gentle as a beast of burden that toiled in desolate fields for the profit of others.
My mother, Lillian, however, was made of sterner stuff. She understood that brass, not love, made the world go round. So when a midwife with a love of gin and carbolic soap delivered me safely on a cold winter’s night in February 1923 into my mum’s exhausted arms, I was swaddled in her rough-and-ready love, which toughened my skin with a harsh affection. I was the first son but I had two elder sisters who had already skinned their knees and elbows in the mad fight to stay alive in the days before the social safety network. Later on, our family would include two half-brothers, after my mother was compelled to look for a more secure provider than my dad during the Great Depression.
By the time I was weaned from my mother’s breast, I had begun to learn the cruel lessons that the world inflicted on its poor. At the age of seven, my eldest sister, Marion, contracted tuberculosis, which was a common and deadly disease for those who lived hand to mouth in early-20th-century Britain. Her illness was directly spawned from our poverty, which forced us to live in a series of fetid slums.
Despite being a full-time worker, my dad was always one pay packet away from destitution. Several times, my family did midnight flits and moved from one decre­pit single-bedroom tenement to the next. Yet we never seemed to move far from the town’s tip, a giant wasteland stacked with rotting rubbish, which became a playground for preschool children.

At the beginning of my life, affordable health care was out of reach for much of the population. A doctor’s visit could cost the equivalent of half a week’s wages, so most people relied on good fortune rather than medical advice to see them safely through an illness. But luck and guile went only so far and many lives were snatched away before they had a chance to start. The wages of the ordinary worker were at a mere subsistence level and therefore medicine or simple rest was out of the question for many people.
Unfortunately for my sister, luck was also in short supply in our household. Because my parents could neither afford to see a consultant nor send my sister to a sanatorium, Marion’s TB spread and infected her spine, leaving her an invalid.
The 1926 General Strike, which began just as my sister started her slow and painful journey from life to death, was about more than wages to my dad and many others. It was called by the TUC in protest against mine owners who were using strong-arm tactics to force their workers to accept longer work hours for less take-home pay. At its start, it involved 1.7 million industrialised workers.

In essence, the strike was about the right of all people, regardless of their economic station, to live a dignified and meaningful life. My father joined it with enthusiasm, because he believed that all workers, from tram drivers to those who dug ore, deserved a living wage. But for my father the strike was also about the belief that he might be able to right the wrongs done to him and his family; if only he had more money in his pay packet, he might have been able to afford decent health care for all of us.
Unfortunately, the General Strike was crushed by the government, which first bullied TUC members to return to their work stations. Eight months later, it did the same to the miners whose communities had been beggared by being on the pickets for so long. My dad and his workmates had to accept wage cuts.
I remember my sister’s pain and anguish during her final weeks of life in October 1926. I’d play beside her in our parlour, which was as squalid as an animal pen, while she lay on a wicker landau, tied down by ropes to prevent her from falling to the ground while unattended. When Marion’s care became too much for my mother to endure, she was sent to our neighbourhood workhouse, which had been imprisoning the indigent since the days of Charles Dickens.
The workhouse where Marion died was a large, brick building less than a mile from our living quarters. Since it had been designed as a prison for the poor, it had few windows and had a high wall surrounding it. When my sister left our house and was transported there on a cart pulled by an old horse, my mum and dad told my other sister and me to wave goodbye, because Marion was going to a better place than here.

The workhouse was not used only as a prison for those who had been ruined by poverty; it also had a primitive infirmary attached to it, where the poor could receive limited medical attention. Perhaps the only compassion the place allowed my parents was permission to visit their daughter to calm her fears of death.
My sister died behind the thick, limestone walls at the age of ten, and perhaps the only compassion the place allowed my parents was permission to visit their daughter to calm her fears of death. As we didn’t have the money to give her a proper burial, Marion was thrown into a communal grave for those too poor to matter. Since then, the pauper’s pit has been replaced by a dual carriageway.
Some historians have called the decade of my birth “the Roaring Twenties” but for most it was a long death rattle. Wages were low, rents were high and there was little or no job protection as a result of a postwar recession that had gutted Britain’s industrial heartland. When the Great Depression struck Britain in the 1930s, it turned our cities and towns into a charnel house for the working class, because they had no economic reserves left to withstand prolonged joblessness and the ruling class believed that benefits led to fecklessness.

Even now, when I look back to those gaslight days of my boyhood and youth, all I can recollect is hunger, filth, fear and death. My mother called those terrible years for our family, our friends and our nation a time when “hard rain ate cold Yorkshire stone for its tea”.
I will never forget seeing as a teenager the faces of former soldiers who had been broken physically and mentally during the Great War and were living rough in the back alleys of Bradford. Their faces were haunted not by the brutality of the war but by the savagery of the peace. Nor will I forget as long as I shall live the screams that fell out of dosshouse windows from the dying and mentally ill, who were denied medicine and solace because they didn’t have the money to pay for medical services.

Like today, those tragedies were perpetuated by a coalition government preaching that the only cure for our economic troubles was a harsh austerity, which promised to right Britain’s finances through the sacrifice of its lowest-paid workers. When my dad got injured, the dole he received was ten shillings a week. My family, like millions of others, were reduced to beggary. In the 1930s, the government believed that private charities were more suitable for providing alms for those who had been ruined in the Great Depression.
Austerity in the 1930s was like a pogrom against Britain’s working class. It blighted so many lives through preventable ailments caused by malnutrition, as well as thwarting ordinary people’s aspirations for a decent life by denying them housing, full- time employment or a proper education.

As Britain’s and my family’s economic situation worsened in the 1930s, we upped sticks from Barnsley to Bradford in the hope that my father might find work. But there were too many adults out of work and jobs were scarce, so he never found full-time employment again. We lived in dosshouses. They were cheap, sad places filled with people broken financially and emotionally. Since we had no food, my mum had me indentured to a seedy off-licence located near our rooming house. At the age of seven, I became a barrow boy and delivered bottles of beer to the down-and-outs who populated our neighbourhood.
My family were nomads. We flitted from one dosshouse to the next, trying to keep ahead of the rent collector. We moved around the slums of Bradford and when we had outstayed our welcome there, we moved on to Sowerby Bridge, before ending up in Halifax. As I grew up, my schooling suffered; I had to work to keep my sister, my mum and half-brothers fed. At the age of ten, I was helping to deliver coal and by my teens, I started work as a grocer’s assistant. At 17, I had been promoted to store manager. However, at the age of 18, the Second World War intervened in whatever else I had planned for the rest of my life. I volunteered to join the RAF.
My politics was forged in the slums of Yorkshire but it was in the summer of 1945, at the age of 22, that I finally felt able to exorcise the misery of my early days. In that long ago July, I was a member of the RAF stationed in Hamburg; a city left ruined and derelict by war. I had been a member of the air force since 1941 but my war had been good, because I had walked away from it without needing so much as a plaster for a shaving nick. At its end, my unit had been seconded to be part of the occupational forces charged with rebuilding a German society gutted by Hitler and our bombs.

It was in the palm of that ravaged city that I voted in Britain’s first general election since the war began. As I stood to cast my ballot in the heat of that summer, I joked with my mates, smoked Player’s cigarettes and stopped to look out towards a shattered German skyline. I realised then that this election was momentous because it meant that a common person, like me, had a chance of changing his future.

So it seemed only natural and right that I voted for a political party that saw health care, housing and education as basic human rights for all of its citizens and not just the well-to-do. When I marked my X on the ballot paper, I voted for all those who had died, like my sister, in the workhouse; for men like my father who had been broken beyond repair by the Great Depression; and for women like my mum who had been tortured by grief over a child lost through unjust poverty. And I voted for myself and my right to a fair and decent life.
I voted for Labour and the creation of the welfare state and the NHS, free for all its users. And now, nearly 70 years later, I fear for the future of my grandchildren’s generation, because Britain’s social welfare state is being dismantled brick by brick.
My life didn’t really begin until the end of the Second World War. I fell in love with Friede, a German woman, whom I married and brought home to Halifax. My wife gave me emotional stability while the welfare state gave me economic stability. When I was demobbed, I didn’t have many prospects, except using my brawn over my brain. I took factory jobs while my wife and I studied at night school. But I am forever grateful for the foundation of the NHS, because it allowed my wife to receive first-rate treatment for the PTSD she acquired by having witnessed both the atrocities of the Nazis and the firebombing of Hamburg, which killed 50,000 people in three nights of intense RAF bombing in 1943.
My experiences of growing up in Britain before the NHS, when one’s health was determined by one’s wealth, and after 1948, when free health care was seen as a cornerstone for a healthy economy and democracy, convinced me that it was my duty to share my family experiences at this year’s Labour party conference. I agreed to speak about the NHS because I know there are few people left who can remember that brutal time before the welfare state, when life for many was short and cruel. I felt that I owed it to my sister Marion, whose life was cut short by extreme poverty and poor health care, along with all of those other victims of a society that protected the rich and condemned the poor to miserable lives. In many ways, making that speech freed me from the suffering of my youth. 
Harry Leslie Smith is the author of a memoir: “Harry’s Last Stand: How the World My Generation Built is Falling Down and What We Can Do to Save it” (Icon Books, £8.99) 

Harry Leslie Smith is a survivor of the Great Depression, a Second World War RAF veteran and an activist for the poor and for the preservation of social democracy. He has authored numerous books about Britain during the Great Depression, the Second World War, and post-war austerity. Join Harry on Twitter @Harryslaststand.

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31 thoughts on “If you read nothing else, read this. 

  1. Oh my goodness, this really makes you think. This week I have been to the doctor for an injured knee and my Big boy to the dentist for treatment. Obviously both funded by the NHS. We just take it for granted that if you’re ill or need treatment it’s there, you don’t worry if you can afford it or not. How different life would be without the NHS.

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  2. My parents both came from extreme poverty, my mother has denied it all her life and still in her 80s hates the poor the disabled and immigrants . my dad however was much as this gentleman he to had lost a sister to diphtheria , when there was no money for anything , he was a lifelong labour man and believed the NHS was our greatest creation, sadly he died of corporate neglect in a NHS bed on a ward with only 2 wonderful staff.

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  3. Thank you for sharing. It is hard to understand how those in power cannot see the NHS as a good thing, that everybody deserves health care.

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  4. This story is so true; but the sad thing is that generation will soon be gone and no one really the intense misery and pain suffered.

    Thank for sharing on your blog.

    Lila

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      • Well its not that great in the United States; high prescriptions, wait for referrals to see a doctor, and when you need to go into a nursing you are granted a bed, chest of drawers, bed side table and chair. Not too mention hateful staff everywhere and piss poor food. Then you lay there and wait to die.

        Lila

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  5. Today, my Father who is eaten up by cancer attended Derriford Hospital to see his consultant, he is so weak he could hardly make it,they were running an hour behind but seeing our beloved brave Dad in such a bad way, they saw him straight away,they were and always have been wonderful throughout his treatment, sadly he will now have palliative care as the hospital have done their best and respect his wishes to be at home. We will be eternally grateful to all those who have cared for him and acknowledge that when under pressure our NHS shines and how lucky we are to live in these times in this country, Heres hoping it will always be so!

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  6. I have seen the roll-back of welfare services during the past few decades……services that were hard-won. The NHS was a civilised reform and that too is being cruelly privatised for profit .As we are a nation not given to protesting on the streets (we just whine} can you think of a way to halt the rot ?

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  7. I live in Australia and similar things are happening here. It seems our parliament loves the American system as well. Now I have health care again and I cannot afford to use it. I struggle as it takes a huge chunk of my income. Why? Because I have waited over seven years to have my gallbladder removed in the public system.

    My mother grew up in the towns that the author has mentioned, My grandfather was a monument making stone mason. When times are tough headstones etc are not bought. So in his middle age grandad trained as a fitter and turner. He moved his family here in the early fifties. Sadly he never really found work in his beloved stone masonry.

    I believe people are going to have to fight hard to maintain the rights others gave up so much to achieve. Thank you for the reminder.

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  8. hello, excuse the bad English made the translator, we went through a similar moment in my country when politicians decide the future (20 years) also claiming the reconstruction of the economy and putting the small improvements we had, especially for the poorest. while for the rich is nothing alterado.Me thrilled with the story, hugs a fan of Brazil.

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  9. Hello to Suzan and all of you, I’m afraid there’s a development towards privatisation of the health sector in many countries. Writing from Germany, social pressure here is rising significantly for working and middle class, we do have a two class health system here by now although officially this is denied. The general mandatory health insurance system here couldn’t prevent this. Thank you, Froogs, for sharing this important text. There is so much to lose.
    Besides, I’m deeply touched by Harry’s love story with a German lady after this horrible war. In case you don’t know: her first name “Friede” means “peace” – and I’m grateful for the peace we have had for the last decades.

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  10. Thanks for sharing. A very moving recollection.
    It rings so true with the stories my grandmother related of bringing up her family in the 1920s and thirties. She was married to a man who had been severely injured during world war 1. He was so ill but nevertheless received no help and laboured as work was available. Fortunately they had access to a large garden which was essential io feed their seven surviving children. Large families were not a choice at a time when any contraception was unavailable to the poor.
    She would tell these stories to us in such a matter of fact way and even with humour. I honestly don’t know how she managed she was and continues to be my inspiration but we must never allow those days to return.

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  11. Thanks to Harry and my ancestors I was born in a new NHS hospital 5 days after the NHS started but I have my doubts it will see me out, I just dread to think what will replace it. We must fight to keep the NHS.

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  12. Thanks for sharing this.

    So many folk know nothing of our country’s recent history or the long fight for social help, housing and the set up of the NHS. Unfortunately, although we pay our National Insurance contributions the funding doesn’t get to the departments we are paying for, instead it is hijacked by Government for things we only find out about when there is an outcry about wasteful expenditure.

    Without the brilliant services of the NHS this week my Mum would most likely be either dead, at deaths door or at the very best seriously ill. She received absolutely first class treatment from a pharmacist, paramedics, the ambulance crew, doctors, nurses and the ancillary staff at the cardiac department of a Manchester hospital. They do a wonderful job on extremely limited resources, and often at great cost to their own health …. the patient in the next bed to my Mum was a nurse that had collapsed at work!!

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  13. My son spent 2 nights in hospital in the London area several months ago when we were visiting the UK from Canada for a staph infection. Really frightening, but were it not for the various stages of care available through the NHS, things could have been so much worse. And, we are not British but Canadian! When he was in the ward, he chatted with the other men there — sharing stories about the (frankly) less than adequate care we find in Canada these days, where our universal medical system is crumbling.
    In spite of all the intelligent, humane and considerate care our son received, we have also had a chance to see the other side of the NHS — its woefully inadequate administration. Because accounts payable is now outsourced to a private company and there is really poor communication between the hospital trusts and it, we have been running a rat-race in attempting to have our insurance company *pay* for our son’s hospital stay. Part of the problem, I hate to say it, seems to be that the NHS trust is trying to squeeze more money than it’s entitled to out of us by bypassing our insurance company. Kinda upsetting when I know that the British NHS is a model for the world — but still so grateful that it exists and is able to provide such democratic quality care to citizens and visitors alike.

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  14. I have in my possession a death certificate from Ledbury Workhouse where my Great Grandfather died. My granddad and dad kept this as a reminder of what happens when you are overwhelmed by poverty. It has to be the saddest thing I have seen. What makes it worse is that he had children who could not help as they too were struggling to survive. I work within the NHS and it is really scary what I see happening.

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  15. I too worked in the NHS for 30 years. I’m afraid that what little funding it does receive isn’t always put/spent in the areas where it’s most needed. There is certainly a lot of wastage.

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  16. My Mum (83) can remember her mother asking her brother to ‘ look in my purse and see if there is 7 and 6 (7 shillings and sixpence, a quarter of her weeks’ money) for the night ambulance’ .This was when her sister had diphtheria, a life threatening infectious disease and needed to go to hospital as an emergency. They were not even particularly poor, my grandfather being in the Royal Navy. Harry’s story is heart rending.

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  17. A very important post. And I would add, in addition to your suggestions of what people can do to preserve hard won benefits, lobby your local members of parliament. Education, education and education: fight for social history to be on every school curriculum if it is not already there.

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  18. What a tremendous story!. Make me think of how lucky we are with an affordable health care system! Then we can see people misusing the welfare system too. If only they undesrstood the real value of it….

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  19. I’m in the States and I’ll admit our health care situation here is a mess. If you’re a single person and have insurance through your employer, most of the time it’s something you can afford (I pay $400 a month as my share). The coverage for families from my employer is so expensive ($1000/month) that I don’t know how people can afford it and still pay their bills (I’m in a high cost of living area).

    The ACA (Affordable Care Act aka “ObamaCare”) is a disaster. It’s an unwieldy patchwork of public and private groups. Insurance costs are going up in a major way for people who buy insurance through the “exchanges,” in some cases, 50%, I am reading. The whole thing needs to be reworked. The most reasonable solution I’ve read would be to open Medicaid (the US gov’t health insurance program for the poor and disabled) to everyone (you might have heard of Medicare, but that’s for folks over 65). It doesn’t help that we have 50 states, which complicate things, unlike the UK’s much more centralized system of gov’t.

    I simply don’t know what the answer is. There is definitely so much waste in all levels of gov’t here where the money could go to help all sorts of folks in need.

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  20. hi I have been away as I had a new provider (switched from Virgin as too expensive) and I forgot to add new blogs. Anyway glad I am back this was amazing. I am with you 100%, kitx

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