Houses of Hospitality

Expulsion of the Merchants from the Temple, Monreale Cathedral, Palermo

I am the newest volunteer at GCH, here for a short(ish) stay of six months. I’ve been invited to write about coming to the community, and I thought of contrasting this place to Camphill, since I volunteered in one of those communities for ten months.

The quickest way to draw out the difference between the two is the following—at the end of January, I was arrested at a Palestine protest. If this happened to me at Camphill, even if I wasn’t roundly shown the door, I feel sure that the sense of having committed a grievous faux pas would have made me leave.

Long term Camphillers tend to be left leaning, but socially quite conservative. Everyone knows they are involved in a good work (providing support to adults with learning disabilities), and that is enough to be getting on with.

Large scale disruption of society is not in the Camphill credo. I got the sense that in the early days, the socially conscious sensibilities of the sixties were more prevalent. But with the introduction of the Care Inspectorate, comprehensive legislation around the care of vulnerable adults, and the fact that most community income now comes directly from government spending, Camphill and revolution aren’t compatible.

In contrast, while we agreed we should get better at preparing for the worst when someone goes out to protest, here at GCH, they stand by a comrade in need. Never have I had the sense that everyone is contemplating what a maladapted hooligan I am.

Here, there is an understanding that we are in a shared struggle against an unjust status quo, each working in whatever capacity suits us best. And that, at the end of the day, a few tables will be upturned in the temple before the kingdom comes.

 A further difference between GCH and Camphill is how comfortable I feel here. There were times at Camphill when I felt like my whole personality was a faux pas. I arrived fresh from a Scottish council estate and a chaotic failed attempt at a commune, and the very wholesomeness of Camphill life alienated me.

The typical Camphill volunteer is a middle class German teen. Living there was my first encounter with so many peers from financially stable, two parent families. It seemed like everyone’s mother and father were together in holy matrimony, and on top of that, they were both heart surgeons.

The farm was the saving grace of Camphill for me. It was an open space where I could run around, get muddy, wield pitchforks, and generally swear and shout. I had free expression at tea break, messing around with the autistic service users I came to have genuine friendships with. It was the place where I was able to be outspoken and test the boundaries of Camphill social convention. And if I don’t flatter myself too much, I think sometimes I cheered things up.

But at the opposite end of that spectrum were whole community social events, which were frequent, performative, and mandatory. These wholesome gatherings always put me on edge. I felt like a coarse, ill mannered ned forced to imitate, if not quite ‘high society’, still a type of society I had never experienced. I always felt like a fugitive about to be unmasked and would sneak off for as many cigarettes as would get me through the evening.

In contrast, here at GCH, I genuinely enjoy it when we do things together. And I don’t feel like I need to stretch and strain to be something different than who I am. Maybe it’s because I’m a few years older and wiser. But I think it’s also something hard baked into this community.

The whole place is aimed at reaching out to the disenfranchised, people who’ve been handed way worse cards than me and who don’t even have the security of citizenship in the country they live in.

Camphill is also trying to help people, but it does it in a totally different way. Camphill’s approach is pedagogical. It ultimately aims at making people with learning disabilities better. Teaching them to do useful work, to feel responsible for others, and to be less chaotic in their interactions.

The approach here couldn’t be more different. This community certainly doesn’t see itself as teaching guests how to behave or integrate into British society. It is just an open hand, a point of rest, an attempt to offer compassion.

Maybe that’s why I feel so comfortable here. To stay at Camphill, I felt I would have to cut off large parts of myself and let them disappear. Let all my bad memories be overwritten by pleasant dinner parties and cold dips in the loch.

Here, there is no such pressure. This community doesn’t turn itself away from the pain of the world, seeking to insulate its members within an ideal, mini society. This community is here to engage with and confront that suffering.

I suppose that is to be expected when the image of a crucified God is at the heart of a place. It is really no wonder I feel comfortable being here with all my wounds.

(Disclaimer: despite my moaning, Camphill is pretty nice. I love going back there as a visitor, it is just not somewhere I would commit my life to. I wouldn’t advise anyone against volunteering there.)

Eva Martinez