As survivors demand answers with increasing desperation, the ramifications of this human tragedy and its mishandled aftermath are unpredictable but far reaching. Individuals, institutions and the system itself, are all firmly in the firing line.
The big questions are obvious. How were at least 80 human beings able to lose their lives in a fire in central London almost two decades into the new millennium? Why do early indications suggest that Grenfell Tower was a disaster waiting to happen? Why isn’t it the law to retrofit sprinklers in all high-rise accommodation? Why do the appliances used by London Fire Brigade only extend to 32 metres, not tall enough to reach the upper floors of the block? How does it make any sense that the tallest aerial platform employed in the rescue operation was borrowed from Surrey Fire and Rescue Service (and itself unable to reach the higher floors of the 70 metre, 24-storey building)?
Why was the Prime Minister forced to admit that the initial response from both local and central government was ‘not good enough’? Why do some residents continue to feel let down by the authorities? Why have Kensington and Chelsea Council and the Tenant Management Organisation not told us or been able to tell us how many people lived in the block? Why has Scotland Yard not told us how many people have reported in safe from the tower? Why is the official number of presumed dead so much lower than some locals believe it to be? And why are survivors being rehoused in temporary accommodation in the first instance when many will no doubt crave certainty and security at such a distressing time?
I grew up and still live around the corner from Grenfell Tower. When I was a baby my GP’s surgery was in the tower itself and I later played football in its shadow for years. Only when the astroturf pitches at its base were removed to make way for its recent refurbishment did we shift a few hundred yards down the road to the Westway for our Tuesday night games. This is my community, these are my people. I was down on the ground in the four days after the first flames began to lick at the building, talking to survivors and to those who had lost loved ones, listening to their harrowing stories.
Stop for a moment and try to imagine their pain. Their disorientation. Their fear. One resident of the tower, who lived on the 15th floor, was pictured, as the flames still raged, holding a toothbrush and toothpaste in one hand and a charger lead and anti-heartburn medicine in the other. Another local told me of the screams he heard as the building burned.
I spoke to a woman as she sat waiting for news on a chair on the pavement who knew there was “no hope’ that the two families she was related to would turn up alive. Nonetheless, she wanted confirmation. Even by lunchtime on the day itself of the disaster a father shared with me his conviction that there was no chance his grown-up daughter could have survived on one of the higher floors.
As the scale of the tragedy was still sinking in, anger and frustration walked in the footsteps of grief. Why had the emergency services reportedly told people to stay put? Why had the fire spread so quickly? Why were the numbers of dead so low? Why were volunteers forced to adopt positions of responsibility? Why were there not council representatives outside each of the pop-up relief centres coordinating the response? Where was central government? Where was Theresa May? Why, when she did turn up, did she not stop to talk to furious residents in the street? Did the authorities really have a grip?
As it turned out, no they didn’t. Which, when you think about it, even given the scale of the disaster, is pretty shocking for one of the planet’s largest economies. My area was transformed overnight into a disaster zone that the developing world would justifiably have been ashamed of. Which isn’t to belittle the efforts of the local community or those who came from far and wide to help.
The sheer force of goodwill and generosity, the overwhelming desire among ordinary men and women to do their bit – more than their bit in many cases – was the one – wholly inadequate – consolation. People from a panoply of social, religious and ethnic backgrounds turned up to aid the stricken. The tragedy of Grenfell is, for some, a tale of two cities.
But I’ve always had faith in the mix of rich and poor in Notting Hill and the neighbourhood, including more affluent residents, stood up to be counted on that Wednesday and beyond.
