Opinion
Influencers are shining a light on public housing. But are they doing good or just gawking?
Scobie Mckay
ContributorSouth Melbourne’s Park Towers are infested with many critters: cockroaches, rats and, more recently, content creators, desperate to document the dirty and at times dangerous conditions in which some Melbourne families are forced to live.
But are they shining a light on systemic underfunding and neglect, or just gawking at vulnerable communities trying to make the best of a bad situation?
Sydney rapper Spanian films himself with locals during his “Into The Hood” series.Credit: YouTube
“Today, we are going to South Melbourne, St Kilda, Prahran and Windsor, which are notorious areas,” self-proclaimed social media superstar Spanian tells his 517,000 TikTok followers and 714,000 YouTube subscribers before touring the public housing tower as part of his ongoing series, “Into the Hood”.
Spanian, who grew up in public housing, has earned headlines for his tours of dangerous neighbourhoods around the world, but his recent trips in Australia have been criticised for only showcasing rowdy men flexing for the camera, burnouts, and clashes with police.
Recently, after announcing a tour to the NSW regional town of Moree, Gomeroi Dunghutti Biripi organiser Tameeka Tighe co-ordinated a community response and accused the influencer of “exploiting and demonising communities for social capital” while “making no contribution to bettering said communities”. Shortly thereafter, Spanian cancelled the visit.
On Sunday, he was arrested in Hobart and charged with inciting disturbance after hundreds of fans congregated at a shopping centre car park. At a similar event in Brisbane last month, two of his fans were arrested and charged.
Part of Spanian’s appeal is his raw, confronting depiction of street life, which he says is an attempt to document hoods before they’re destroyed by gentrification. But with a platform as large as his, it’s also a massive, missed opportunity to bring awareness to the systemic neglect these communities face. Perhaps worse than that, his videos are inspiring other content creators, often from privileged backgrounds who lack Spanian’s lived experience, to attempt their own “hood tours”. While it may be an unintended consequence, many of these copycat videos make for extremely uncomfortable viewing.
Dozens of videos, variably named “We went to Australia’s Worst Suburb”, fetch millions of views online, as content copycats compete to find the most vulnerable communities, seemingly just for clicks. One such creator, who has 455,000 TikTok followers, posted a video called “Inside The Horror Housing Commission” featuring Park Towers.
“I’m feeling a bit nervous, I’ve never been to a place that looks like this before,” one of the men says, gesturing to the tower behind him. “My heart is starting to race a little bit because you never know with people inside of these types of buildings. You know, they could be on drugs, or they could be just in a bad mood, and you never know what they could do to you.”
The two men bypass security by posing as food delivery drivers and start investigating the building for anything content-worthy: graffiti on the walls, syringes in the staircase. Even a trolley and some cigarettes make the final cut.
“This floor is the one with all the f---ing murderers,” the creator says, laughing.
The clip, which is styled as if it’s a ghost-hunting video, flagrantly intrudes into the hallways while music more suited to a cheap horror film plays in the background.
I work at Park Towers, and I was appalled when I first saw the now-deleted video. The hardworking families, dedicated advocates and studious young people who bring this community to life failed to make the final cut of the video, while other residents were treated with callous disregard and observed as though they were animals in a zoo.
But these videos do raise important questions about the dire conditions in which this community is forced to live.
In the community room, where I help run events, residents often complain of the mounting issues facing the building. The room only recently reopened after being inundated by a plumbing leak that resulted in sewage dripping down the walls of dozens of apartments, forcing several families to relocate.
Homes Victoria, which is responsible for contracting the maintenance of the 54-year-old building, failed to acknowledge the extent of the plumbing problems for up to 18 months, leading to an infestation of cockroaches, flies and rats.
“There have been so many plumbing problems, parts of the building became almost unliveable,” one resident tells me. “The problem is exacerbated by the fact that there is one housing officer for the whole tower, who has a workload that would never be considered in commercial real estate.”
These issues are only exacerbated by the fact that the building is home to some of the state’s most vulnerable people, and unlike other larger complexes, the support services are limited.
Even so, amid these challenges, the resilient spirit of Park Towers’ community is undeniable, and this is what the content creators failed (or chose not) to capture. Several residents turned-community advocates regularly volunteer their time to feed more than 500 residents weekly, and families regularly commune together to share meals, culture and parental responsibilities.
If Spanian and copycat content creators really want to document this community before it’s destroyed by gentrification, they should have taken the time to promote the local heroes tirelessly maintaining the building after successive governments chose to forget it, not treat it like a cautionary tale.
Scobie McKay is a freelance journalist and youth worker.
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