Here's how electronic ticketing gates perpetuate inequality

Electronic ticketing barriers in Melbourne. Image: Marcus Wong/Wikimedia Commons.

The New South Wales government recently announced its latest attempt to crack-down on fare dodgers on public transport, using the high-tech medium of really, really big gates. The state’s minister for transport and infrastructure, Andrew Constance, announced that “jump-proof” barriers will be installed at all Sydney train stations over the next few years.

For readers unfamiliar with these gates: picture a stereotypical pair of British gnashers, but 10 feet tall. These tombstone-like “paddles” are tall enough to obstruct any amateur pole-vaulters, and grey enough to ensure that your morning commute remains a despair drenched odyssey.

Constance cites a number of European cities as the inspiration behind these gates – and he appears to believe that this will restore some balance to Sydney’s public transport. “Customers who pay their way expect others to do the same,” he said. “This is another way to deter the dodgers who are taking everyone else for a ride.”

The experience of those cities which have adopted electronic gates suggests that the minister is correct to believe that they’ll help to limit fare-dodging. His belief that this will create a fairer system, however, could be slightly misplaced.


When electronic gates were first introduced they were able to accept paper tickets. Since then, though, our robot masters have evolved, and most cities have adopted electronic travel cards as well. The usual model is that the commuter pays a small deposit for the card and then tops it up, either daily, weekly or monthly.

So far, so good. But the last 10-15 years have seen many public transport companies start to require that cards hold at least the amount of money required to undertake the most expensive journey possible. Once again, this is billed as an anti-fare-dodging tactic – but it also means that some forms of public transport, those with a wide or expensive reach, are increasingly off-limits to low-income travellers.

In Amsterdam, individual tram journeys tend to cost around €1.20, making it a relatively inexpensive way to travel. Train journeys, however, require travellers to have €20 on their cards at all times. By insisting that electronic cards carry a minimum pre-paid sum at all times, transport companies are effectively taking out an interest free loan on any unused credit.

Unfortunately many low-income passengers struggle to keep these interest free loans topped up. If an unexpected journey eats into their pre-paid credit, the next €3 journey they take will cost them three or four times that at the ticket barrier. This is a problem that the residents of Sydney are already familiar: the starting top-up amount for their own Opal travel cards is a minimum of A$40 online and A$10 offline.

Constant double-digit payments are rarely a problem for high-earners – but they can have a devastating impact on the budgets of low-income travellers. This can be seen in Brussels, where fare-dodging has been used as a reason to phase out the (cheaper) paper tickets and demand that customers buy electronic cards. These travel cards have been promoted as a way for travellers to save money; often, though, they instead enable transport companies to reach deeper into the pockets of low-income passengers.

If Constance and the New South Wales government wish to ensure that their own electronic system doesn’t unfairly tax low-income travellers, there are a number of things they can do. They can give travellers the option to buy individual tickets on the travel cards, rather than insisting that they cover the most expensive journey available.

They can ensure that ticket machines offer the option of electronic refunds on travel cards, rather than insisting that all money placed on a card effectively belongs to the travel company.

They can require travel companies make it easier for travellers to transfer money between cards.

Or perhaps they can require travel companies actively offer travellers the option of a refund on money that has remained unused on a travel card for more than three months.

 
 
 
 

A judge in Liverpool has recognised that the concept of ‘home’ exists even for the homeless

The most ironic stock image of homelessness in Britain available today. Image: Getty.

Stephen Gibney, a Liverpool man, was recently sentenced to eight weeks imprisonment for urinating on homeless man Richard Stanley, while he slept rough in Liverpool City Centre. District Judge Wendy Lloyd handed down the sentence not just for degrading Stanley as a person, but also for attacking his home. Justice Lloyd condemned the offence, calling it:

A deliberate act of degradation of a homeless person… it was his home, his little pitch where he was trying to establish himself as a human being… apparently, to you and your companion this was just a joke.

By recognising that a homeless person can have something akin to a home, the judge acknowledges that home is an abstract, nebulous and subjective idea – that the meaning of home can differ between people and contexts. People who are homeless in the legal sense often feel as if they have a home, whether that be a city, a particular neighbourhood, a family or a friendship group. Some even understand their home in connection to the land, or as a content state of mind.

By making these comments, Justice Lloyd affords Stanley the dignity of having a recognisable defensible space, marked out by his possessions, which to all intents and purposes is his home – and should be respected as such.

A changing city

Since the early 1980s, Liverpool has been undergoing economic, physical, social, political, reputational and cultural regeneration. These processes have picked up pace since 2003, when Liverpool was announced as the 2008 European Capital of Culture. This accolade proved to be the catalyst for a range of initiatives to clean up the city, ready for its big year.

Like many other cities across the globe – New York, during its 1990s drive to shake off its title of “murder capital of the world”; Sydney, in the run up to the 2000 Olympics and Glasgow in its preparations for its own European Capital of Culture year in 1990 – Liverpool’s authorities turned their attention to the city centre.

In Liverpool, rough sleepers, street drinkers and any other groups identified as “uncivilised” impediments to regeneration were singled out and subjected to a range of punitive measures, including the criminalisation of street drinking and begging, designed to clear them from view. It was all part of the bid to present the city as prosperous and cultured, and to free it of its previous reputation for poverty, crime and post-industrial decline.


Scorned, not supported

Views of rough sleepers as anathema to prosperity and progress stem from the false belief that they must, by definition, perform all bodily functions – from urination and defecation to sleep and sex – in public spaces rather than a private home. Because of this, rough sleepers are seen as uncivilised – and consequently unwelcome – by authorities determined to attract business and tourism.

This has led, in some quarters, to the vilification of “visible” homeless people – particularly where their homelessness is seen as a “lifestyle choice” – on the basis that they wilfully stand in the way of social, economic and cultural progress. They are a social element to be scorned, rather than supported: a view which may have led Gibney – a man with a home in the conventional sense – to perform the kind of bodily function on Stanley, which is more often unfairly attributed to rough sleepers.

Once it is recognised that the idea of “home” applies beyond a formal abode of bricks and mortar, many more violations come to light: from the clearance of informal settlements, to the enforced displacement of whole populations.

For example, consider the forced removal of the population of Diego Garcia, an atoll in the Indian Ocean, to nearby Mauritius because the US military needed a refuelling base. The phenomenon is so widespread that it has even been given a name – domicide. The “-cide” suffix connotes murder: the deliberate, calculated and wilful killing of a home.

The ConversationBy thinking of the destruction of “home” as an act of killing, we recognise the its true value – home means so much more than simply a place or a building. And, although the meaning of home varies from person to person, those who lose their home – for whatever reason – almost universally experience shock, grief and bereavement. Justice Lloyd’s comments on handing down Gibney’s sentence reflect two vital but overlooked truths: that home has meaning beyond bricks and mortar and that being homeless does not necessarily mean having no home at all.

Clare Kinsella, Senior Lecturer in Criminology, Edge Hill University.

This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.