A woman and her children lived in the East Cape of Aotearoa New Zealand while she cared for her ailing mother. When her mother passed away, she and her children were left without a support system. With nowhere else to turn, she sought emergency housing through Kāinga Ora, relocating with her whānau (family) to Auckland to avoid homelessness. Securing stable housing was not immediate. While she waited, she relied on temporary accommodation, never knowing how long she and her children could stay in one place.
In Toronto, Canada, a man who had been working as a general labourer for most of his life found himself homeless, after an injury left him unable to work. With no income and no savings, he was forced onto the streets, trying to survive one of the coldest winters on record. Despite his best efforts, securing government assistance took time, and in the meantime, he had to rely on emergency shelters that were often overcrowded. Some nights he found a bed, other nights he had no choice but to sleep in stairwells or subway stations just to escape the freezing temperatures.
In Brisbane, Australia, a 16-year-old girl was forced out of her home with nowhere to go after enduring prolonged abuse. She faced rejection and homelessness at a young age. The trauma of both the abuse and subsequent homelessness severely impacted her self-esteem and trust in others.
On the outskirts of Los Angeles a woman lived in shelters and sober living facilities, struggling to rebuild her life after incarceration. Without stable housing, each day was uncertain, filled with challenges that made it difficult to secure work, healthcare or a path forward.
Note: The accounts above are drawn from experiences. While identities have been protected, the stories reflect actual circumstances reported by individuals and service providers.
If housing is a human right, as stated by the United Nations Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights (OHCHR) in Article 25 of the 1948 Universal Declaration of Human Rights, why does the issue of homelessness persist? If adequate housing is meant to be a fundamental guarantee—ensuring security, dignity and access to basic needs—why do millions of people remain homeless, trapped in systems where shelter is treated as a privilege rather than a right?
The concept of rights has long been debated. Some argue that rights are natural and inherent—they exist simply because we are human. This perspective, championed by philosophers like John Locke, suggests that rights are not granted by governments but should be protected by them. Others emphasise that rights only hold meaning if they are legally recognised and enforced. While international law acknowledges the right to adequate housing, its implementation remains inconsistent.
If a government proclaims that everyone has the right to housing, yet millions remain homeless or in insecure living conditions, is this truly a right or merely an ideal?
For housing to meet human rights standards, it must fulfill key criteria: habitability, accessibility to services, affordability and legal security of tenure. The OHCHR defines affordable housing as housing where financial costs do not compromise the ability to meet other basic needs. It must also be protected from forced eviction, harassment or threats to cultural identity and way of life.
Yet, despite these principles, over 1.8 billion people worldwide live in inadequate housing—many without access to clean water, sanitation or basic safety. Homelessness continues to rise, driven by economic hardship, job loss and a lack of a social safety net. While housing is legally defined as a right, it is often treated as a commodity, available only to those who can afford it.
Aotearoa illustrates this crisis starkly. Even though government assistance exists, through emergency benefits, housing supplements and special needs grants, demand far exceeds supply.
To understand how different policies shape housing realities, The Lovepost examines the contrasting landscapes of Aotearoa and Finland. Aotearoa serves as a case study for the failures of an unchecked housing market, where affordability crisis, overcrowding and rising homelessness expose the gaps between legal rights and lived experiences. In contrast, Finland shows how government intervention, innovative policies and a strong social welfare system can ensure that the right to housing is more than just a promise.
By exploring these two nations, we ask: what does it take to turn the right to housing from an ideal into a reality?
The homelessness crisis in Aotearoa New Zealand
Aotearoa has the highest levels of homelessness in the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD) and arguably in the developed world. According to the World Population Review, approximately 102,123 individuals in the country were experiencing homelessness in 2024.
The housing crisis in Aotearoa has been in the nation’s socio-political discourse for a while, and finding effective housing policy solutions has proven to be no easy feat. Lack of access to affordable housing, rising rent, speculative investment, rapid population growth and the interrelated impacts of the COVID-19 pandemic (including a housing shortage) have all exacerbated the crisis—highlighting the consequences of long-term underinvestment and poor planning.
Some experts argue that the root of the issue lies in the absence of housing protections within Aotearoa’s legal framework. Former Chief Human Rights Commissioner Paul Hunt has emphasised the need for a rights-based approach stating, "If the human right to a decent home were enshrined in domestic legislation and supported by a nimble, independent accountability system, we would not be facing today’s housing crisis."
However, while legal recognition is one part of the equation, the reality of homelessness in Aotearoa is shaped by a complex interplay of structural factors. The Aotearoa-New Zealand Homelessness Action Plan 2020-2023, identifies key drivers of homelessness, including poverty, lack of affordable housing, discrimination, inadequate welfare support and limited employment opportunities. The plan’s findings indicate that individuals who live on the margin of the rental market or are already on low income or benefits are at the highest risk of homelessness. A range of factors can lead to homelessness, including relationship breakdowns, job loss, serious illness or substance abuse. Certain groups such as Indigenous people, youth, refugees, elderly, disabled people and those with mental health or addiction issues, are especially at risk of experiencing homelessness.
The plan reveals how structural barriers have led to housing inequity for Māori, seen in disproportionate rates of homelessness and a greater reliance on public housing, often as a last resort in a system that has failed them.
Despite making up just 17 percent of the general population, Māori account for 36 percent of public housing tenants, nearly 60 percent of households receiving government housing support and approximately 57.3 percent of the nation’s total homeless population. They are also five times more likely to experience homelessness than Pākehā (White New Zealanders), reflecting the structural inequities stemming from colonisation and ongoing systemic exclusion.
Among those experiencing housing hardship, rangatahi (youth) are among the most disproportionately impacted. Recent data from Stats NZ further highlights the crisis, showing that nearly 50 percent of those experiencing severe housing deprivation are under the age of 25. According to the Growing Up in New Zealand longitudinal study, nearly one in five children experience residential instability due to factors beyond their control, such as rent increases or relationship breakdowns.
To better understand what is driving homelessness in Aotearoa, we spoke with Stephen Turnock, Director of Downtown Community Ministry (DCM), a housing nonprofit dedicated to advocating for individuals experiencing homelessness and providing wraparound support to help them access and sustain housing.
From Turnock’s perspective, housing support must go beyond shelter. At DCM, where around 70 people from the street community come through the doors each day, the focus is not only on practical assistance, such as healthcare, food and housing navigation, but on rebuilding connection and stability. “A home is not just four walls and a roof,” Turnock says. “It has to be safe, it has to be secure, it has to be nurturing.” Much of DCM’s work involves helping clients work with systems that have long failed them. “Ninety percent of my staff’s time is spent supporting people through [government] systems,” Turnock says. “Those systems simply don’t work for everyone—especially [those] we support.”Turnock explains that many people he works with face challenges such as mental health issues, addiction and past trauma. Often isolated from family, they struggle to navigate the housing system. For example, many lack official identification, which leads to a chain of obstacles: without ID, they can't open a bank account, and without a bank account or fixed address, securing housing becomes nearly impossible.
Turnock highlights that the housing shortage in Aotearoa has intensified over the past decade, worsening the crisis. "It's not just people with high needs . . . who are ending up homeless," he says. Now, a wider range of people including young mothers and entire families are unable to access adequate housing due to limited supply.
Beyond supply, he points out that housing also needs to suit the diverse needs of those seeking it: “Some people do not function very well in what we regard as [a] normal home. Some people need more support within that home, some people actually need to be more away on their own, [and] some people do very well in a more group, community-type facility. So having the right type of housing across that sector, during a housing crisis, has been very, very difficult to [achieve].”
The housing crisis in Aotearoa is the result of a “perfect storm” of circumstances. Turnock explains that COVID-19 affected supply and demand for building resources, making it challenging to construct new homes. "We weren't getting the degree of supplies to build new houses," he says. The pandemic disrupted not only material supply chains but also the workforce itself. According to Turnock, many skilled immigrant workers returned to their home countries during the pandemic, leaving significant labour gaps across various sectors, including construction.
This supply and labour shortage, combined with rising demand, has driven up living costs. Turnock says that Aotearoa now faces some of the highest housing costs globally: “I think we ranked about second in the entire world, a little country such as ours, but our house pricing has just absolutely, significantly increased over probably the last 10 years.”
Turnock describes how, between the 1960s and 1980s, there was a strong government drive to promote home-ownership—including a targeted emphasis on increasing Māori home-ownership. During this period, Māori were supported through dedicated Māori Affairs housing programmes, with around 86 percent of Māori state-financed homes in the 1980s funded by Māori Affairs loans. Approximately 13,000 homes were built specifically for Māori households, reflecting the state’s commitment to supporting urban migration and housing stability for Māori. Both Labour and National governments backed these efforts as part of a broader cross-party focus on housing.
This Māori-specific support sat alongside a wider state-led housing system that benefited many working and middle-class Pākehā households. Through low-interest State Advances (later Housing Corporation) loans, an extensive public-housing stock and favourable tax settings, home-ownership across Aotearoa climbed steadily. Housing was widely viewed not just as a private asset but as a public good.
However, by the mid-1980s Aotearoa’s economy was in trouble. Oil prices had quadrupled twice in the 1970s, pushing inflation up to almost 18 percent a year. The country’s traditional export earnings from lamb, wool and butter collapsed when the UK joined the European Community, so foreign income shrank while import costs soared. To contain runaway prices, Prime Minister Robert Muldoon ordered a sweeping wage-and-price freeze in 1982: no pay rises, no price rises, no interest-rate changes. However, that choked growth and created black-market pricing. Meanwhile the government borrowed heavily to fund “Think Big” energy projects and prop up protected industries; public debt quintupled between 1975 and 1984. Tariffs and subsidies kept uncompetitive factories alive, but left the economy rigid and unable to adapt.
The government, facing increasing financial strain, began looking for ways to restructure the economy. When Labour came to power in 1984, it embarked on a radical economic reform plan, known as Rogernomics, named after Finance Minister Roger Douglas. These reforms sought to remove government intervention in the economy and instead let market forces dictate outcomes.
As part of these reforms, new Māori Affairs housing loans were phased out and the department itself was dismantled in 1989. Servicing of outstanding loans shifted to the Housing Corporation, which pursued cost-recovery rather than social outcomes; arrears enforcement and foreclosures increased. No replacement scheme was created to help Māori overcome structural barriers to mainstream finance.
Turnock explains that these changes transformed the housing system into an investment tool rather than a social good. “As a country, homeownership became an investment, and more of a money making asset. As Māori were not in the position to buy up those assets, it led to them becoming more reliant on rental properties.”
Home-ownership among Māori peaked at around 57 percent in 1991, but fell sharply to about 37 percent by 2013. Homelessness rose steeply as well—shifting from something relatively rare to an estimated 28,600 people experiencing severe housing deprivation by 2001.
Roger’s reforms didn’t just affect Māori—they also hit many Pākehā families, particularly those on low and middle incomes. As the state pulled back from both public housing and affordable homeownership support, families who had once relied on low-interest loans, income-related rents or stable public sector jobs were left exposed to an unaffordable private housing market.
In the early 1990s, the government formally stepped away from directly building and managing state housing. Housing New Zealand was restructured, and responsibilities were gradually outsourced to NGOs and Community Housing Providers (CHPs). This reshaped the entire system.
The intent was to increase flexibility and reduce government spending. But in practice, it led to a fragmented housing system where access depended on location, provider capacity and the patchwork of available funding. The government became more of a funder than a builder or landlord—creating what many now describe as a ‘contracted-out welfare state’.
This decentralised model went on to shape how newer interventions (like Housing First) were implemented in Aotearoa.
Housing First in Aotearoa New Zealand
Aotearoa is one of many countries that has adopted and adapted elements of the Housing First model, originally developed in the late 1990s by Dr Sam Tsemberis, a New York-based clinical psychologist and founder of Pathways to Housing. The model was designed to support people experiencing chronic homelessness by providing access to permanent housing without preconditions. Unlike the traditional 'staircase model,' which requires individuals to progress through treatment or temporary accommodation before qualifying for permanent housing, Housing First flips this logic: housing comes first, followed by tailored support services.
Turnock strongly supports the core principle of Housing First, that housing is a human right and should come without preconditions, but asserts that applying the model in Aotearoa has been complicated by real-world constraints. “When we were first looking at this model . . . we were looking at examples from the States, the Netherlands and Ireland,” he explains. “What was different to those examples was that they had a range of housing options. Here in New Zealand, we are experiencing a housing crisis. We were having to place people in what we had, and it wasn’t always conducive to their needs or their choice.”
Aotearoa began trialling Housing First in the mid-2010s, with the first major pilot project launched in Hamilton in 2014. Auckland followed in 2017 with a city-wide Housing First collective. These programmes targeted chronically homeless individuals, offering permanent housing with wraparound support.
Unlike the specialised or supported housing available overseas, the Aotearoa rollout has relied heavily on standard suburban rentals. These properties, while available, often lack the on-site services or environmental support needed for people with complex needs, such as those experiencing addiction, trauma or severe mental health challenges. As a result, it has been difficult to uphold one of Housing First’s foundational principles: “homes of choice.”
In May 2019, the New Zealand government announced a $197 million investment to expand Housing First across 11 regions—its largest commitment to addressing chronic homelessness. The decision was driven by promising early outcomes from The People’s Project in Hamilton, which had supported hundreds of individuals into housing since launching in 2014. Later that same year, in August 2019, peer-reviewed findings were published in the journal SSM Population Health, confirming that Housing First participants had significantly reduced their use of emergency services and were sustaining housing placements. These results added academic weight to what frontline experience was already showing: that the model was working.
As the programme matured, further academic evaluation reinforced its impact. A 2022 study published in the European Journal of Homelessness reported a 97.5 percent housing retention rate after two years for The People’s Project cohort.
Turnock also points to promising systemic outcomes. “At Otago University, they gather data from [Stats NZ’s] Integrated Data Infrastructure, which links information from our different government ministries and health providers,” he explains. That analysis, he says, showed that over the past five years people supported through Housing First have experienced a “[44] percent reduction in [required] mental-health bed nights.” He adds that there has been “around about a [23] percent reduction in [Corrections events per person, including imprisonment],” referring to wider improvements in contact with the justice system.
However, Turnock is clear that these outcomes don’t tell the full story, especially for Māori. He says that Māori make up around 57 percent of people experiencing homelessness, and estimates about 70 percent of them are men over the age of 49. He connects these figures to the long arc of colonisation: “It is a direct result of colonisation, loss of identity, loss of land, which was equated to income, equated to ownership, equated to wealth. And the implementation of government policies that [are] inherently racist.”
In his view, these systems were not designed with Māori in mind. “It might sound like a strong statement,” he says, “but based on both my personal experience and what I’ve seen professionally, the system is stacked against us.”
The housing crisis facing Māori today cannot be understood without acknowledging the long history of land dispossession and systemic exclusion from homeownership. In the decades following colonisation, large-scale land confiscations under legislation such as the New Zealand Settlements Act 1863 forcibly removed Māori from their whenua, with over a million hectares seized and redistributed to settlers. Even when Māori land wasn’t taken by force, the government found other ways to get it. In 1865, a law called the Native Lands Act was passed that completely changed how Māori land was owned. Before this, Māori land was held by entire hapū (sub-tribes) or iwi (tribes), and decisions about it were made collectively, based on whakapapa (genealogy), use and cultural ties. There were no individual owners, and no one person could sell land on their own. Land was a source of food, shelter, identity and spiritual connection. Land was shared and protected for future generations, not treated as something to profit from.
This system meant no one could be left without support. For example, if a whānau (family) was struggling (say a parent became ill or a harvest failed) they wouldn’t be evicted or left to fend for themselves. Instead, their hapū (sub-tribe) would make sure they had access to land to grow food, build shelter or live with relatives. And because land couldn’t be sold by just one person, outsiders couldn’t pressure individuals into selling—they would have had to convince the whole hapū. This made land loss almost impossible and created a strong safety net.
The Native Lands Act created a new legal system that ignored those traditions. It required Māori to bring their land before a government-run Native Land Court to get it officially recognised. But under this system, the Court would only give land titles to a small number of named individuals (usually up to 10 people per block) even if many more had rights to it. Once land was in individual names, it could be sold much more easily, without the consent of the wider hapū. This process broke apart Māori communal ownership and opened the door for settlers to buy up land bit by bit. Many Māori didn’t fully understand the Court system, which was run in English and far from home, and some couldn’t afford the legal fees to take part. Others were pressured or misled into selling. Over time, this law led to huge amounts of land being lost through legal and bureaucratic systems designed to benefit settlers and weaken Māori control.
For Turnock, the future of Housing First in Aotearoa hinges not just on scaling the model, but transforming how it is delivered—ensuring that cultural identity, community connection and Indigenous worldviews are not afterthoughts, but central pillars. Without addressing the structural roots of homelessness for Māori, from land loss to policy design, he cautions, even the best-intentioned models can fall short.
Despite clear evidence that homelessness in Aotearoa stems from a range of systemic failures, public understanding has not always caught up. Misconceptions about homelessness persist, often placing blame on individuals rather than recognising the wider forces at play.
Turnock has heard some of these misconceptions firsthand. “One misconception we often are battling here is that people choose to be homeless,” he says. “The other is that all they need to do is get a job and they’ll be fine.” However, “homelessness is not a choice,” says Turnock, explaining that in fact it is a symptom of other problems. Homelessness is the visible consequence of deeper systemic failures: inadequate health systems, unsupported trauma and broken social networks.
Another challenge lies in the very definition of homelessness. Many believe that homelessness only refers to those sleeping rough on the streets. Former Housing Minister Paula Bennett even claimed on TV that most Kiwis understand homelessness “is just rough sleeping”, an assertion that contradicts New Zealand’s own broad definition. In reality, official definitions include not only those without shelter, but also people in emergency or temporary accommodations, overcrowded dwellings or couch-surfing. Rough sleepers are just the visible tip of the iceberg. The reality is that rough sleepers make up just 0.3 percent of those experiencing severe housing deprivation in Aotearoa. The vast majority of the “hidden homeless” are living in cars, motels, boarding houses or overcrowded and unstable family homes.
Research shows that stigma can directly limit a person’s ability to secure and sustain housing as well. In interviews with people with mental health conditions, MSD found that negative attitudes and discrimination, especially by landlords, were key barriers. Participants reported being denied housing or evicted when their health status was known, especially in the private rental market.
Studies also highlight how landlords’ concerns about “risky” tenant behaviour, such as missing rent, causing damage or disturbing neighbours, leads to reluctance from landlords that can translate, often unintentionally, into discriminatory decision-making. A recent WERO report confirmed that housing discrimination persists, with landlords more likely to deny tenancy to those on welfare or with unstable rental histories. Qualitative evidence adds that landlords frequently “prioritise tenants who have jobs”, making benefit-dependent applicants much harder to place.
However, the evidence from Housing First and other supported housing programmes in Aotearoa directly counters these assumptions. Research from Housing First Auckland shows that tailored support services dramatically improve tenancy sustainment, even among people with complex needs—including longstanding homelessness, mental health and addiction issues. The Ministry of Housing and Kāinga Ora have reported high tenancy retention rates where proactive wraparound support is provided, challenging the view that formerly homeless tenants are unreliable.
These outcomes show what’s possible when support is properly resourced. But not everyone fits neatly into the system—and not everyone is reached in time.
A new model of housing
One of the most promising success stories in recent memory, Turnock says, is the opening of the Frederick Street apartments—officially named Te Kī a Alasdair. Completed in late 2023, the 75-unit building in central Wellington represents a new kind of response to homelessness: one that treats housing not just as shelter, but as community. “It’s been one of the biggest success stories,” he says. “It’s gone great.”
The complex is designed as a mixed model. Twenty apartments are dedicated to people experiencing chronic homelessness through the Housing First programme—people with the most complex needs. Another twenty are set aside for those on the neurodiversity spectrum, supported through partners like Homes of Choice. The remaining units are social housing, available to those who meet standard criteria.
The project was initiated and led by the Kirva Trust, a charitable organisation established by Wellington philanthropists Maurice and Kaye Clark. The couple envisioned the development as a response to the housing crisis and funded it in memory of their late son, Alasdair, who was on the autism spectrum. Their vision was to create a community where people of all backgrounds, including those with complex needs, could live with dignity, support and connection.
The project was funded through a mix of public and private contributions. Te Tūāpapa Kura Kāinga - Ministry of Housing and Urban Development (HUD) committed around 55.6 million NZD over the life of the project. An additional 10 million NZD low-interest loan was granted through the Government’s 2020 “shovel-ready” infrastructure fund to help launch construction.
“It’s the first case of this kind of public-private partnership to create this space,” says Turnock. “It’s a purposely built environment for people in need.”
What sets Te Kī a Alasdair apart is the way it was designed to function as a supportive community. “It is a collaboration of ourselves, three other organisations, and we offer wraparound support on site,” says Turnock.
Rather than placing people in isolated units and leaving them to cope alone, the model is built around community and connection. “We all work together for the wellbeing of the whole complex,” Turnock explains. From the moment new tenants arrive, they’re welcomed not just by staff, but by other residents—a gesture that signals this is not a stop-gap, but a home. “We approached it by creating an engaging community,” he says.
For Turnock, the real impact is found in the small transformations: someone who comes in and, for the first time in years, asks for help instead of pushing people away. A visit to the dentist that makes someone smile again. “Some tiny, tiny things that we see—but they’re huge successes for the people we work with,” he says. The ultimate success, he adds, is when someone no longer needs their support: when they’re part of a community, connected, valued and just living their lives.
Still, he is clear that projects like this, as successful as they are, are only one piece of a much larger puzzle. “This is a problem that no one organisation can solve. Not DCM. Not even the government,” he says. “It needs to be a collective, coordinated approach.”
He points out that housing responses are unique in their complexity; they require health and social services, developers, builders and urban planners to come together. “If we’re talking about supporting low-income families, we’re talking about the health system, economic improvements, job support, community support. But with homelessness, on top of all that, we need people to build houses. To develop communities. To create places where people can belong.”
He believes this is an issue that affects everyone, whether they see it or not. “It doesn’t matter how well off you are, or how happy you are, homelessness will in some way impact you. Through financial pressure, unemployment stress on the health system—it affects us all.”
At DCM, they have a saying that guides their work: the wellbeing of the most vulnerable people in the city is directly connected to the wellbeing of Wellington itself. “If we have a lot of unwell people, then our city is, in some way, unwell too,” Turnock says. “It impacts everyone. So we all need to be part of the solution.”
Looking to Finland
When looking at alternatives to market-driven housing systems like Aotearoa’s, Finland offers a compelling case study. It is often cited as the only EU country where homelessness is in steady decline—and its Housing First policy is at the centre of that success.
In the late 1970s and early 1980s, Finland had firmly established itself as a Nordic welfare state, aligning with its Scandinavian neighbours through a strong public sector, universal healthcare and education and extensive income support. Social spending reached roughly 24 percent of GDP, inequality was low and its corporatist labour system—built on cooperation between unions, employers and the state—was considered a key pillar of economic and social stability.
Yet despite these strengths, Finland's housing system was already beginning to strain. Rapid urbanisation, especially in the Helsinki region, increased demand for affordable housing. Construction couldn’t keep up, and by the mid-1980s, government investment in new social housing had slowed. The shortage was especially acute for single adults, who often did not qualify for family-targeted housing support.
Between 1986 and 1987, major financial deregulation transformed the landscape. Interest rate controls were lifted, and Finnish banks gained access to international capital markets. The result was a rapid expansion of credit, especially mortgages, which drove a housing and property boom. Between 1987 and 1989, property prices in Helsinki surged by over 50 percent, and rents followed suit. As costs soared, low-income earners were priced out of the market. Waiting lists for municipal housing grew, and many people (mostly single men) were pushed into precarious housing or shelters.
By 1988, homelessness had reached record levels, with an estimated 18,000 people without permanent housing. Most lived in overcrowded, understaffed night shelters or temporary accommodation.
The situation worsened dramatically when the housing bubble burst in the early 1990s. A global credit tightening and rising interest rates triggered a wave of defaults. Over-leveraged households and banks struggled, and property values plummeted. At the same time, the collapse of the Soviet Union, Finland’s second-largest trading partner, caused a major drop in exports. The combined effect triggered Finland’s worst economic crisis since World War II. Between 1991 and 1994, GDP fell by more than 10 percent, unemployment surged to nearly 17 percent and nearly half the country’s financial institutions required state intervention. For many, homelessness, already widespread, became one of the most visible social consequences.
During this time, Finland’s response to homelessness was driven by the prevailing ‘treatment first’ or ‘staircase’ model. Access to permanent housing was conditional—people were required to achieve sobriety, undergo treatment or demonstrate personal stability before they could qualify for a home. As a result, thousands remained in limbo: living in large, overcrowded shelters or temporary facilities that couldn’t always provide sufficient autonomy or dignity. According to Cityscape: A Journal of Policy Development and Research, “the insistence on service users being intoxicant-free and able to take control of their lives has proven to be an insuperable barrier for many homeless people with multiple problems.” The system did little to address structural causes of homelessness: rising rents, long social housing waitlists, or unemployment and often left those most in need with the fewest viable options.
By the early 2000s, it became very clear that Finland’s existing approach to homelessness was failing. Despite modest economic recovery and renewed investment in social services, the number of long-term homeless remained stubbornly high.
The shelter-based system was proving both costly and ineffective. Many people cycled in and out of temporary accommodation without ever securing a stable home. Reports highlighted the growing complexity of the population experiencing homelessness: many faced not only poverty but also chronic health conditions, mental illness or substance use disorders. Yet, the staircase model continued to impose rigid conditions that many were unable to meet.
Public criticism of the system grew. NGOs and frontline workers began to advocate more forcefully for structural change, calling for a shift away from temporary shelters and toward permanent, supportive housing. International research on alternative models, especially the Housing First approach, began to influence Finnish policymakers and researchers.
It was in this climate that Jan Vapaavuori, then serving as Minister of Housing, launched a major policy rethink. In 2007, Vapaavuori convened a national working group to address long-term homelessness. Its final report, titled “Name on the Door”, marked a turning point. It rejected the staircase model and called for an ambitious new strategy based on the Housing First principle: that housing should be unconditional, permanent and come with flexible, tailored support.
The report laid the groundwork for PAAVO I, Finland’s first national strategy to combat long-term homelessness using a coordinated Housing First model. Launched in 2008, the programme marked a decisive shift away from the shelter-based system and introduced concrete, measurable goals: to halve long-term homelessness by 2011, phase out large shelters and convert temporary accommodations into permanent, supported housing units.
Most importantly, PAAVO I introduced a nationally coordinated but locally implemented model. It formalised a multi-level partnership between central government, municipalities, non-governmental organisations (NGOs) and housing foundations—most notably the Y-Foundation, a non-profit that purchases and develops affordable rental housing, specifically for people experiencing or at risk of homelessness. Under PAAVO, the Y-Foundation emerged as a cornerstone provider of supported Housing First apartments. It acquired and developed housing stock across the country, offering both independent flats and on-site supported housing for people with high and complex needs.
Rather than treating homelessness as an individual failing, the programme instilled the principle that housing is a social right—a stable base from which people could address mental health, addiction, unemployment or social reintegration.
In the study How Finland Ended Homelessness, Finnish experts Beth Shinn and Jill Khadduri state:
In the Housing First model, a dwelling is not a reward that a homeless person receives once their life is back on track. Instead, a dwelling is the foundation on which the rest of life is put back together. A person who is homeless goes directly into a rental apartment, either an independent apartment or unit in a supported housing development and has the opportunity to choose services and supports. Staff in supported housing developments treat clients as equals and strive to build community.
Each municipality that participated in PAAVO I was required to submit a local action plan, with targets for reducing long-term homelessness, acquiring or building new units and delivering support services. While delivery was managed locally, national coordination ensured consistency and accountability. Progress was centrally monitored through regular evaluations, and adjustments were made collaboratively. The clarity of national leadership, combined with strong local buy-in and a shared ethical foundation, distinguished Finland’s Housing First approach from less coordinated efforts seen elsewhere.
The programme was backed by over 170 million euro in joint funding from the Finnish government and participating municipalities, ensuring long-term resourcing. Though significant, this investment proved more cost-effective than the fragmented, shelter-based system it replaced. For years, shelters had functioned as bandaids: temporary, costly to operate, unable to offer lasting stability. They left some cycling in and out of temporary accommodation, making it harder to rebuild relationships, find employment or access consistent support. By shifting focus away from emergency shelters and crisis services, the Housing First model reduced demand on high-cost systems like hospitals, police and prisons. Numerous evaluations showed that once housed, individuals used fewer public resources and achieved greater long-term stability. Converting shelters into permanent housing not only delivered better outcomes—it cost less than maintaining revolving-door emergency services.
To learn more about Housing First, The Lovepost requested a comment from Saija Turunen, Head Researcher at the Y-Foundation, one of the leading organisations implementing the Finnish Housing First model. Turunen emphasises that collaboration has been essential to the programme’s success. “It’s not municipalities or NGOs who can solve this problem alone,” she says. “We need this very clear partnership with concrete aims and short-term goals, and we have to go towards those together.”
She explains that since 2008, these partnerships have been formalised through letters of intent that clearly set out responsibilities for housing authorities, agencies and municipalities. These agreements included measurable targets—such as how many homes needed to be created, how many social workers would be employed, and how many people were expected to be housed within a given timeframe.
According to Turunen, flexibility and individualisation are key to the model. In Finland’s system, people facing homelessness are entitled to the same mainstream services as anyone else, and they receive housing before being asked to engage in support such as mental health care or addiction treatment. “The housing, ideally, should be permanent so people don't have to fear having to move again or losing their homes,” she says.
She contrasts this with the staircase model that Finland once used. “[With] the old model, this kind of staircase model, you have to stop drinking or stop using drugs, and maybe then you were given your own home,” Turunen says. “Imagine how difficult it would be to get the job or keep the job or stop drinking, if . . . every night . . . you have to think about where do I go, where do I sleep, where do I wash, where do I cook, where do I wash my laundry?”
That principle of security is not just philosophical in Finland—it is legal. In 2000, a major constitutional reform embedded the right to housing in Section 19 of the Finnish Constitution. It obliges public authorities to “promote the right of everyone to housing,” effectively requiring municipalities to provide not just shelter, but the support services necessary to maintain stable living. This legal commitment reframed housing as a right, not a privilege—a foundation for recovery and full participation in society.
But for several years, this constitutional right remained largely aspirational. It wasn’t until PAAVO I (with political momentum, clear targets and dedicated funding) that Finland began to meaningfully realise the right to housing in practice.
By the late 2010s, Finland was poised as an international leader in the fight to end homelessness. Their Housing First public policy model aided in the widespread reduction of homelessness in the country. PAAVO I had set a bold target: to halve long-term homelessness by 2011. It came close. By the end of the programme, long-term homelessness had dropped by nearly 30 percent nationwide. In Helsinki alone, over 1,200 new homes were created by converting shelters and institutional beds into permanent, supported housing. Evaluations also showed that once housed, people used significantly fewer emergency services, and municipalities saved an estimated 15,000 Euro per person annually. The success of PAAVO I proved that combining a legal right to housing with coordinated investment and accountability could achieve measurable, lasting change.
Despite these successes, challenges persisted. In large cities like Helsinki and Tampere, there still weren’t enough homes available for everyone who needed one, leading to long waits and bottlenecks. Some people also had more complex needs (serious mental health issues, long-term addiction or years of living rough) that made it harder for them to stay housed without ongoing, intensive support.
Finland also began to pay closer attention to people living in unstable situations—like sleeping on a friend’s couch, staying in overcrowded homes or facing eviction. These people weren’t always counted in official statistics, but they were still at real risk of falling into long-term homelessness. The lessons from PAAVO I were clear: Housing First worked, but to fully end homelessness, it would need to be expanded and adapted to meet a wider range of needs.
This led to the launch of PAAVO II, which set a more ambitious goal: to eliminate long-term homelessness altogether. The programme broadened its focus to include the “hidden homeless”, those who weren’t sleeping rough but were still in unstable situations. PAAVO II also helped close the last of Finland’s large, dormitory-style shelters and replaced them with permanent, apartment-based Housing First units, with services tailored to the needs of residents. Support workers were expanded, mobile outreach was strengthened, and NGOs like the Y-Foundation took on a growing role in delivery.
The results were significant: by 2015, long-term homelessness had dropped a further 35 percent compared to 2008 levels. Total homelessness also declined by 16 percent between 2012 and 2016. Roughly 2,500 fewer people were homeless by 2014, including 1,200 fewer experiencing long-term homelessness. The programme also helped prevent hundreds of evictions and connected more at-risk people to services before they lost housing.
By the end of PAAVO II, Finnish policymakers had a clearer picture of the people still slipping through the cracks. Those who remained unhoused often faced overlapping challenges—such as co-occurring mental illness and substance use, histories of trauma and extreme social isolation—that demanded more specialised, long-term support. New pressures like rising rents, insecure employment and family breakdowns were also pushing more people into housing precarity for the first time. It became clear that if homelessness was to be further reduced, prevention couldn’t remain a secondary goal—it had to become the foundation of policy.
In 2016 Finland announced AUNE, the Action Plan for Preventing Homelessness. Unlike the earlier PAAVO programmes, which focused primarily on housing provision and recovery, AUNE put prevention front and centre. It aimed to strengthen early interventions by improving cooperation across sectors: housing, health, social services and employment. It also introduced new tools to stop evictions, such as rent guarantee schemes and debt counselling and encouraged municipalities to adopt local prevention plans. Funding supported the construction of over 2,500 new housing units, particularly for young people and newly arrived migrants.
By end of the AUNE programme, homelessness fell to around 4,396 people, with 1,318 long-term cases
AUNE’s approach helped keep more people from falling into homelessness in the first place. But it also reinforced the understanding that homelessness is not a static problem: it evolves with social, economic and demographic shifts. For Finland, this reinforced the need for ongoing adaptation.
That principle guided the next phase: the 2020–2022 Cooperation Programme, which aimed to halve homelessness again by 2023. It built on everything that came before, but with a stronger focus on nationwide coordination. The programme aligned municipal action plans with central government strategy, improved data sharing and follow-up, and invested in both housing construction and tailored services.
By the end of the Cooperation Programme in 2022, Finland had achieved solid results, reducing total homelessness to 3,686 people living alone—a drop from the previous year—and about 1,133 long-term cases. Long-term homelessness had fallen an impressive 68 percent since 2008, with single-person homelessness down 45 percent in that period.
Even though the target of halving homelessness by 2023 was ambitious, the programme clearly continued Finland’s trend, pushing harder into prevention and coordination; however, it also showed that even with a strong legal foundation, political will and funding, complete eradication remains a multi-year, ongoing journey.
After more than a decade of steady decline, homelessness in Finland has begun to rise again—showing the first increase in 11 years. In 2024, the number of people experiencing homelessness climbed to 3,806, up 377 from the previous year. Most concerning is the 50 percent increase in street homelessness (those sleeping outside, in stairwells or emergency shelters) which reached 694 people. For a country long praised as a global leader in tackling homelessness, the reversal is a sobering signal that the system is under new pressures.
Several factors appear to be driving this shift. The rising cost of living, particularly in housing, has placed added strain on low-income households. More tenants are being priced out of their homes or pressured to move into smaller, cheaper apartments—sometimes at the urging of Kela, Finland’s social insurance institution. Cuts to social security, including housing and income support, have left more people vulnerable to eviction and housing instability. Services that once helped keep people housed (housing advice and mediation) have had their budgets halved, weakening one of the most effective tools for preventing homelessness.
This strain is being felt most in Finland’s major cities, particularly Helsinki, Tampere and Turku. Helsinki alone saw an 80 percent increase in housing advice contacts in one year, suggesting that the demand for help is far outpacing supply. And unlike in previous years, a new group of homeless individuals is emerging: people with no significant support needs, who are simply unable to afford rent. This is a departure from the traditional profile of homelessness, which often centred on complex challenges like addiction or mental illness.
In response, the Finnish government launched a renewed national programme in 2024, aiming to end long-term homelessness by 2027. Backed by over 8 million euro in funding, the initiative includes local development projects in cities and wellbeing counties, with a focus on building permanent cooperation between housing and social services. The programme is designed to reinforce prevention and ensure that those at risk receive early support, before they lose their homes.
But many experts warn that this will not be enough. Teija Ojankoski, CEO of the Y-Foundation, says that Finland is now producing homelessness faster than it can resolve it. The safety net that once caught people is fraying—faster than pilot programmes can patch it. Without reversing benefit cuts, restoring eviction-prevention budgets and rapidly scaling affordable housing, Finland risks undoing the hard-won progress of the past 15 years. As Ojankoski puts it, “We know exactly how to make homelessness decrease again. It is a matter of choice.”
Global lessons: adapting the housing first model
Finland’s success raises an urgent question: if homelessness can be drastically reduced there, can other countries replicate that progress?
One of the key lessons from Finland’s experience is how codifying the right to housing in law is necessary, but not sufficient, to end homelessness.
In 2000, Finland amended its Constitution (Section 19) to oblige public authorities to promote the right of everyone to housing and support those who cannot secure housing on their own. This made housing a legal right, not just a policy ambition. It wasn’t until the launch of PAAVO I in 2008, with detailed implementation plans, cross-agency coordination and substantial funding, that the right to housing began to be realised in practice. In other words, constitutional change without practical infrastructure, policy coherence and resourcing, had limited impact.
Yet even this robust legal and policy framework has shown limits. In recent years, Finland has experienced a troubling reversal of progress. This regression suggests that constitutional rights, while symbolically powerful, can become hollow if not protected by sustainable, adaptive policy.
This reopens the conversation about whether constitutional rights frameworks should go further. Former New Zealand Chief Human Rights Commissioner Paul Hunt has argued that housing rights should not only be recognised in law, but also backed by independent, nimble accountability systems. In Hunt’s view, legal recognition must come with enforceable mechanisms that empower individuals and communities to challenge housing failures and compel systemic response. Finland’s model and legislation, while stronger than most, lacks this kind of rights-based enforcement architecture. Its constitution "promotes" the right to housing but does not guarantee it in the justiciable sense—people cannot easily bring legal claims for housing failures. Given the circumstance, is it fair to ask then: did the legal framework stop short of what was actually needed? Would a stronger, enforceable model of housing rights, closer to what Hunt envisions, have buffered against the current erosion? Without accountability, housing rights risk becoming rhetorical rather than real, especially under changing political conditions.
For countries considering rights-based approaches, this presents an important lesson. Recognising housing as a right in legislation or the constitution may be necessary, but unless it is incorporated within a framework of coordinated delivery, binding duties, funding commitments and culturally responsive design, the right may not be meaningfully realised.
The cost, and value, of commitment
Another Finnish insight is the sheer scale of investment required in housing infrastructure and support services. Housing First is not a cheap or quick fix; Finland poured substantial public funds into building new homes, subsidising rents and funding support staff. Year after year, across multiple administrations, the Finnish government backed its vision with resources: large, consistent investments in both housing construction (supply) and rental subsidies (demand) ensured that a home was available and affordable for everyone being housed. Helsinki and other cities converted rundown shelters into apartments, and the state helped finance thousands of new social housing units. This housing came packaged with wraparound support. Once people were housed, teams of social workers, nurses and counsellors rallied to address the issues that often accompany chronic homelessness: mental illness, addiction, unemployment. But on the tenant’s own terms. Unlike traditional models that demand sobriety or other conditions before housing, the Housing First approach puts no preconditions on getting a home. The evidence shows this works: stability provides a platform for recovery with more efficiency than the street or shelter system. For Aotearoa to emulate this, it would need a dramatic boost in housing supply and social support. The country currently suffers a well-documented housing crisis, with far too few affordable homes available. Any Housing First rollout must confront that head-on, by aggressively building or buying housing stock and expanding public housing subsidies. Aotearoa would also need to improve coordination between central and local agencies. Services for the homeless there are often delivered by a patchwork of NGOs, local councils and government programs. A Finnish-style solution demands everyone row in the same direction, guided by a national strategy.
Indigenous design, global principle
One area where a simple copy-paste of Finland’s model will not work is cultural adaptation, especially for Indigenous communities. In Aotearoa, Māori are disproportionately affected by homelessness, a fact stemming from decades of colonial dispossession, urban migration and systemic inequality. Any Kiwi version of Housing First must reckon with that reality.
Māori leaders and service providers have pointed out that the standard Housing First approach, conceived in North America and Europe, doesn’t automatically mesh with mātauranga Māori (Māori knowledge/worldview) or address the intergenerational trauma behind Indigenous homelessness. Simply put, a programme designed overseas can fail Māori if it ignores their perspectives on community, family (whānau) and connection to land.
Responding to these concerns, Aotearoa has begun taking steps to indigenise its homelessness strategy. In late 2022, the Labour government launched He Ara Hiki Mauri, a Māori-led framework to tackle homelessness. This three-year, 24.7 million NZD pilot programme takes a fundamentally different approach. Instead of adapting imported models to fit Māori needs, it puts tangata whenua in charge: designing, governing and delivering housing support according to Māori values and ways of being. The principle at its core is mana motuhake: self-determination for Māori, by Māori.
The initiative is led by Arohanui ki te Tangata, a collective of seven Māori housing and social service organisations operating across the country, from Te Tai Tokerau (the Far North) to Te Whanganui-a-Tara (the capital). They are supported by Te Matapihi, the national Māori housing advocacy body, and work in formal partnership with Te Tūāpapa Kura Kāinga (the Ministry of Housing and Urban Development). But importantly this is not just a Māori “add-on” to existing systems. The funding flows directly to the collective, giving them decision-making power over how services are delivered and which priorities matter most.
So what does this really look like? When someone in crisis—say, a young mother fleeing violence, or a kaumātua (elder) recently evicted—approaches a He Ara Hiki Mauri provider, the first step is whakawhanaungatanga: building trust through conversation, connection and shared understanding. A caseworker, often called a navigator, will sit down with them over a cup of tea and talk through their needs. These needs extend beyond housing - they encompass wellbeing, cultural identity and long-term stability. This might include support with MSD income entitlements, healthcare, addiction services or even help reconnecting to iwi, marae or whakapapa.
If the person is without housing, they are placed in emergency or transitional accommodation the same day: usually a motel, short-term rental or other safe temporary placement. There are no conditions like sobriety or treatment compliance. From there, the navigator helps secure a longer-term home, often through Kāinga Ora or a private rental. The support does not stop once the person is housed: navigators stay involved as long as needed, offering wraparound care that includes everything from tenancy mediation and budgeting help to language classes, whānau reunification or spiritual support.
Roughly three-quarters of the 24.7 million is allocated directly to frontline support: emergency housing, rental bonds and arrears, navigator salaries, GP visits, counselling, rongoā Māori, travel to marae, cultural reconnection and more. The remaining quarter is allocated to shared infrastructure across the provider network—things like training in tikanga-based tenancy sustainment, new data tools and a robust independent evaluation currently underway, led by Dr Grace Walker (Ngāti Kahungunu, Ngāruahine), a Māori researcher and data scientist who specialises in culturally grounded approaches to housing and wellbeing.
While He Ara Hiki Mauri does not fund new house construction itself, it works in coordination with other Māori housing initiatives that are focused on building or acquiring physical stock. The role of He Ara Hiki Mauri is to ensure that once a roof is found, people stay housed and supported in ways that uphold their cultural identity and collective wellbeing.
Over time, this model is beginning to reshape the wider system—not just serve people within it. By contracting directly with Māori providers, it shifts power away from central government agencies and toward communities themselves. The programme is also changing how success is measured: outside of costs savings and nights housed, it also looks at whether whānau are reconnected with culture, land and whanaungatanga. New practice standards and training materials being developed through the programme are expected to become mandatory across all homelessness contracts—meaning that, for once, mainstream providers may have to meet Māori expectations, rather than the other way around.
The programme is funded until June 2026, after which its future depends on the results of the formal evaluation. Early signals suggest promise. For now, the current National government has not cut or cancelled the initiative. It remains one of the few nationally backed housing programmes that centres Māori and trusts Māori providers with leadership, funding and accountability.
The same lesson is echoing elsewhere in the world. In Canada and Australia, where Indigenous peoples also endure disproportionate homelessness, there’s a growing recognition that Housing First must be flexible and culturally informed. For example, Canada’s landmark Housing First trial a decade ago (the At Home/Chez Soi project) found that in cities with large Indigenous populations, the model had to be adjusted with Indigenous leadership and customs. In Winnipeg, the programme enlisted Aboriginal agencies to help run housing services and integrated Indigenous ceremonies and protocols into support work. This approach respected cultural identity and improved trust and engagement. Likewise, in Australia, projects such as the “50 Lives 50 Homes” campaign in Perth highlighted a need to tailor Housing First to Aboriginal Australians, incorporating family-oriented approaches and community support, rather than assuming a one-size-fits-all formula. Across these examples, the message is clear: Housing First can’t be first unless it’s also local first, adapted to the unique social fabric of each country.
The non-negotiable: political will
The final ingredient is perhaps the hardest to quantify but the most important: political will. Finland’s triumph over homelessness did not happen by accident; it took bold leadership and a refusal to accept the status quo. It meant spending money on people experiencing homelessness that some critics surely argued could be spent elsewhere, and sticking with the strategy even if public sentiment wavered.
In countries like Aotearoa, where homelessness has often been seen as intractable, a shift in mindset is needed at the top levels of government. The principles of Housing First are globally replicable: treat homelessness as a solvable problem, centre it on human rights, invest in housing and support. However they only take hold if leaders choose to prioritise them. It means rallying the public behind the idea that everyone deserves a home, just as Finland did.
A living commitment
If there is one overarching lesson from Finland’s journey, it is this: success is not a finish line but a practice. Rights-based housing policy, generous funding, culturally grounded programmes—none of these can stand alone. They must move together, persist across governments and evolve with social and economic tides. Finland’s recent rise in homelessness is not a failure of its model, but a warning: this work does not end. It must be protected, adapted and renewed, again and again. Socio-political climates change. Economies shift. Communities grow more complex. The policies we put in place today must be built to bend. And while the goals we set may sometimes be missed, they are still essential. They orient us towards justice. If we aim to end homelessness entirely and only reach halfway, we’ve still changed thousands of lives. The point is not perfection. It is progress, sustained over time and underpinned by belief—belief that people deserve homes, that governments can act and that hope itself is a form of infrastructure. Housing First is not a single programme or political cycle. It’s a long-term social contract. One we must choose, and keep choosing, together.
