By Katie Zhang
Early in June, applications for Section 8 tenant-based vouchers in NYC opened up for one busy week so that 200,000 lucky households could be chosen by lottery to replenish NYCHA’s waitlist, which was closed for last 15 years. The application was open to anyone to apply, given they meet a few household, income, and citizenship eligibility requirements. This distinguished itself from a version of Section 8 that was launched in 2021 called the Emergency Housing Voucher (EHV) program, which was by agency referral only.
NYC can offer a lot to people who have figured out how to navigate the complex web of resources available, but can seem impenetrable to those who are systemically excluded or otherwise unable to access social services. While it is necessary to expand the opportunities for housing programs, it is just as important to think about how their implementation affects who gets to benefit from them. The EHV program for survivors of gender-based violence (GBV) highlighted how much work and resources it takes to thoughtfully implement a life-saving and trauma-informed housing program.
EHV was funded as part of the American Rescue Plan Act of 2021 after a noticeable increase in domestic and gender-based violence during the pandemic. The EHV program allowed 1,168 survivors in NYC to access something similar to Section 8, a tenant-based rental subsidy, or “voucher,” to rent in the private housing market and only pay 30% of their household income. I was able to refer people for EHV through my work as a Housing Specialist at Womankind, a nonprofit serving largely immigrant survivors of domestic violence, sexual violence, human trafficking, elder abuse, and other forms of gender-based violence.
This article builds upon findings of a longer research project and includes some quotes from survivors who experienced how EHV was implemented. Through qualitative interviews with survivors and service providers, my research explored how EHV measured up to ideals of housing justice, a new public service model, and transformative justice. By centering lived experience, the research aimed to advocate for more programs that align with values inspired by larger housing and anti-violence movements. My personal motivation for this research came from a desire to bridge the gap between theory and practice when working towards a world that would treat housing as a human right.
EHV was a “golden ticket” to safe housing for some survivors
The opening of EHV marked one of the few times vouchers were allocated to people fleeing domestic violence who weren’t in the city’s shelter system. EHV was described as “a golden ticket,” meaning that it gave a few people the chance at a life-changing opportunity to find safety in a context of unaffordable housing options. One survivor shared that, “without an EHV, there’s no way I could get an apartment on my own. It would have been… it would be very, very difficult. So it gave me hope. Like I could do this.” Having the ability to leave an abusive environment and choose where to live allowed another survivor to grow their sense of control, “I’ve been making decisions on my own and it’s a great feeling.”
Every person interviewed brought up how getting and using EHV can build a solid foundation for survivors to heal and grow. This idea of EHV as a golden ticket to housing stability can be broken down into a few points: there is an overwhelming need for housing support for this population that EHV helped fill; there was an aspect of randomness or luck in the implementation; and there were aspects that made EHV exclusive of some survivors. A service provider highlighted how vital housing is for survivors fleeing violence and that “if all the clients experienced [EHV], they actually have less possibility to come back to an abusive relationship.” EHV highlighted the profound impact of the housing crisis on survivors of gender-based violence, often forcing them to remain in abusive situations to have a place to stay.
What does it look like navigating housing services?
For context, EHV filled a growing need for long-term housing support for survivors fleeing violence where there were few options before. The city’s Human Resources Administration (HRA) runs 55 emergency domestic violence shelters across the city meant for those seeking an immediate, confidential, safe place to stay. There is a maximum length of stay of up to 90 days, with possible extensions up until a total of 180 days. If there are no vacancies in the HRA shelter system at the time, survivors who have no other options often make the difficult decision to risk staying in the same space as someone who could harm them. Even once someone is in the HRA shelter, there are limited housing programs and nearly half enter the Department of Homeless Services shelter after the maximum 180 days.
EHV had a tremendous impact on survivors’ housing stability and healing, if they managed to access the program and navigate through the long application process. Nearly all of the survivors interviewed mentioned feeling “lucky” to be able to access EHV, notably highlighting how they knew other survivors who were not able to get it. In contrast to public benefits like Medicaid or cash assistance, housing assistance is not an entitlement and only one in four people in the US who are eligible have Section 8.
Who gets left out?
The entire EHV process—from the initial referral and application to the apartment search and moving in—was challenging and required luck and resilience to get through. “Luck” and “resilience” were closely tied to layers of privilege, as the process was easier for people who could speak English, understood how to navigate government systems, and weren’t otherwise discriminated against based on identity like race, class, and gender. The way that government services are implemented with strict requirements and long timelines were most harmful to those in more vulnerable circumstances.
One survivor was cobbling together a string of temporary living situations and was able to submit an EHV application to be reviewed by the New York City Housing Authority (NYCHA). While waiting, she had to submit documents several times over the course of a year. For her, she figured “it might just be the system and these people working at NYCHA are just doing their job… I don’t know the root problem of why I had to send my ID three times, but that kind of thing would be good to fix because people who are dealing with housing insecurity or homelessness, that kind of thing is a lot more hurtful than the person who’s working at NYCHA. Yeah, being unhoused is not fun.” Other survivors also mentioned how they felt perceived negatively by staff or property owners when they disclosed their survivorship.
At the extreme end, the price of being unhoused can feel like “social death.” Social death is a term that describes the condition that “undesirable” members of society experience when they are forced into the periphery and not fully treated as human. It is tied to a “reliance of rights-based politics on notions of who is and is not a deserving member of society.” We must challenge the systems that rely on these neoliberal conceptions about worth, and instead, live by values that emerge from the insurgent experiences of people left out of the design and implementation of government programs.
Experiencing discrimination was most obvious during the apartment search, as people largely had to advocate for themselves in the private housing market. Everyone who was interviewed brought up the challenges of using the voucher in the private market, especially source of income (SOI) discrimination. SOI discrimination was brought up in almost every interview, succinctly summed up by one survivor who shared, “Section 8 – just this magic word, nobody wants to take.”
One nonprofit, Unlock NYC, makes it easier for voucher holders to report discrimination. Their analysis of the reports revealed the intentional efforts that corporate landlords and brokerage firms have used to lock people out of the private housing market. The impact of constant rejections or lack of response from property owners and brokers had a huge toll on survivors interviewed. One survivor shared about her apartment search, “[it] was so hard because I couldn’t see any future.” Another mentioned how each rejection of the voucher felt like a personal rejection.
Graphic by Katie Zhang
Are vouchers the solution?
The federal government’s largest investments in housing consist of tax incentives for private developers and tenant-based rental programs. Both of them financially benefit property owners and are not inclusive of those most oppressed by existing systems. EHV highlighted some of the contradictions of using tenant-based rental subsidies in an unaffordable private housing market. Vouchers like EHV and Section 8 rely on the private market to provide housing to people who would not be able to afford rent on their own otherwise and prioritize individual choice.
The cost of subsiding one household’s rent compares with a full-time worker’s salary. Service providers who make around $50k per year were helping clients with EHV look for apartments at around $3000 per month. Understanding the flow of money from government agencies to private landlords in this process was both intriguing and frustrating, shedding light on how expensive it is to have a safe place to live. The benefits of high quality housing are obvious, but the risk of high rents can weigh heavily on individual households. Tenants are put in a precarious situation of relying on a tricky-to-navigate program in order to live in an apartment with rent that is much higher than their income. There is a clear need for emotional support during the apartment search and moving process.
As the government largely abdicated its responsibility to provide housing, there has been a parallel trend of privatization and the contracting out of services to nonprofits in the name of improved efficiency and cost reduction. Part of why I wanted to work in direct services at a nonprofit were the personal, one-on-one conversations that come with working towards housing justice. It’s inherently emotional work, or at least it should be when done well. But so many frontline workers are spread too thin, working multiple jobs, or just overwhelmed with the number of people who are seeking support to live up to the huge responsibility. For frontline workers in an environment of scarcity, there is a slippery slope in which service providers have to prioritize and decide who deserves housing, where the people who most acutely experience oppression may be left behind.
Tenant-based rental subsidies can benefit from a fundamental shift from trying to discern who is deserving of housing to an understanding that housing is a human right, one that is way too important to leave entirely to the private market. Service providers and government agencies can more intentionally reach more marginalized people, and funding things like housing navigation support should continue–though staff must also share some belief that housing is a human right. I am inspired by learnings from PolicyLink’s Housing Futures Month that highlights models that are “unapologetically inclusive of all,” of which, one exciting example is legislation that would make housing a human right within California’s state constitution.
Katie Zhang is dedicated to housing justice and liberatory, healing-centered practice. She works as a Housing Specialist at Womankind, does research for the Undesign the Redline exhibit, and just graduated with a Master’s of Urban Planning at Hunter College. Katie owes her organizing roots to Queens and is grateful to have made her home in Sunset Park, Brooklyn.
