Dominic juggles life as a single dad, community researcher, and author. He has faced eviction, food insecurity, and the brutality of being failed by the very systems meant to protect him and his daughter. Now, he’s speaking out, laying bare the deep-rooted inequalities that shape who gets to stay well, and who doesn’t.
Ruth Thomas from EuroHealthNet sat down with him to hear how he’s challenging the health divide.
From the outside looking in, the political world can often feel like a never-ending rat race. The same narratives recycled; the same buzzwords repeated. It makes you wonder: is anything really changing, or is it all just talk?
Recently, while scrolling through social media, I came across a quote that stuck with me: “I only knew I was living in poverty when I saw rich people talking about us on TV.”
The power of those words wasn’t in their phrasing, but in their raw truth. They were real, and they came from someone tired of being silenced and sidelined. That person was Dominic Watters.
For weeks, I followed his story as he addressed the United Kingdom (UK) government and met with farming unions, calling for action for his community and for those without the means to raise their own voices.
A single father, social worker, and author from Kent, UK, Dominic is on a mission to hold decision-makers accountable. He reflects on how social distance, not just from COVID, but driven by poverty, race, and class, shapes the experience of those in deprived communities.
As a social worker, he’s seen how poverty is underrepresented in practice frameworks, with issues such as food insecurity and fuel poverty often overlooked. Through his work and his book, he seeks to validate the lived experience of his community and ensure their voices shape conversations about change.
“I'm a council estate [social housing] single dad. I've raised my daughter in an environment that's effectively a food desert, ironically, in the ‘Garden of England’. I've seen the inequalities that my [social housing] estate and communities like mine face, like the lack of access to proper nutrition.”
“I’m fighting to ensure that our knowledge, our lived experience is recognised as equally important as academic or professional knowledge,” he says.
Dominic’s drive to advocate for social justice is rooted in battling harsh inequalities from soaring energy costs and food insecurity to housing deprivation.
Dominic’s story is deeply personal, yet far from unique. Millions across Europe live with the same daily challenges. His words aren’t singular; they reveal a pattern; deprivation isn't accidental, it’s by design. The very systems meant to help people instead leave them facing poverty, stigma, and systemic neglect.
The stigma that silences
“Until COVID, I never really spoke about the inequalities to anyone outside of my [social housing] estate,” he recalls. “It was shame. Snobbery. We knew the judgment we’d face. I was silenced by snobbery.”
Shame is only one part of the silencing; the deeper issue is systemic. When people like Dominic speak out, the systems they confront, represented by officials at every level of governance, only include them when convenient and discard them when not.
“My daughter and I are not a case study. We are key stakeholders in any discussion around poverty and the failures of this system. So please, don’t be a mechanism that continues to hide us again and again.”
“For us, and when I say ‘us,’ I mean the poor, we must be resilient every single day. Every day is a crisis. Just feeding our children is an achievement.”
“That silence runs deep, from not being heard, to not being able to eat a nutritious meal, to something as basic as turning on the lights or the heating. I’ve had mornings where my daughter wakes up and can’t have a hot shower, or even switch on the light, because we’re on pay-as-you-go gas and electric, and when that runs out, everything shuts off”, Dominic states.
The cost-of-living crisis isn’t just economic; it’s a public health emergency. According to a Eurobarometer survey, 93% of Europeans say it’s a top concern. Poverty and social exclusion followed closely at 83%.
In underserved communities, mental health problems, chronic health conditions, and premature death are more common. Children are particularly affected, their futures shaped by the conditions they’re born into.
“If you're born and raised in a council estate [social housing estate] like mine, your average life expectancy is 15 years shorter than if you grow up just a couple of miles down the road in a more affluent area”, Dominic says. “Learning that really drove home how poverty shapes everything”.
Extracted and excluded
Let’s be clear, Dominic’s story is not a tale of tokenism. It’s the lived reality of someone navigating a system of governance that’s failing him, and that too often exploits those it claims to help. “There's something deeply entrenched in the way people in power use voices like mine to lend themselves authenticity in decision-making processes. But often, those relationships end up being quite extractive”, he explains.
Still, some are listening. With support from UK Members of Parliament including MP Sharon Hodgson, Dominic is challenging governments to approach deprivation differently, proving that real experiences must shape policy, not be sidelined by it.
“When people talk about poverty, they often do it without us”, Dominic explains. “There are some inequalities people hesitate to speak on unless they’ve lived them. But with poverty, there’s this deep-rooted idea that we’re undeserving. So, it's seen as acceptable to talk about us without ever including us”.
Inclusion shouldn’t be performative. It’s not about ticking boxes, but grounding decisions in reality. “Because of where I come from, I can see things that others might miss in policy, education, and frameworks. Gaps invisible to those who haven’t lived this”, he continues.
So why are voices like Dominic’s still missing from advisory boards?
“The truth is”, he says, “the system doesn’t want the poor to own anything, not even our own experiences of oppression and discrimination. We’re not meant to have ownership over our own narratives.”
Four pillars of change
Dominic doesn’t just speak about inequality; he documents it from the inside. His photo series the ‘Four Pillars of Food Insecurity’, produced for the Food Foundation’s Broken Plate 2025: the State of the Nation’s Food Systems, captures the everyday realities behind the statistics. These arent just empty cupboards, they’re snapshots of a system in crisis. “These images are my food environment,” he says. “They show our daily forced resilience and how food insecurity ties into housing, health, and access.”
The photos have already travelled far beyond his estate. Quoted by Minister for Food Security, Daniel Zeichner, they’re part of a growing call to centre lived experience in policymaking. “They’re working on the national food strategy now,” Dominic says. “I hope that what I’ve shared helps inform that work, because resilience, for people like us, isn’t a choice. It’s survival.”
Even within his estate, deprivation is layered. “There’s a hierarchy of poverty. And at the top, things are worse. We’ve got windows that don’t seal, black mould crawling up the walls, and no lift. My older neighbours struggle up the stairs to get home. You can hear them gasping. The conditions affect their breathing. It’s neglect, plain and simple.”
Basic complaints are ignored. “We’re not asking for luxuries. Just basic decency. But even that’s too much, apparently.”
The impact goes beyond the buildings themselves, as access to health and social care isn’t easy either. “We don’t have cars. There’s one bus, and it only goes in one direction. Getting to appointments is difficult. Everything stacks: food, heating, housing. Every layer of deprivation reinforces the next.”
Of course, inequality is perhaps most visible in schools, where policies made by those far removed from the reality ripple down into lunch trays, and the quiet, daily efforts of growing up in this environment become clear.
School food isnt just policy, it’s personal
School food isn’t just a policy issue, it’s personal for many in Dominic’s situation. “Everyone talks about it. But those of us directly affected, we’re rarely included in the conversation.”
He’s critical of universal free meal campaigns that ignore the existing gaps. “The most disadvantaged children, the ones who already qualify for this support, still aren’t getting enough. That’s where the focus should be.”
On his [social housing] estate, the local shop is an example of what inequality looks like in practice. This is a food desert, where hot meals come from fast-food counters and fresh produce is nowhere to be found. Across the UK, the EU, and far beyond, children are growing up in environments where healthy food is scarce and ultra-processed options are the norm. What these children face isn’t an isolated hardship, it’s part of a wider, systemic failure repeated in communities across the world.
“There’s a school right on the [social housing] estate. At lunchtime, I see the kids queueing outside that shop, not because they want to, but because that’s the only place to get hot food. And what’s there? Chicken nuggets and chips. That’s it.”
He pauses. “That really says something, doesn’t it? When poverty surrounds your school, that becomes your only option.”
When the system fails, he builds his own
Despite it all, Dominic is reclaiming his narrative. His ‘Estate 2 Plate’ campaign is fighting to make nutritious food and green space accessible.
Research shows improving nutrition takes more than availability. Policies must challenge food industry targeting low-income areas. But as Dominic points out, the reality on the ground tells a different story.
“Outside my local shop, the adverts are always the same; energy drinks, fast food, now vaping [e-cigarettes]. That’s what we see every day. Not health. Not opportunity. Just reminders of deprivation.
“You can buy mango vodka or blueberry vapes, but not an actual mango or blueberries, even if you had a million pounds. That’s the reality. It’s easier for us to get alcohol and vapes than it is to get fresh fruit”, he says.
He’s clear that this isn’t an isolated case. “I’ve come to see that this isn’t just something the poor go through in one place, it’s a universal experience across the UK, and even globally. It’s a pattern, a system that’s designed this way.”
Fuelled by these daily realities, he launched a GoFundMe to buy his local shop and surrounding green space. His vision? A community-run food hub that partners with local farmers, making fresh produce accessible, affordable, and dignified.
“People might ask 'Why don’t you just grow your own food?' But when all you have is a balcony, you can’t grow a healthy diet for a teenage child.”
“You can’t talk about food systems comfortably without acknowledging the bigger issues: lack of welfare, benefit cuts, and other systemic issues that drive inequality”, he says.
But serious financial backing isn’t easy to come by. “I’ve failed to set up a Community Interest Company four times. We don’t know how to apply for research grants or use those opportunities. We often don’t know the language or the process. That kind of knowledge feels deliberately withheld.”
“Real change takes resources, and the truth is that the poor aren’t meant to own anything. Sharing knowledge equally and recognising expertise from all backgrounds would be a healthier way forward” says Dominic.
Real lives, real inclusion
Dominic’s images and words are more than a testimony. They’re a challenge. If we’re serious about building a wellbeing economy–one that values people and planet over profit– voices like Dominic’s aren’t optional. They’re essential. As he puts it, “It’s not about choice of food, of housing, of anything; it’s about survival.” But it shouldn't be.
After our talk, I wondered if Dominic realises the scale of the change he’s driving. The voice he’s giving others. The ripple effects his work will have on his community for years to come.
This isn’t just a story about Kent or the UK. It’s about systems. Governance. Power. And whose voices matter.
As a communicator, my job isn’t just to report facts, but to tell stories like Dominic’s, laying the groundwork for real change. These people aren’t case studies or faces of tokenism. These are real people living in harsh, unrelenting realities, counting every cent because the system continues to fail them. I want to be clear: this isn’t a story of sympathy. It’s a call for change, for inclusion, and a reminder that ‘inequality’ isn’t just a buzzword. It’s the daily reality for millions across Europe.
“I occupy a particular position,” Dominic tells me. “Part of me wants to highlight struggle. Another part wants to inform policy, but not in a way that turns us into pity stories.
It shouldn't be: ‘Thank you for your hard-luck story, Dominic. Now go away and let the big boys and girls decide.’ It's about making sure the voices of the oppressed are involved in every conversation, and not just at a charitable level.”
What Dominic is experiencing is an undeniably global crisis, but we cannot ignore who continues to let it happen. These arent isolated tragedies, they’re the predictable consequences of political decisions. For decades, policy choices have sacrificed lives in service of a neoliberal ideology that prioritises profit over dignity. So, yes, Dominic’s voice is urgent, necessary. But let’s not stop there. We must also answer the question: who, exactly, is the snob?
Ruth Thomas
Ruth joined the EuroHealthNet team in April 2022 as Communications Officer.
She holds a BA Hons degree in Print Journalism from the University of Gloucestershire (UK) and has worked in the not-for-profit sector for over ten years. Ruth has applied her communication skills to a number of positions including for an energy trade association in Brussels and as part of a National Research Network (Sêr Cymru / Stars Wales), where she was based at a UK university.