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At 3.30am, Vello Senkel awoke to a knock on his door. Standing on his doorstep were his neighbours with an urgent request: “Do you have salt? We want to boil macaroni.” He acquiesced, but it turned out that salt wasn’t the only ingredient they were missing: “And do you also have macaroni?” His warm face, framed by jaw-length white hair, is at once charmed and outraged as he recounts the interaction while smoking a cigarette outside his apartment building the following morning.

Senkel, whose nickname is Velho (Finnish for wizard), is known for his proficiency in the kitchen. In his apartment, where he lives alongside 77 other formerly homeless people in a Helsinki suburb, he shows me his fully stocked freezer. From his neatly organised fridge he pulls out the jars of pickled cabbage and shrimp salad he has prepared to take to a friend’s house for lunch later.

When Senkel, 67, moved here three and a half years ago, he had been living on the streets of the Finnish capital for 10 days after being evicted from his home. Before that there had been a diagnosis of borderline personality disorder, and a devastating loss. His partner, whose photo is framed on his bookshelf, died after two years in a coma that started when her heart failed in her sleep.

After getting a place here, little by little, he started to build a new life. As well as cooking, he likes to play a bit of guitar every day. He brings his bass into the kitchen and becomes emotional as he plays along to an Estonian power ballad (he is originally from Estonia).

Having this apartment, he says, has “changed everything”. The housing unit, attractively set around a courtyard in converted student accommodation, follows the “Housing First” principle that has made Finland a world leader when it comes to tackling homelessness. The model focuses on housing as a fundamental human right rather than a reward. Temporary accommodation is seen not as a solution, but something to be avoided. All support is centred on ensuring that people have permanent homes, with everything else following from that – treatment, healthcare, employment. In the long run, advocates say, it is cheaper for the state for people to be permanently housed, taking pressure off other public services.

Another key component of Housing First for Senkel is the 24-hour staff support. Without it, his home would have been a “black hole” of loneliness. He feels understood by the staff here, he says. He has an agreement with the management that if they don’t see him for 72 hours they will get in touch.

In a communal living room-dining area, porridge and coffee are served every morning and there is a weekly community meeting to discuss any issues. Residents can volunteer to do small tasks such as cleaning shared spaces or picking up litter in return for a small fee that is transferred directly into their bank accounts. “You are precious,” a notice on the pinboard says. “We listen and support and together with you we build the life that is true to you. Your pathway, our shared journey.”

Marko Lahtela, who manages the unit where Senkel lives, says their tenants come to them from a range of homeless situations: some come directly from the street; others may have been evicted from their apartment or had problems paying rent. While housing is essential, it is by no means an instant fix. Many have substance-abuse issues or other long-term problems, which means building trust is vital. It is “more of a marathon than a sprint”, he says. There is no limit on how long you can live here. Some haven’t left since it opened in 2022; others move on to more independent forms of accommodation after just six months.

Tenants range in age from early 20s to 60s, but the most common demographic is men who are about 40. There are two apartments for married couples, but the rest are single-person homes. Usually people cover the rent, which starts at about €850 (£728) a month, using benefits or, for those who have one, a pension. The unit, which is run by the health and social care provider Rinnekodit, has lots of success stories, but the system is not perfect. Lahtela says there is not enough in place to stop people running into rental debt, which after two months can result in eviction – and for some, a return to the streets.

Since 2008, when the Housing First principle was introduced as the foundation of all homelessness policies in Finland, the country has achieved remarkable results. Between 2012 and 2023, homelessness rose across Europe, but in Finland, the number of homeless people dropped by more than half, from about 8,000 to about 3,400. Homelessness statistics are notoriously difficult to measure, but for context, the number of people experiencing homelessness in Spain rose by about a quarter between 2012 and 2022. In December, the charity Shelter reported that homelessness in England had risen 8% in the past year to a total of 382,618 – including a record number in temporary accommodation – and that rough sleeping had increased by 20% in just a year. Finland’s success has drawn attention from politicians from around the world – including Britain’s new prime minister, Andy Burnham. In his first speech as PM, Burnham pledged to end rough sleeping in England, and he recently launched a £442m campaign to “get everyone in for Christmas”.

But is Finland still the model? Not long ago, the goal of the former Social Democrat prime minister Sanna Marin’s government to end homelessness by 2027 was seen as within reach, but in the last three years sweeping cuts to social services, healthcare and benefits by Finland’s rightwing government have seen the country’s success story go into reverse. The latest national survey, from last November, found that the number of homeless people had gone up for a second year in a row, to 4,579 people, a 20% rise on the previous year. Key factors cited by the government’s own report include rising housing and living costs, cuts to benefits and more cases of substance abuse and mental health problems. Homelessness has especially increased among women, under-25s and people with non-Finnish backgrounds.

As people come through the doors for breakfast at the cosy former restaurant premises of Vailla vakinaista asuntoa ry (No Fixed Abode), an NGO founded by homeless people 40 years ago, it is striking how young many of them are. After picking up food, donated by a local conference centre, and coffee, people sit down at long tables under low hanging lights. There’s a TV on in the background.

Sitting down for breakfast, Jari Häkkinen, 57, says finding a place to live is not a problem, but finding one that will be covered by his benefits is. He is determined to keep the pensioners apartment he has found, but it is €14 over his monthly limit. “I’m fighting to get that €14 a month no matter what,” says the former construction worker.

Another visitor, who asked to be named only as Leila, joins the conversation. She has been homeless for nearly 12 years and currently lives under a nearby bridge. “They are saying [Finland is a] happy country. It is not true,” she says, referring to its reputation as the world’s happiest country. “This is the reality you see.”

No Fixed Abode serves breakfast, lunch and coffee throughout the day, and in the winter, when temperatures in Helsinki can sink to -30C, they run a night cafe where a small number of people can keep safe and warm. Visitors can also pick up new clothes and speak to peer workers for support and advice. At the moment they have about 100 visitors a day, and in the colder months the number doubles.

There is no “one size, one idea, one model, one type of support service”, says Erja Morottaja, No Fixed Abode’s head of communications. “Some people might need quite light support. And then some people need quite heavy support.”

Suski Kankaanmäki, 44, is now employed there as a peer worker, but she first came as a homeless visitor after she was evicted in 2015. For six months she spent the nights on trains and in railway stations in and around Helsinki – taking the last train to somewhere, sleeping in the station then returning to the city for morning. She then spent the best part of a year in “hidden homelessness” – cooking, cleaning and dog-walking for a friend in return for a place to sleep. It was better than sleeping outside, she says, but there was an uncomfortable power imbalance.

During that time she managed to successfully apply for an apartment, but it quickly became a “drug using centre”. Having grown up in 11 different children’s institutions, it took her time to work out how to build a stable life. She got help from social workers with managing her finances but it wasn’t until a major health scare in 2021 that her life completely turned around. The feeling of not being safe is still there, says Kankaanmäki, and she never stops being on alert, but she is positive about the future and is training to be a nurse. She wants to work at a Housing First unit.

Based on what she has seen here, Kankaanmäki is pretty certain that homelessness numbers will rise further. NGOs are being gutted and new groups, such as working people on low incomes, are becoming at risk of losing their homes. There are not enough shelter places, she says, so people are sleeping in shopping centres, stations, public toilets and Helsinki airport.

Last year, homelessness in Helsinki, which has the largest homeless population of anywhere in Finland, rose by 25% – to 979 people. The increased strain is being felt at the city-run Hietaniemenkatu service centre, one of three places offering emergency short-term accommodation – intended to be for one night, although many stay longer. Staff say they are seeing more women, particularly elderly women, and more people with jobs than before. There is a sense that the country’s most vulnerable have been left to fend for themselves. “We all came to the conclusion that it is because of the current government,” says social worker Viveca, who cannot give her last name for security reasons. “There are cuts to everything. The only place they didn’t cut from is the rich.”

Its 52 emergency housing places, with multiple beds to a room, are free of charge but in high demand. From there, residents can apply for one of its 52 temporary housing places, which are individual rooms but come with a fee of up to €14.60 a day. There is a day centre with showers, washing machines and a sauna, and access to health and housing support. There is something of a revolving-door phenomenon at the centre, however, staff say, where people keep coming back because they do not have the life skills to maintain a permanent apartment alone once they have one.

Despite the recent dip in progress on reducing homelessness, there is still much for other countries to learn from Finland. Arguably, the recent problems make it an even better case study for Burnham and others.

Burnham visited Y-Säätiö (Y-Foundation), which played a central role in the creation and implementation of Housing First, in 2019. Since then, Y-Foundation, which owns more than 19,000 homes in Finland, making it the country’s largest nonprofit landlord, has twice been to the UK to support Burnham’s Manchester homelessness programme, which was inspired by the Finnish model.

Juha Kahila, Y-Foundation’s head of international affairs, is enthusiastic about what has already been achieved. For people who have been homeless, dedicated housing units with 24-hour on-site support are not the only option. The vast majority of formerly homeless people in Finland live in “scattered housing”, he says: affordable housing among different demographic groups. During a walk around Jätkäsaari, a newly developed area of Helsinki in a former container port, he is proud of how students, elderly and low income people live alongside prime real estate and green space. Often the affordable housing looks nicer than the most expensive properties.

There are about 400,000 affordable homes in Finland (in a population of 5.6 million), constituting about 30% of the overall housing stock. When he talks about affordable housing – a term often misappropriated by property developers – he is referring to the real construction costs of a property with no profit for anyone. “We have understood that the need has to be the first thing,” he says. “It is not about the quantity of the affordable homes but how you target them that makes a big difference.”

Comfort and cosiness are often cast aside as a luxury, but they are actually a key part of Finland’s successes in bringing down homelessness. If an apartment isn’t cosy, you won’t feel safe there, says Kahila, as he shows me around a building where a third of the apartments are reserved for low-income musicians. And if you don’t feel like it’s yours then it becomes a roof over your head rather than a home.

“Home is something you want to decorate, you want to spend time there. When you close the door you can … ” he pauses to take a deep breath in and out. “You can be whoever you want. It’s your safe place.”