The head of NHS England gets his blood pressure tested. Photo: Getty
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How people-powered personalisation could lead the NHS to recovery

The NHS needs a highly personalised and co-productive approach that calls on the creative collaboration of individuals, families and communities.

It’s been an important month for personalisation in the NHS. For the first time, around 60,000 adults eligible for Continuing Health Care now have the legal right to a personal health budget. Health and social care leaders have been finalising applications to participate in the potentially ground breaking Integrated Personal Commissioning Project seeking to blend social health and social care funding for individuals and allow them to direct how it is used. And publication of the NHS’s Five Year View set a course for the organisation that commits the organisation to enabling patients to have far more control over their care, including but not only through greater control over shared budgets.

Encouragingly, these moves towards personalisation appear to be based on a deep understanding of why producer-led forms of provision have had their day. The Five Year View makes a strong defence of the values and professionalism of today’s NHS, but makes no bones about where it has fallen short, operating as if health and wellbeing can be delivered to people, rather than achieved in partnership with them. 

It warns that the NHS has been prone to "operating" a "factory model of care and repair" instead of harnessing what it calls the "renewable energy represented by its patients and communities". At a point when 70 per cent of today’s health spend is on long term conditions, rather than isolated health problems that might respond to one-off "repair", agreeing forms of support that fit with people’s own lives and aspirations, and plug into their own resources, could hardly be more important. 

So, as health prepares to speed up its journey to personalisation, it makes sense to look at what can be learned from the experience of other sectors, particularly the sector in which personalisation was born – social care. Much of that learning is very encouraging. We now have detailed evidence of the impact of personal budgets, for example, on the lives of those who use them. 

This month saw the publication of the Third National Personal Care Survey. In line with previous research it shows that the overwhelming majority of budget users believe that their lives have improved in terms of independence, dignity and family and paid relationships. As Alex Fox has noted in a new report for the RSA, people who make long term use of social care have repeatedly demonstrated over the past two decades that they are often better than highly trained professionals at making effective use of public resources. 

Yet personalisation remains highly controversial as a philosophy and as a set of practices. Critics worry about colluding with neo-liberal models of individual choice and control, about the de-professionalisation and fragmentation of the workforce, about creeping inequities, and about abnegating proper risk management. Even some of those who are well-disposed towards its aims are concerned that personal budgets in particular have become expensive bureaucratic thicket in which rationing and provider-interest continue to thrive.

For Alex Fox, the way of resolving these problems is to go back to the roots of personalisation and recognise the true challenge it presents, which is not one of administrative adjustment but of profound culture change. Far from being founded on an individualised view of wellbeing, personalisation rests on a deep understanding and respect for how we thrive or falter as people who are embedded in families and communities. So personalisation must go wider than budgets and individual choices, as clearly recognised back in 2007 in the government’s Putting People First concordat. For personalisation to succeed it needs to be part of a shift towards prevention and the development of inclusive and supportive communities.

The RSA’s own research and practice supports this approach. Our work on social isolation and drug and alcohol recovery, for example, is based on building trust in the capability of individuals, families and communities to forge solutions that are right for them, with the support of services that are re-shaped to respect and support the support ecosystems – formal and informal – of the places they serve. 

For example, the RSA’s Whole Person Recovery Team in West Kent is testing, at scale, a service delivery model that fosters community networks in order to support sustainable, long-term recovery from drug and alcohol abuse. The service attempts to build people’s "recovery capital" by connecting them with the people, groups and places who can become their support ecosystem.  It is a highly personalised and co-productive approach that calls on the creative collaboration of individuals, families and communities. 

Ironically, given the aspirations of the NHS Four Year View, Whole Person Recovery explicitly rejects a medicalised model of addiction and recovery – a reminder, if one were needed, of the  and scale of the task ahead if the health service truly wants to embrace personalisation. For social care, the culture change challenge has been huge. For health, it is likely to be even greater.

Paul Buddery is director of RSA 2020 Public Services

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Erdogan’s purge was too big and too organised to be a mere reaction to the failed coup

There is a specific word for the melancholy of Istanbul. The city is suffering a mighty bout of something like hüzün at the moment. 

Even at the worst of times Istanbul is a beautiful city, and the Bosphorus is a remarkable stretch of sea. Turks get very irritated if you call it a river. They are right. The Bosphorus has a life and energy that a river could never equal. Spend five minutes watching the Bosphorus and you can understand why Orhan Pamuk, Turkey’s Nobel laureate for literature, became fixated by it as he grew up, tracking the movements of the ocean-going vessels, the warships and the freighters as they steamed between Asia and Europe.

I went to an Ottoman palace on the Asian side of the Bosphorus, waiting to interview the former prime minister Ahmet Davu­toglu. He was pushed out of office two months ago by President Recep Tayyip Erdogan when he appeared to be too wedded to the clauses in the Turkish constitution which say that the prime minister is the head of government and the president is a ceremonial head of state. Erdogan was happy with that when he was prime minister. But now he’s president, he wants to change the constitution. If Erdogan can win the vote in parliament he will, in effect, be rubber-stamping the reality he has created since he became president. In the days since the attempted coup, no one has had any doubt about who is the power in the land.

 

City of melancholy

The view from the Ottoman palace was magnificent. Beneath a luscious, pine-shaded garden an oil tanker plied its way towards the Black Sea. Small ferries dodged across the sea lanes. It was not, I hasten to add, Davutoglu’s private residence. It had just been borrowed, for the backdrop. But it reminded a Turkish friend of something she had heard once from the AKP, Erdogan’s ruling party: that they would not rest until they were living in the apartments with balconies and gardens overlooking the Bosphorus that had always been the preserve of the secular elite they wanted to replace.

Pamuk also writes about hüzün, the melancholy that afflicts the citizens of Istanbul. It comes, he says, from the city’s history and its decline, the foghorns on the Bosphorus, from tumbledown walls that have been ruins since the fall of the Byzantine empire, unemployed men in tea houses, covered women waiting for buses that never come, pelting rain and dark evenings: the city’s whole fabric and all the lives within it. “My starting point,” Pamuk wrote, “was the emotion that a child might feel while looking through a steamy window.”

Istanbul is suffering a mighty bout of something like hüzün at the moment. In Pamuk’s work the citizens of Istanbul take a perverse pride in hüzün. No one in Istanbul, or elsewhere in Turkey, can draw comfort from what is happening now. Erdogan’s opponents wonder what kind of future they can have in his Turkey. I think I sensed it, too, in the triumphalist crowds of Erdogan supporters that have been gathering day after day since the coup was defeated.

 

Down with the generals

Erdogan’s opponents are not downcast because the coup failed; a big reason why it did was that it had no public support. Turks know way too much about the authoritarian ways of military rule to want it back. The melancholy is because Erdogan is using the coup to entrench himself even more deeply in power. The purge looks too far-reaching, too organised and too big to have been a quick reaction to the attempt on his power. Instead it seems to be a plan that was waiting to be used.

Turkey is a deeply unhappy country. It is hard to imagine now, but when the Arab uprisings happened in 2011 it seemed to be a model for the Middle East. It had elections and an economy that worked and grew. When I asked Davutoglu around that time whether there would be a new Ottoman sphere of influence for the 21st century, he smiled modestly, denied any such ambition and went on to explain that the 2011 uprisings were the true succession to the Ottoman empire. A century of European, and then American, domination was ending. It had been a false start in Middle Eastern history. Now it was back on track. The people of the region were deciding their futures, and perhaps Turkey would have a role, almost like a big brother.

Turkey’s position – straddling east and west, facing Europe and Asia – is the key to its history and its future. It could be, should be, a rock of stability in a desperately un­stable part of the world. But it isn’t, and that is a problem for all of us.

 

Contagion of war

The coup did not come out of a clear sky. Turkey was in deep crisis before the attempt was made. Part of the problem has come from Erdogan’s divisive policies. He has led the AKP to successive election victories since it first won in 2002. But the policies of his governments have not been inclusive. As long as his supporters are happy, the president seems unconcerned about the resentment and opposition he is generating on the other side of politics.

Perhaps that was inevitable. His mission, as a political Islamist, was to change the country, to end the power of secular elites, including the army, which had been dominant since Mustafa Kemal Atatürk created modern Turkey after the collapse of the Ottoman empire. And there is also the influence of chaos and war in the Middle East. Turkey has borders with Iraq and Syria, and is deeply involved in their wars. The borders do not stop the contagion of violence. Hundreds of people have died in the past year in bomb attacks in Turkish cities, some carried out by the jihadists of so-called Islamic State, and some sent by Kurdish separatists working under the PKK.

It is a horrible mix. Erdogan might be able to deal with it better if he had used the attempted coup to try to unite Turkey. All the parliamentary parties condemned it. But instead, he has turned the power of the state against his opponents. More rough times lie ahead.

Jeremy Bowen is the BBC’s Middle East editor. He tweets @bowenbbc

This article first appeared in the 28 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Summer Double Issue