Monday: At 5.20 a.m. my alarm rings and I roll out of bed, bleary and unused to getting up this early, but I’m soon gripped by a mixture of excitement and apprehension. In just over an hour’s time I am due to join a convoy of three vans and two cars, all packed with tents, sleeping bags, sleeping mats, warm jackets, sturdy footwear and long-life food, items which we intend to distribute amongst some of the 6,000 inhabitants of a place that has come to be known, rather disparagingly and, I am later to conclude, unfairly, as “The Jungle.” This, in the unlikely event that you don’t know what or where it is, is the area of sand dunes and scrubland just outside the French port of Calais which has become “home” to thousands of people, from Syria, Sudan, Somalia, Afghanistan, Eritrea, Iraq, Iran, people who have fled war zones and risked their lives to travel hundreds and in some cases thousands of miles to get to somewhere safe, somewhere where they might have a chance to build a new life. I’ve seen some footage, I’ve read some articles, I’ve had some arguments and I want to help. I want to do something.
So I asked around and was told about a meeting, where people could bring donations of items required, and the following evening I went along. By the end of that evening I had put two bin bags full of clothes into the back of a pick-up, and helped fill the cellar of the White Lion pub with bags of clothes, boxes of food, tents, sleeping bags, even mattresses which a host of local people had brought along. And I had signed up to get involved with Calais: People to People Solidarity – Action from East Midlands, the regional arm of a UK-wide expression of outrage at the treatment by governments of refugees/migrants/asylum-seekers and of sympathy and solidarity with the thousands of people who had lost everything and risked their lives to find somewhere safe. Over the next six or seven weeks I got involved with some fundraising, a lot of loading and unloading of vans, a fair amount of sorting, classifying and re-packing of donated items, a few meetings, some face-to-face, some “virtual,” a bunch of phone calls, and a lot of facebooking. And I’ve met a lot of great people.
So here I am, on a dark Monday morning in late October, one of a group of ten people travelling to Calais to deliver aid. We plan to drive down there, meet some local people who have first-hand knowledge of the camps and the conditions there and, with their help and guidance, deliver what we have collected directly to the people living in the camps. We’re a mixed bunch – a fireman coming straight off his night shift, a teacher, a community worker, a student, a pub landlord, himself a former refugee from Angola, a “man with a van,” a musician, a project manager, a woman who gave birth to the first child to be born in a women’s Peace Camp in the early 80s, and me, retired but still anxious to be useful.
The journey down south is uneventful. After touching base at Leicester Forest East services to fuel up, we arrange our next meeting point to be the final service station on the M20 before the Eurotunnel terminal near Folkestone, where we will be joined by an old mate of one of our group, who is now a musician. He comes laden with guitars and, to much amusement, a four-foot long didgeridoo. We proceed to the terminal, to discover that “intruder activity” on the French side has disrupted services. To pass the time, we have a briefing from our team leader on the procedure we will need to adopt to distribute food. He warns us that we will have to exercise a bit of crowd control to prevent the refugees from storming the van, or falling out with one another. Though what he says makes sense, it makes me a tad uneasy. Some of us become distracted by a seagull landing on the van just behind TL’s head. I try a sneaky photo to make it look as if the gull is actually on his head, but the gull is having none of it, and turns away disdainfully.
Luckily, we are only delayed by about 40 minutes, and very soon we are in France, heading for our first stop, where we will meet a local woman who has been working as part of the team of volunteers with whom we have been in touch. We are to drop off some tents, sleeping bags, and children’s toys. When we arrive, at a disconcertingly pretty, farmhouse-style French village home, we are greeted like long-lost family and, after unloading our donations, we are ushered into the family kitchen for coffee and cake. We sit around the big farmhouse table, express our delight at the welcome we have received, take a few photos for the record, drink our coffee, eat some cake and then declare that we are anxious to get going. It’s been a rainy day, the late-afternoon clouds are quite dark overhead, and we have lots to do. Our host, who has a hip and back injury, so can’t help out in the camp any more, insists on driving at the head of our convoy to make sure we get to the camp safely. We say we have satnav and will find it anyway, but she insists. We’re all very touched by her kindness and generosity.
And then, about twenty minutes later, we arrive at “Le (or is it la?) Jungle.” A long, muddy road stretches in front of us, to our left are 20-foot-high banks of mud, gorse, sand and stones which I presume are the sand-dunes I’ve read about, and behind them, though a gap in the dunes, I see the first tents, and improvised huts. A lot seems to be going on: some young men are riding up and down the muddy road on bicycles, there are vans parked and groups of young men jostle to receive the contents. Some other young men gather around the entrance to the camp, some talking to each other, others are on their mobiles. I’m reminded of “Outraged of Tunbridge Wells’” complaint in the Daily Mail that these people have mobile phones! How dare they! And I want to grab hold of that person and tell him/her that of course they have mobile phones, it’s how they keep in touch with friends and family to make sure they are safe, and besides, they’re not here because they are poor, they’re here because their lives were in danger, but before my flight of angry fancy carries me away, we are off to meet our contact, who will help us distribute the aid we have brought. A hundred metres down the road, we are met by two young men who lead us over some makeshift boards into a narrow alleyway of sand, on each side of which are small, lean-to huts, about six foot high, with about ten-by-six-foot floor space. These are the young men’s homes, for the present. They look impressively sturdy, but it is only mid-October and I’ve no idea how they will cope with winter. We’re invited into one of them and immediately offered tea, a delightful, cinnamon-flavoured brew which they serve to us in beautiful little cups. We learn that they are from Sudan, where civil war has been raging, on and off, since 1955. We are told a bit about the different nationalities in this camp, which has swollen to nearly 6,000 in number (only a few months ago, numbers were estimated at 4,000.) There are Syrians, Somalis, Afghans, Iraqis, Eritreans, and they are mostly (but not exclusively) young men, who have fled war zones or political persecution. And they arrive with little more than the clothes on their backs, their families are, in many cases in refugee camps nearer home, and they all hope to find safe haven in France, or in the UK. We don’t have time to get into the whys and wherefores, we are here to offer a bit of help to some very needy people.
So we unload the food bags and “comfort” bags (toiletries, maybe a scarf or a pair of gloves) from the van and follow our hosts into the camp. We are to deliver to some of the many “kitchens” which have been created: essentially these are improvised scrap-metal stoves, or even simply open fires, which typically feed 20 or more people. Our hosts lead us to the kitchens deemed to be most in need, though we are approached by several young men as we move around the camp. Negotiations ensue, sometimes they are conducted calmly, sometimes they seem quite heated. All around us are groups of tents, some sturdy, others very much the opposite. Some are lashed together, some look as if a gust of wind would blow them over. There are some old caravans, which mostly seem to be used for community purposes: one has medical supplies, another seems to be a food store, another an information point. I notice a queue of about 50 people outside a marquee distributing hot food and, about thirty yards from there a crowd has gathered and at the centre it would seem that two men had squared up to each other, while others were trying to calm them down. The atmosphere around us seems to change very quickly, from impressively calm to quite tense, and back again. There seems to be a lot of activity, some clearly purposeful, some, well, you can almost feel the despair.
Night falls, and we carry on distributing until we can barely see where we are going, despite having agreed earlier that we wouldn’t stay after dark. Nothing untoward happens, and the area we are distributing in actually feels very friendly, but I am a bit uncomfortable that we are going against what we had agreed before. The reason, of course, is that we had arrived later than planned and had a set amount to give out, but we have plenty of time next day and, on difficult terrain an accident could easily have happened…..
We go back to our Sudanese hosts for more of that wonderful cinnamon tea. It’s a warm evening, and we sit around for a while, chatting and singing a few songs together. For a while it feels like a very convivial camping trip, singing songs by the fire, and it’s easy to forget for a few moments where we are. Eventually we make our way back to the vehicles to head for our accommodation and some food. Our new friends were clearly delighted that we had been to help them, and we leave with a sense of having done something really worthwhile. Enough food given out to provide 400 meals, someone estimates, which is undoubtedly something to be really proud of. Pretty soon, though, it starts to feel to me like a tiny drop in a huge ocean.
Tuesday: The next day doesn’t start well. One of the vans has a flat tyre, and it takes a while to get the wheel off and put the spare on. Then, because we are running late, some of the vans head off before others have got the route sorted and satnavs set, with the inevitable result that we set off in different directions. Five minutes down the road we get a call from an irritated TL. We get it sorted eventually, and the convoy gets back together about ten miles down the road. I’m put in mind of the final line from that song “Right Said Fred:” – You never get nowhere when you’re too ‘asty!
Today, we’re heading down the coast, to a much smaller camp, one where we’ve heard the need is even more desperate. We’ve heard stories about it being a target for hostile police activity, of chaotic and more volatile conditions in camp, so we’re naturally a bit apprehensive. First we have to meet our hosts for the day: two young Muslim women, who are students at the local university, plus a young man who tells us he speaks five languages, so will be a very useful interpreter for us. They are thrilled to see us, and one of them is even more thrilled when our musician hands her a ukulele. Soon another couple of people arrive, and discussion ensues, which I can’t quite follow with my tourist French, but it sounds like a disagreement about how we are meant to be doing things. I’m a bit disconcerted but no matter, our hosts are clearly very enthusiastic and the atmosphere is very warm and convivial. We do a drop off of camping gear at someone’s garage, and then head for the camp.
We’ve agreed to park most of the vehicles away from the entrance, so as not to draw too much attention to ourselves. Driving in, we notice there’s something of a police presence, which adds to my slight apprehension, and then, after parking up, two of us are immediately approached by a woman who warns us against doing things our own way, saying that we should work through proper organisations, such as Salam, the charity she works for. Well, we’re here now, and we have a plan, so we may as well give it a shot, but that nagging feeling in my gut grows a bit more. On the way in, I’m immediately struck by the difference from last night. These people clearly have next to nothing, and the atmosphere is decidedly edgy. We’re a large group, and people immediately approach our guides. I’m feeling like a tourist but trying to put that thought to one side, we have a job to do. Then TL talks to me about taking photographs, but being very careful not to photograph refugees without their permission. I’m uncomfortable, but, thinking about the need to take some pictures so we can publicise our work for fundraising purposes, I take a few long-distance snaps of rows of tents, and mud, trying to capture the sense of desolation that this place evokes. Even that is too much, and one of the refugees gets upset and remonstrates with one of our guides. I feel horribly embarrassed and keep my distance. Apparently he is under the impression that I have been photographing his family. I haven’t actually taken a picture of any people at all, but I decide it might be too inflammatory if I approached him, and leave the negotiating to our guide. I feel horribly exposed and uncomfortable as our guides go round distributing tickets to the refugees who, in their view, should get the tents, sleeping bags, shoes or coats we have brought for them. We trudge back to the van and try to organise distribution to people with tickets, but a queue builds up really quickly, people are pressing closer to the van, too close, in fact, and we decide to stop, re-group, and try again a bit later. The woman from Salam has watched this melee by the van and I wish we had taken her advice. A tense hour or so later, during which time I am upset to discover that TL has jumped to the conclusion that earlier on I did take photos of refugee children, and hasn’t bothered to check with me whether it’s true or not, we try again, modifying the plan a little, parking further away from the camp and carrying stuff onto site in small groups, under the direction of our guides. It still feels uncomfortable as we give sleeping bags and tents to some families and ignore others, because our guides say they were given stuff yesterday. It seems to me that no-one has much of anything and what little people have will be rendered useless once the winter sets in, if it even lasts that long. Eventually, we give up and decide to take what we have left to another garage for storage, for the volunteers on the ground to distribute appropriately, when they can. We’ve given a number of items out, which will, no doubt, make life a tiny bit more bearable for a few people, but I really don’t feel good about this.
I come away from this place drawing two conclusions. Firstly, when you are dealing with a situation as desperate as this, where things are so chaotic, you have to distribute what you have in a way that is both fair and seen to be fair. I don’t think that is possible if you just turn up in a small group with a vanload of camping equipment and a host of good intentions. You have to work with people who are local, who know the terrain and have some kind of relationship with the people in the camp. At Calais, things worked for us because we worked with people in the camp who had worked with some of our people before, and it seemed that they commanded a degree of respect among their fellow refugees. They had links with local people who are experienced in working in that situation, and know how to determine the refugees’ needs. Further down the coast the situation was very different, and it seemed to me that the only possibility of linking up with the right kind of people would be to work with established organisations, which would have the infrastructure and expertise to work strategically. There are, of course, some problems with this, as organisations have structures which sometimes cost (and waste) money best spent more directly, and in my experience they have particular ways of doing things, they have agendas, and there are usually some tricky politics involved. You probably have to do a lot of research to work out which organisations to trust.
Ultimately, though, you have to ask yourself how on earth a situation like this can be allowed to persist. People are living in unimaginable squalor. It’s a field of mud and tents and misery. Scores of people arrive every day, with nothing but the ragged clothes on their backs, often without coats or proper footwear, and all they can do is try to survive, somehow. It’s a miracle that they do, but you can’t see them doing it indefinitely, particularly not if the coming winter is harsh. And they are living in this squalor in one of the richest countries in the world. It cannot be allowed to continue. The French government, all EU governments, international humanitarian organisations have to DO SOMETHING.
I’ve come away from this trip with a range of contradictory thoughts and feelings. I’ve met some incredibly brave people, and been truly humbled by their kindness, their generosity, their bravery, their spirit. And I’ve been a part of something really positive, helping to turn the good intentions of the hundreds of people from Notts and Derbyshire who want to help, into something real, helping aid go to where it’s needed. I’ve learned a lot, as well, all sorts of things about people, their motivations, their ability to deal with appalling hardship. And I’ve learned some very harsh lessons as well.
So, what next? Once involved, you can’t turn your back on all this misery. I will stay involved, and will almost certainly give my time and energy to another convoy. I hope we can apply what we’ve learned from this trip to future ventures, so that we can be more effective. For now, I’m grateful to have been able to contribute, and I take my metaphorical hat off to everyone else who has helped in any way to mitigate this appalling human crisis.