Calais - Day 21

After a night of short intervals of broken sleep in the Jungle, I was up before dawn. I was able to be ready to leave within 10 minutes (haha) because I had nothing to do but leave. I had slept in the clothes I was in the day before having nothing else with me. I pulled my hat on to my head and was ready to go. I had however woken up with an annoying stye in my eye - a sure sign that I am run down and was feeling pretty rough both physically and emotionally.

As I climbed out of Alaa’s little hut, the camp was silent. No generators, no people, just total stillness. 7am in the camp is definitely the time to sleep. I snapped a couple of photos of Alaa with his hut in the dark, and a couple of photos of the camp before we walked out. There were a small handful of people around but it was just so quiet. I was worried about walking out past the police guard which is permanently stationed around the camp. They sit in their vans playing cards, surfing on their phones and giving filthy looks to people. The CRS do the same but they additionally like to play with batons and tear gas. Thankfully we passed without so much as an eyebrow raised.

We walked for what seemed like forever down the long industrial road by the camp. Past the factories that generate that odd, sweet but chemical smelling fog everyday that I cannot really describe but will never forget. I still don’t know what it is. We passed refugees coming back exhausted from trying to get to the UK. With every step I took, I felt more and more sad. This was the start of the journey that will take me about as far away from Calais as a person can be, and that thought breaks my heart. I tried to hold it together.

We made it in to the small village and to the bus stop where I would take the number two bus in to town. We looked at the sign. I had around 13 minutes. Alaa was very quiet. I gave him the best pep talk I could muster whilst feeling so hopeless myself. I told him he needs to eat and sleep well and look after his physical and mental health to have the best chance of getting out of that place. I told him he needs to think with his head, be smart about things, and not to let a heavy heart take him over. I told him he WILL have a life somewhere, and fulfil his dreams of becoming a biomedical engineer. Most of all I begged him to be careful. At just 19 he has his whole future ahead of him. I told him to stick with Baraa who is older and very street smart. I told him I would be just a message away and that I would see him again oneday. Inshallah I would. He made me promise I will have children so that he can come and meet them.

In the camp you can’t hug someone without everyone gossiping about it. Apart from hugging him hello and goodbye, I couldn’t hug him in the camp, even when he was upset because of all the cultural constraints. That was very foreign to me - I realised I didn’t really know how to comfort someone without using a hug. In that moment at the bus stop, there was no one around to be worried about. I hugged him with every emotion of hope, friendship and compassion that I had. Though I have to believe I will see him again, his dreams of a proper life necessarily involve serious risk and danger. I hugged him like you would hug a loved one that you are saying goodbye to for a very long time. Who knows how long it will be. He said to me “no one has hugged me like that for months. You hug me now like my mother hugged me when I left” - it almost broke me.

Then, the bus came around the corner and my stomach dropped. I was determined to hold it together - more for his sake than my own. I boarded the bus, took my seat and waved at him out of the window… and then the bus took me away. I felt seriously detached from everyone and everything about that bus. It was full of French people chatting, starting their day. Laughing, happiness, oblivious to the young man I had just said goodbye to and the half life being lived in the camp down the road. I made my way back to the hostel in a fog. Instead of taking the connecting bus from town to the hostel, I walked to collect my thoughts. I passed all the festive Christmas decorations at the town hall. I saw the homeless man again on the main road. I snapped photos as I went, because I felt I should, but not because I was inspired.

I made it back to the hostel by 9.30am, had a shower and took my bags downstairs. They called me a taxi for 12pm - the next step that would take me even further away again. I signed the hostel guest book and sat in the foyer checking my phone constantly and trying not to cry.

The taxi arrived and we made the drive to Calais Frethun station. As we drove, I found myself looking at all the fencing that stretches for kilometres along the railway. Police stationed every couple of hundred metres. We got to the station, I paid the driver and made my way in. I took photos of the station, the fencing, looking at it with different eyes. Where could someone get through this gauntlet to safety? I felt despair.

A lovely British woman chatted to me, and as it turns out she was very sympathetic to the refugee situation and was interested to hear about my experiences. Chatting with her while I waited for the train was helpful and before I knew it, it was time to go through passport control and board. They quizzed me quite a bit at passport control and then I was through. I took more photos on the station platform. Again, the fencing and security was heavy. I got a message from Alaa - “where are you now”, and I sent the photos to him.

The train arrived and I boarded. I took my seat and the train departed. Feeling so detached from everything, like floating through time in a fog, I turned my face to the window and let the tears come, whilst the woman next to me slept.

On the journey back, I found myself counting tunnels, noting the incredible speed of the train, feeling the incredible force that would almost certainly kill someone as two trains pass. This option for getting to England is not an option, and I don’t think anyone trying to take it has any idea that it is a suicide mission.

The ride was over very quickly and the next thing I knew I was getting out at St Pancras International. Struggling to carry my heavy bag, I walked the platform looking in between carriages… there is no where safe to hold on. I looked at the underbelly of the train. Again, a suicide mission to hold on. The top of the train is smooth, and I thought about the tunnels that hug the train as it passes through. Again, no hope. I messaged Alaa and told him “give up on this train. You will surely die” and explained why.

I messaged my friend Jayna to let her know I was on the way, and made my way to Leyton station. People on the tube were as always stony faced and devoid of emotion. None of the friendly smiles a person will receive if they walk or drive through the Jungle. What does that say about the UK? Has it lost its ability to share a human connection with a random stranger?

Thankfully when I arrived, Jayna greeted me with a huge hug and a beautiful cheery smile and I felt so relieved to be with a good friend. She helped me with my bags and we went to the supermarket to pick up food for the weekend. Again I experienced the same reverse culture shock as before. Almost sick at the excess and consumerism.

At Jayna’s house she showed me to my room. A big double bed, central heating. Comfort all round. I felt so much guilt. I longed for the camp. I am told this longing is called “Jungle Fever” and many volunteers feel it. There is something magnetic about that place.

I settled in to catch up on my blog whilst Jayna finished some work on her laptop. She cooked a lovely dinner, we shared some wine. It was only early but I felt bone tired. I had a hot shower and went to bed early. All through the night again I woke up and checked my phone for news from my friends.