As a Canadian living in London, I wanted to see the camp, nicknamed the Jungle, in Calais, France, for myself; to speak to those who inhabit this woeful place.PHILIPPE HUGUEN/AFP / Getty Images
Dispatch is a series of first-person stories from the road. Readers can share their experiences, from the sublime to the strange.
The Jungle" in Calais, France, is less than three hours from my London flat. The migrant encampment has drawn people from the most dangerous and unstable places on Earth. Here they collectively gather and wait for a miracle that's yet to happen: authorized entry into the United Kingdom.
The Jungle – as it's nicknamed – is a beacon of hope and salvation, but the reality of the situation is as cold as the icy water that flows out of the communal taps: There's no happy ending upon arrival as governments on both sides of the border refuse to offer anything other than armed guards and ready batons. As a Canadian living abroad and a journalist by trade, I wanted to see the camp for myself; to speak to those who inhabit this woeful place.
It's surprisingly easy to access. I face more of a struggle on my daily commute to work than I did picking my way through the debris and razed homes of the south section. (In early March, French officials were granted a court order to begin demolishing homes and structures to construct new housing and "improve living conditions.")
Over the mounds of mud and rubble and past what still stands – the water stations and the school – are the makeshift homes of the thousands of refugees who haven't yet been moved, or returned out of desperation to their war-torn countries or tried their luck as a transport truck stowaway.
It was grey and dismal, as the end of March usually is, 8 C and windy – painfully uncomfortable for those with barely a roof over their head.
By the second day in camp, I'd found my niche, the one thing I could do that might make a difference in their lives. I could help them with their English, in the small school that stands alone in the remains of the south camp.
The morning passed, lunchtime came and went. At one point I looked around and realized I was teaching an Afghan the alphabet, conjugating verbs with a Sudanese teenager and transcribing one young man's experience of being kidnapped, tortured and exiled from home. Dastan, 22, was studying engineering in Kirkuk, Iraq, when he was forcibly taken from the factory where he worked. "My country is dangerous," he wrote, slowly translating his notes from Arabic to English. "A terrorist group wanted to kill me, I needed to leave. Now I'm in France living in the Jungle in Calais."
Unlike so many others, it wasn't the U.K. that had drawn him this far, it was his dream to make it to Canada. He, like many others, has heard of our beautiful scenery, our nice wide streets, our fresh air and our good people. He desperately wants to get into the country so he can continue with his studies. "I need you to help me improve my English," he said flawlessly as he accidentally knocked his coat off the back of his chair and onto the dirt floor. He brushed at the sleeves until there wasn't a spec left. He shrugged it on and fixed the collar of his shirt and smoothed his hair back with one deft motion.
He invited me to walk with him to his plywood home, which was just as neat in appearance as he was. Thick blankets lined the floor and sleeping bags were stapled to the roof and walls to keep out the post-winter chill. He'd rigged up a small stove and sweet-smelling oil permeated the air of the small dwelling. He was embarrassed. I was impressed. He'd come to a country, an inhospitable country, and managed to find material and build his own shelter. As safe as I'd felt at the camp, racial and ethnic tensions run high and it's important to have a door that locks.
He pulled out a file folder full of paper and spread them on the floor before us. The camp has no shortage of volunteers who will cook, clean – and print off information for refugees looking to immigrate. I sighed because I didn't know what to do or say. "Is there any way you can help me? I want to study and work and be safe. Maybe if you tell my story. Please. The Jungle is for animals, not for people."
We walked back to the main road in silence. Night was falling and I had to get back to London. In less time than it takes to go out for dinner and a movie, I'd be home safely with a warm bed and running water. I'd think about the small things, like getting up for work and battling my fellow commuters for the best spot on the train. I wouldn't worry about threats of violence or go to sleep wondering if the future held a dream or a nightmare.
I touched his arm as we parted. "I'll tell your story."
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