Calais’ illegal migrants despise loneliness as world celebrates holiday season
AA / Calais / Cindi Cook
It is said that on a clear day you can easily see the White Cliffs of Dover from the French port city of Calais. Just 34 kilometers across the English Channel, they stretch out into the distance like a dream landscape, beckoning those who have come here in the hope of taking this passage to new life.
Calais has long housed flourishing industries such as lace-making, metallurgy and fishing. Charles de Gaulle got married here. The city was almost completely razed to the ground during World War II until the Germans captured the city and used it as a strategic missile launch point across the Strait of Dover.
But this windy city is now widely known as the last port of call for refugees trying to make it to England in the hopes of a better way of life that can await them. Migrants, mostly men, from Sudan, Syria, Algeria, Bosnia and other countries torn by crisis and war, especially in the Middle East, Africa.
More and more people have flocked here over the past three decades to attempt the journey by various methods, such as hiding in ferries or in trucks, cars or trains crossing the Eurotunnel or the Tunnel under the Handle.
The most dangerous route these days is that of rubber dinghies put out to sea with many more people than these little rafts can hold, like the group of 30 last month who got into a craft designed to do nothing. contain that six. Twenty-seven people on this trip died along the way, including children and a pregnant woman.
While the majority of Europeans exchange gifts and watch seasonal movies, the lives of asylum seekers during this time are anything but happy or bright. Many walk the streets of Calais in a state of hot bewilderment, hoping for a Christmas miracle.
– Christmas Eve
I head for the sea, to the north, at dusk. It is also in the direction of Notre-Dame de Calais which is home to one of the city’s religious groups which helps immigrant communities. In Place d’Armes – the town’s main square in medieval times – there is a merry-go-round lined with large, glittering teddy bears and mulled wine huts. Parents with cameras capture happy moments as their children frolic. An indoor ice rink is just beyond.
A few blocks down, I see a large group of men in a small parking lot at an evening meal service. It’s 6:30 p.m. (dinner ends) and the scene takes place in total darkness. There is no light and the men together are all dark skinned.
They embody a situation of migrants which has steadily deteriorated in recent years. Those who come to Calais are the sad victims of countries ravaged by conflict. Many, like William from the Sudan, tell me they want to go to England. I ask him why he doesn’t want to stay in France.
“No, no, it’s difficult, with work and everything. All the people here are trying, ”he said.
“Sudan is very, very dangerous. Everyone here will try to go to UK. I want to go. I want everything [y] find it for me, ”he adds with determination, not quite sure how he’s going to make the trip.
Many migrants have relatives and friends with whom they can stay and who have already crossed the country. William’s response, however, reflects the prevailing attitude here: it is an issue that most Calais residents ignore and authorities would like to see go away.
At the end of November, the British Home Office estimated that this year 25,000 migrants had made the trip. France initiated, for its part, an annual assessment of 31,000 people. Forty-one people have died in capsized boats, as was the case in last month’s tragedy, the biggest loss of life to date in the English Channel.
I go in search of Secours Catholique, which is not far away, according to my map. I heard that people can take showers there. I soon find myself at the end of the road which leads to rue de Moscow, where their offices are located, and which bypasses the eastern outskirts of the city, by the sea. It’s dark and very desolate, a neighborhood of mummified warehouses. I start running down the street and finally come back to the main street. Secours Catholique will have to wait until tomorrow.
– Christmas morning
As expected, the center of Calais is deserted on Christmas Day. No establishment is open, with the exception of a few restaurants. Back at the parking lot, I arrive to find a group of men looking for a meal (I found out later that only dinner is served here). One of them speaks English and explains that they have all been in town for some time, sleeping on the streets, i.e. outside without shelter. A confused-looking man sporting a perpetually wrinkled forehead. They are all Syrians. One could easily take his place in a Calvin Klein advertisement. None have showered for weeks.
I tell them that Notre-Dame can help them and accompany them around the corner to the church. I return to Secours Catholique to find it closed, but with a phone number on the door. A man named Youri picks up the phone. We are chatting and he gives me information on who I can call for more information.
The problem here is complicated, to say the least. In 2003, a treaty was signed by Jacques Chirac and Tony Blair, then French President and British Prime Minister, in the town of Touquet, south of Calais. Under the pact, France agreed to establish some sort of south-eastern England border outpost on its shores – technically British soil – for the purpose of processing passports. Britain has agreed to pay France for this change and for patrolling the beaches against illegal migration.
Despite the deal, for the next nearly two decades, Britain blames France, France blames Britain, and they both blame the smugglers who take advantage of the humans they “help” , charging around € 2,500 per head, but disappearing soon after. The three men I met earlier told me that they had paid a total of € 11,000 to a courtier to bring them from Syria to Belgium and then to France.
– Afternoon gathering
As I walk towards the station, a group of men and women approach along the road. They are disheveled, carrying bags full of personal effects. Migrants of course.
They too are all from Syria. There is a little girl with her mother, who pushes a stroller that is holding her other daughter. One of the men tells me that this child is physically disabled, as we have a conversation in English, French and Arabic.
“We are very poor, very, very badly,” he said. “We don’t know where to go for help.”
I also tell them about the meal service near Notre-Dame and show them the arrow in the distance. The man, Asan, says he says.
We all make our way to the train station across the street, a safe haven and one of the few places they can take refuge, until 10 p.m. when the police evacuate them.
Has anyone already eaten? I ask. Most don’t. Other men are already there, some of whom think I am authorities. There is a newsstand inside where I buy milk for the woman’s children. She gestures for a sandwich, and knowing she might be Muslim, I suggest tuna and chicken. She asks for a falafel. I give him two, with water. Her little girl says “Thank you” in English and gives me a kiss. That’s when I crack.
Well-off men in the station and everyone is hungry. I return to the newsstand five more times until there are no more sandwiches. Everyone thanks me. I tell myself that I underline the thanks.
– Christmas dinner
As the sun goes down, I take one last trip to the meal service across town and find it run by Refugee Community Kitchen, a group of volunteers who help the poor and migrants across town. One of the volunteers tells me that they serve dinner every night from 4 p.m. to 6 p.m., which they have done throughout the coronavirus pandemic as well as Brexit, both of which have put the brakes on their workforce. Only a dozen men show up that night, all enjoying the chicken stew and bread that comforts them in the cold.
Kali, from Sudan, tells me that he would prefer to stay in Calais to work.
“Kali from Calais! He jokes, telling me that he passed through Saudi Arabia, where he was arrested. He doesn’t have a passport – most do. He has been here for six years and applied for a passport, but to no avail.
A group of Algerian men attends the door – four men, one of whom tells me he has been here for two years. I ask him if he has work, and he replies that he does not have any, but that he had worked when he was in Marseille. He wants to go to England. His daughter and his wife are already there.
“It’s not easy,” he replies. ” It’s very complicated “.
I tell him I’m American and he says he loves me. We all laugh.
“Americans are the best,” he adds.
They will spend the night together on the street, hoping to try again tomorrow or the next day to try their luck.
* Translated from English by mit Dönmez
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