I arrived for my third visit to the so-called jungle in
Calais yesterday, thirty-six hours after fire has destroyed about 50 homes. Men
are digging out the charred remains of tents and makeshift structures caught up
in the inferno. Some have found fresh tents to live in but many are looking at
another night in the open air.
The fire scorched and melted some of the outer fence of St
Michael’s church; that fence is made of plastic sheeting, the main building
material in the camp.
Water stands in lakes across the roads and tracks, churned
to a thick, gloopy mud that makes parts of the site resemble a first world war
battle field. This is partly due to rain and partly to the French fire brigade
who eventually turned up to the blaze.
The camp is stretching out towards and along the motorway
that takes travellers to the port. In the shade of some of the £7m fencing that
our government provided to keep the refugees enclosed in this space, structures
are going up made of four by two and plastic sheet, big enough for a couple but
often occupied by half a dozen or so. They are packed close together which is why
a spark from a fire – lit for warmth and cooking – causes such wide-spread
damage. The amazing thing is that there aren’t more of them and that no one’s
been badly hurt.
We were delivering caravans, one for our proposed listening
project, others for people to live in – especially the more vulnerable camp
dwellers (families with small children; women on their own). We were also deliveries a heap of clothes and duvets, boots and waterproofs generously donated by people from our church. For some of our
party, it was a first visit. One seasoned visitor to slum communities in India
was shocked and troubled at what he saw. Some went off to help guys build
shelters, others to meet residents and hear their stories.
I was keen to catch up with Samir as I had a box of food for
him to use in his kitchen. He received it and looked inside to see what there
was. Then he distributed bags of rice, onions and oil to representatives of the
families or groups that he has responsibility for, keeping just a single bag
for himself. The generosity of the poorest never ceases to amaze me.
He wanted to show me the library and education centre housed
three shelters along from his kitchen. The library is stocked with books – dictionaries
for those learning European languages, histories, books in Arabic, novels in
English – as well as a computer (although the generator is broken and someone
has stolen the modem!) It is amazing that in the midst of the relentless
difficulties of living in this place, people come to read, to talk about ideas,
share stories and learn languages.
Humans are amazing. These people are here because of the
worst that men do but what we see as we visit is the best that people are
capable of. It’s profoundly humbling. As we embraced at the end of the day, I felt I was leaving my brother in this dark and desolate place.
One of our group went to the Syrian village where a woman called
Miriam has a two-week old baby. She’s received no pre- or post-natal care; the
family is in an unheated caravan (which is at least water-tight), has no access
to warm water and has to use portable toilets that would shame the fifth day of
a music festival. This is no place for a two week baby and a nursing mother
still recovering from labour.
So, we have a dream: can we find somewhere for this family;
somewhere safe, dry, warm, with access to some basic healthcare and good
sanitation? Ideally, we’d like to find a family who could offer hospitality to
this family somewhere in France. And, yes, we know there are all sorts of
mountains in the way of this – they are undocumented, they don’t speak the
language, what if there is an emergency…
But this is the time of year for impossible mountains to be scaled.
A long time ago, another Miriam had a baby in less than ideal circumstances –
though she probably had family around her and was able to have her son in a
warm and secure place. That and baby soon had to flee because of the murderous
intentions of their government, living as homeless refugees for a number of
years.
Yet that boy was Emmanuel, the Word made flesh, God moving
into our neighbourhood so he could be with us.
So those of you who pray, please pray for Miriam and her
family; for Samir and the group he is responsible for and the work he does alongside
other volunteers community-building and peace-making; for everyone caught in this
shanty town on the edge of a city in a G8 country, ignored by the host, shunned
by its neighbours, left in a limbo of indifference.
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