‘The work is stunningly boring, but time vanishes in the company of cheery people.’ Photo: by Pxhere
French connection: Anne M Jones takes her sewing kit back to Calais
‘Why does no one join the dots that link wars, climate change and colonialism?’
I began writing this piece a couple of months ago, and since then the environment for refugees and asylum seekers has become even more hostile. New legislation in the Nationality and Borders Act contains very concrete plans to deport some asylum seekers to Rwanda. The absence of clear planning around the cost-effectiveness of this – in addition to serious misconceptions of what asylum seeking is truly about – is almost impossible to believe. (Dim memories come to my mind of Gulliver’s Travels, in which Gulliver witnesses some very odd places, where absurd schemes are taken seriously.) What we seem to be missing most of all is some joined-up thinking around migration. Migration happens, and has happened for millennia. Today it is perhaps even more common, because of global warming and wars. Attempting to stop people coming here is to ignore these realities.
It is just as important to resist the unpleasant and sometimes inhumane attitudes of those who condone placing people in barracks and detention centres. Even basic human rights are not always met in these places. There are many public servants who work compassionately within the rules, but their task cannot be easy. The 1948 UN Declaration of Human Rights would seem to be a good basis upon which to plan, but the very concept of ‘a hostile environment’ appears to counter all good intentions. And placing blame upon people traffickers is to miss the point.
14 April, 2022
Well, I finally achieved my ambition to return to Calais, and everything has changed while nothing has changed. It is estimated that there are about 800 refugees sleeping rough in the area, and a further 400 around Dunkirk. This includes families living in the woods, among whom are some unaccompanied minors (possibly thirty or forty – no one knows for sure). Project Play, a grassroots organisation that works with displaced children in Northern France, is busy each afternoon with up to thirty children. Afghans are arriving in the wake of the Taliban’s return to power, but not Ukrainians because there is special help in place to assist their passage elsewhere. Three weeks ago, Natacha Bouchart, the mayor of Calais, ordered the youth hostel to close, to house people fleeing Ukraine. This is the same mayor who worked energetically for the closure of ‘The Jungle’ refugee camp, and publicly cheered when it was burnt down. Her hardline policies have ensured the continued harassment of those forced to sleep rough.
So the work of preparing meals and clothes and essentials goes on, in a warehouse that is half the size it once was (funding was pulled a year ago). But to me it was the same familiar old cavern, smelling of curry, and bustling with smiley people scurrying around. Half the space is now taken up with wood chopping: the drone of a saw or the thwack of an axe was the background accompaniment to my work. My sewing kingdom gone (there is no space for sewing machines), I took my orders from a collection of young people recently qualified with doctorates. Their English is perfect, along with their home tongues of French, Italian or Portuguese.
I sorted a lot of clothes, putting jackets – small, medium, large and extra-large – into categories: thick, thin, waterproof or non-waterproof. This made sixteen different permutations, involving sixteen cardboard boxes set on the floor for everyone to fall over. The logic of ‘thick’ or ‘thin’ sometimes defeated me. But, ever optimistic, I had anyway taken my sewing kit and was overjoyed at the sight of a few torn coats to mend (mending being outside the range of most people under forty, I had previously discovered). I also have skills with jammed zips, so I offered to check all the sleeping bags – a pile of about two hundred. Hours of tugging at stuck metal was tough on the old bones, but I am fortunate in being less arthritic than most of my contemporaries.
Then it was on to sorting and cleaning donated shoes. These must have been found in an attic from the 1950s, for among the dust were varieties of blue suede creepers, yellow boots, and striped red and white sneakers. I can’t think who would want to accept such offerings, but regular stocks are low and needs are high. Next the making of bags of toiletries: toothpaste, soap and so on, placed in wrappers from consignments of socks. This work is stunningly boring, but the time vanishes in the company of cheery, good-natured people. Most here recognise that being able to come and offer service is itself a privilege.
Some of the volunteers had been here throughout the pandemic. Most had contracted Covid, but, as one young man told me, ‘I lay in my caravan and sweated it out’. I asked what the refugees had done. They ‘just sweated it out’ in their sleeping bags in the hedgerows, ‘but mostly they are so used to being ill it was just another virus’. I was glad to hear there had been no hospital admissions.
This was a happy week, helped by my having a cheap room in the home of a Frenchwoman whose kindness and warmth overwhelmed me. And of course the sea at sunset beckoned, so glorious in the gleaming light and yet so treacherous, with sad reminders of the hundreds who have died trying to cross to England. And there wasn’t a ferry in sight, since P&O collapsed.
The first thing I bought on arrival home was a copy of The Guardian. I was shocked to read the lies from our shambolic government, but, worst of all, of the plans to deport asylum seekers to Rwanda. Apart from all the obvious objections, why does no one join the dots that link wars, climate change and colonialism, all of which have contributed to this desperate situation?
I cannot let my mind go back to black. Strong and hopeful thinking is needed more than ever, to dissuade ministers from their cold-hearted, reactionary planning.
