Pick of the litter: Anne M Jones returns to Calais

‘One day a young man will need this coat after everything he owns has been confiscated.’

At the refugee camp in Calais, eco damage motivates many of us. We, mainly women, want to take steps to limit it.

There are no dustbins in the fields where refugees sleep, so all sorts of rubbish is left strewn around. This prompted a group from Secours Catholique to organise a rubbish-pick last month, resulting in a six-foot pile of bin bags.

Clothes needing washing and minor repairs had been flung in bushes, and a friend from that group collected up a load, took them home, and soaked and washed them with the intention of returning them to the warehouse for distribution. My obsession is with zips, and I set my sights upon those broken ones among the donations.

It all begins with a coat which is eminently-suitable: good quality, windproof and warm, perfect except for a zip with teeth that refuse to bite, latch and keep the cold out. The rest of the mound of clothing looks daunting in this dark musty warehouse, so I choose one with an appealing colour. There are so many black ones, with stiff material, and a sky blue is cheery.

First I remove the old zip, which involves picking at triple-sewn stitches. These are stubborn and make one’s fingers hurt; some minutes seem like hours. Then I unpick the stitching up the sides. I tug at one end once the end moorings have come loose, but this can cause torn edges with frayed ends, which will impede the sewing or jam the new zip. Then I need to be precise, getting each side of the fastening aligned, neither higher than the other.

Just when I think it is all done, there are fiddly finishing bits, and threads lurking like tiny spiders along the edges where the old zip came out. I want to get the colour and the effect right.

To get through as many coats as possible, I carry large bags on the crowded bus back to my room. This old bag lady notices things, like how quietly the children stand beside their parents, quite different to noisy London transport. Asleep at night, my dreams are filled with the minutiae of repairs.

Why does all this matter? Because one day a young man will be needing this coat after everything he owns has been confiscated by the police for the umpteenth time. Raids come weekly, with a small van, into which belongings are hurled. Refugees have the option of going to a depot on a Thursday afternoon to collect just one item.

Bigger raids happen monthly, sweeping though the encampments that build up in the fields near the old Calais jungle. Tents, clothing, pots and pans all get carted off to landfill. There is some good news: the warehouse hopes to set up areas for washing machines later in the year. Refugees will be able to wash such few belongings that they still possess. Meanwhile the absence of dustbins in the encampments makes sites look like landfill tips themselves.

Refugees continue to arrive here in Calais, and the ones I spoke to were typical examples of why migration is necessary: war and famine brought on by global warming. Sitting in the sunshine waiting for the bus, I always chat. One young man, aged about twenty, is fleeing the civil war in South Sudan. The United Nations World Food Program suspended food assistance to millions there in June, citing funding shortages. In July the United States pulled out of the systems that monitor the peace process because of the country’s failure to meet reform milestones. The young man told me he had arrived ten days ago. He had been an economics student, and hopes to continue studying when he makes it to England. He is certain he will because ‘England is a beautiful place’. He says this with a warm, bright smile. He was on his way to ‘get on a boat’ that night.

Another young man, a farmer from Darfur, was less confident but feels there is no option. ‘There is nothing there for my family and I want to bring them to England when I can.’ His plan for the evening was to hide in a lorry.

Nothing would deter either of these.

In the evening I sat in silence at the home where I was staying. I had the company of a tortoiseshell cat who scrutinised me from the table close to the sewing machine. Golden light from the glorious sunset streamed over us. 

I came to know the owner of the house quite by chance. She is another Englishwoman, very aware of all the privileges and opportunities our older generation has enjoyed. She prefers to be in France to offer something against the hostile environment there.

I share vegan curry lunches with the young volunteers. They are full of hope, and are determined to continue offering solidarity with desperate people. They want to reverse the global damages brought about by my own generation, and to help victims of wars. They stay out there for periods of at least two or three months. They too meet frequent obstructions and harassment from the police: car registrations are recorded, and verbal warnings about small issues are regularly handed out – ‘You cannot set up your table to dish out food on this spot’. Undeterred, the volunteers continue cheerfully handing out food and clothing, day and evening.

P&O Ferries now insist that passengers arrive an hour and a half before the ferry sails, so I have a four-mile walk to the port in the dark. But the sunrise casts soft shades of pink and yellow over silhouettes of cranes. It reminds me that the world is a beautiful place of light and life.

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