The Migrant Diaries. Lynne Jones

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СКАЧАТЬ between migrants who choose to leave their home countries for ‘economic’ reasons and refugees ‘forced’ to flee because of fear of persecution or war, is that it ignores the complex reasons forcing people, particularly children, to flee difficulties and/or poverty at home, the complete lack of normal standards of protection for many children living in countries which are not at war, and the growing impact of climate degradation. What would you do if you were abused or prostituted by your own family? How would you react if all your family’s cattle were killed by disease? Where would you go if drought or floods made life impossible at home?

      The International Organisation for Migration uses the term ‘migrant’ to describe any person “who moves away from his or her place of usual residence, whether within a country or across an international border, temporarily or permanently, and for a variety of reasons.”³ The Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights (OHCHR) describes an international migrant as “any person who is outside a State of which they are a citizen or national, or, in the case of a stateless person, their State of birth or habitual residence.”⁴ Thus, refugees fleeing war or persecution are one form of forced migration. There are “important overlaps in the challenges and vulnerabilities faced by people who move along the same routes, use the same forms of transport, and are similarly exposed to human rights violations, abuse and xenophobia. Moreover, today, and notwithstanding the gradual expansion of refugee protection, many people are compelled to leave their homes for reasons that do not fall within the refugee definitions, such as the adverse impacts of climate change including slow-onset processes or flight from food insecurity.” The OHCHR also points out that all migrants of any category are entitled to the protections of international law, which includes not being returned to situations where their life is endangered. Taking all these definitions and considerations into account, although initially, I used the term refugee, from late 2016 I started to use the term ‘migrant’ as an all-encompassing term that includes refugees and asylum seekers, when the status of those in the group I was describing was mixed or unknown.⁵ I hope these diaries and stories will make clear that all of those I encountered were fleeing to survive, and are equally deserving of our concern and protection. I also hope that in giving the term life through the voices of all the migrants I met, I could challenge the negative stereotypes attached to the word.

      In the last five years of working in these settings I have met some of the bravest, most creative, resilient, and extraordinary people of all ages. Of course, there was violence and crime, as there is in all communities. But it is the ability to cope and survive in the most dehumanising conditions, the compassion and concern for each other, and the courage and dreams that have inspired me, that I hope I have accurately reflected here.

      Note on the text. All migrant names and some personal details have been changed to protect identity. Some individuals (Housam, Stella, Daniel and Cosimo, Mahmoud and Aboolfazl) have given permission for their names to be used.

      All pictures, unless individually credited, are by the author. The picture credits by children from the storytelling project are taken from https:///migrantchildstorytelling.org/the-pictures and use pseudonyms chosen by the children.

      2015

      Calais

       France, October—November 2015

       The Jungle, Sunday 18 October

      How stupid can you be?

      I pull up on the muddy track that provides one point of access to the camp. On one side there is a ‘restaurant’ constructed from heavy plastic tarpaulin and wood. On the other is a field of tents stretching to an embankment with an 8-metre metal fence topped with barbed wire. This protects the endless queue of container lorries, on their way to the cross-channel ferry, from the rabble in the field below. It is midday; there is no one around. A thin African boy walks up to me and asks if I have shoes. He is wearing flip-flops.

      – Actually, I do, I say pulling open the boot.

      I have six pairs in the back of my car, donated by my neighbours in the half hour before I left home. Immediately some dozen young men are around me, pushing and grabbing at the boots in the vehicle. They quickly work out that none fit and hand them back, but one man is shouting at me:

      – Your phone, your phone, it’s taken!

      Someone has reached in and grabbed it from the front. Well at least they left my bag with passport and purse. The other men look sad and shake their heads. The thief has disappeared into the cluster of sodden tents. A couple run to try and find him, but he has disappeared.

      – Welcome to the Jungle.

      A young man in a woollen cap and duffle coat comes up:

      – Hello, I’m Toby. First rule—don’t distribute from the back of your car. You might think I would know that after some twenty five years working in refugee camps.

      I am here to meet Tom and Shizuka who have been coming to the camp regularly since August and have set up ‘Help Calais,’ a crowd funding platform that has already raised more than £60,000 to help various projects in the camp. When I asked on social media if they needed some help, they said: please come over.

      The Jungle, Calais, October 2015

      I drive back into Calais to find a WIFI connection for my computer and cancel my mobile SIM. I don’t mind losing an old smartphone, but I can’t afford to fund endless telephone calls to the Middle East or wherever. On the way back, I pass three bewildered looking young men standing on a roundabout. Two are clearly Ethiopian and one says he’s Afghan. They just got to Calais and want to find the Jungle. I suddenly feel like an old hand: Get in.

      We drive back along Route des Gravelines, passing a procession of refugees, mostly men and boys all walking in the camp direction after a night spent trying to get on trains or lorries in order to get across the Channel.

      The Ethiopians are from Dire Dawa. They are delighted to hear my husband comes from neighbouring Harar and that I know the town well. The Afghan boy cannot speak any English and stares solemnly out the window. I take them to the Pink Caravan where Toby lives and from which he does some distribution. There is a sign up saying, “tents are for newcomers only.” Toby says he will get them sorted. I spend the rest of the day trailing Tom. He is a Buddhist priest who gave up a career in acting to become a mental health outreach worker in Lewisham. Now he applies his casework skills to the Jungle. He and Shizuka spent the morning helping a heavily pregnant woman relocate from a filthy tent in a satellite camp to a better one nearer the medical tent run by Medecins Du Monde. He wants me to meet Riyad, who we find at Jungle Books.

      This is a small, brightly painted wooden construction filled with donated books, dictionaries and language training materials. It was set up by Bahirun, one of the Afghan refugees, and Mary, a volunteer. Three young men are sitting reading inside. Next door, there is a larger meeting room with a wood-burning stove. Riyad is a tall, thin, sad looking man who greets me with a gentle courtesy. He left his home, shop, wife and child in Sudan when the regular arrests, beatings and extortionate demands for money, that were meted out for his failure to support the government, became unbearable. He simply wants to make a better life for his family. He СКАЧАТЬ