The Migrant Diaries. Lynne Jones

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      – Why not ask the police to intervene, as they are standing right there—be nice if they could be encouraged to play a protective role?

      – They never help.

      – There is no harm in asking.

      – The problem is the traffickers—a large man with a turban tells me.

      We don’t like them. One of them is very dangerous. He attacked someone with a knife. Now the refugees have attacked them back.

      – So why not tell the police who this guy is?

      – Too dangerous.

      Maddie and the other volunteers echo this. They cannot be seen talking with the police, or they will be at risk as well.

      A tall French man, Patrick, and I decide that, as we are just shortterm visitors, we can take the risk. We explain what is going on to the policemen. Fully kitted, they go down to the end of the camp. I don’t know if they resolved it. Having turned myself into a stool pigeon, I head back to Calais. The threatened storm has not materialised, but the winds are strong enough to make my car shake. I hope I have not made myself a persona non grata. When I come back, I will wear dark glasses and a different hat.

       The Jungle, Tuesday 9 February

      – Proximity to the crisis should not define responsibility, there has to be a sharing… The UN Special Rapporteur for International Migration, is saying on the World Service as I get up.

      Turkey will, if push comes to shove, take 600,000 more refugees from Syria. The EU is asking them to barricade those same refugees and stop them travelling any further. Twenty more drowned on their way to Greece yesterday. Meanwhile, Cameron is trying to terrify the residents of Southern England with prospects of Calais-style encampments in the lovely South Downs if we leave the EU.

      When I get to camp and park in front of one of the distribution points, there is a small riot going on. A thin Kurdish man has a long metal pole and is threatening one of the Sudanese. Large groups of people are separating them, and the man appears to calm down. But then, another young black guy comes and pushes to the front of the line, and I see the Kurd rile up again. I walk forward and link my arm through that of the young black man, smile and shake my head, and say—no queue jumping, let’s walk to the back. He is so astonished that he goes without protest. Then I stand in the centre with my arms folded, looking extremely stern.

      – I am old enough to be the mother of most of you here, so no queue jumping! I am watching you. Another Kurd is translating. Everyone laughs.

      – And by the way, if you all want to go to the UK, this is the time to learn our habits. We queue. We love queuing. We believe you have to be fair. First come, first served, form a line and NO QUEUE JUMPING. So now is your chance to learn to queue!

      More laughter. I am watching you…

      Actually, I am not. I leave to go and see someone, but I come back in twenty minutes and they are all queuing quietly besides Riyad’s caravan. He tells me there are no problems, and the black guy, who is still in his place, gives me a smile and a wave.

      The volunteers running the new Baloo Youth Centre and some others from Jungle Books want to discuss problem children—one boy in particular is always fighting with everyone. He is very emotional and always sorry afterwards. Unsurprisingly, he is completely without parents or friends.

      We all agree on the importance of keeping the Youth Centre safe; children cannot bring in any sticks or knives. There are enough male staff here to give the boys a lot of individual attention, so if G is breaking up the toys, one of them can both exclude him from the Centre, and stay with him at the same time so that he can be prevented from doing more damage, but also receive attention and care, and discuss what led to any outbursts. I call it ‘accompanied exclusion’.

       The Jungle, Wednesday 10 February

      The migrant crisis appears to have stimulated a new kind of humanitarianism. These social spaces have all been created entirely by the refugees themselves, assisted by a network of independent volunteers and local French associations. The volunteers come from all over Europe: I have met Belgians, Germans, Swiss and Dutch, but the majority are British people who have heard about the crisis on the news, looked up a local support network on social media, and jumped on the train or the ferry and come for the day, the weekend or the entire duration.

      Jess was working with vulnerable 16 to 25-year-olds in the UK and was due to start work in a children’s home. She came for a week in October and decided not to return—she stayed and set up the Youth Centre along with Johnny and Ben T., who had both done Masters in Humanitarian Aid and wanted to put what they had learned in class, into practice. Sarah was teaching English abroad and working on migration and human rights issues with a law firm and various charities in Britain. She had planned to work for UNHCR in Ecuador before deciding that Calais was more important. She started off volunteering in the warehouse before teaching and organising in Jungle Books and helping to establish the legal centre. Rowan arrived with some second-hand computers for Jungle Books in the Autumn. He meant to stay for a few days, but ended up remaining for months, helping with any projects that needed him.

      Almost all the longer-term volunteers I talk to have similar stories: a short spontaneous trip planned out of anger or disgust at their own government’s response. The short visit morphs into a longer stay, as needs become apparent, jobs and career plans are abandoned, savings are used up, and yet, there is a growing commitment to staying until the situation is resolved in some way or another.

      The volunteers live in caravans on site, stay at the youth hostel, share rented accommodation in town, or bike out to the caravan park. Some of the longer-term ones receive a small stipend to help with daily expenses from Help Refugees (the new name for Help Calais, which has also morphed into a bigger, more professional fund-raising organisation).

      – The big difference between us and the professionals is that everyone is here simply because they want to help the refugees and make sure they are OK-—it’s not a job—Ben tells me. No one is here because it’s where they have been told to go, or because it’s part of their career as a professional humanitarian.

      Ben acknowledges that they are not always efficient.

      – There is a revolving door of volunteers coming and going. New people arrive and say this is how you should do it, but if it’s a poor idea and they don’t command respect, within two weeks they burn out and are gone. The good thing is you cannot blag your way into doing stuff because you will be found out immediately. For example, you can turn up with a van and announce you want to reorganise distribution, but if you cannot get people to work with you, you will have nothing to do.

      – What you are saying is that the good projects endure because they attract the good workers?

      – Exactly. It’s the work, not the qualifications, that matter. Look at Liz, she has taken on twelve psychologically disturbed young Afghans and actually does some good. When six children were sent into the French Care system, four immediately ran away. The French child protection expert told us that if they wanted to run away, that was their choice!

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