As the sun sets on the Jungle, it brings in its wake a sense of exhaustion.
You meet Miri in a tea-shop (in fact, a tent, just as every other ‘location’ at the Jungle is a tent: the restaurants, the medical centre, the women’s centre, the homes, the mosque and the church – all are tents, nothing more). The tea is good, though a cardomam seed within it worries him momentarily.
Not every story you hear from refugees is one of heroism, triumph over adversity, or harrowing despicable mistreatment suffered and overcome to reach a destination.
You glance inside one tent as you walk by. Two packets of sliced meat are swiftly covered by a man who turns and smiles at you, as if embarrassed. To have your own food here – even a small amount – is a symbol of independence; of not needing to rely on the meagre handouts that are available (the camp never has enough food to feed all of its inhabitants on any given day), and … Continue reading
Hamid, Afghanistan If I could say one thing to the UK government I would say instead of spending so much money on fences and police*, spend it on refugees instead.