January Convoy to Calais, France

Picture me in France on a grey, rainy, cold day in a sports hall in an unremarkable neighbourhood of Calais. Lunch has just been served and the queues are gone, stomachs full and the medium sized auditorium with its shiny vinyl floor is full of Iraqi families with children running about between the bedding. I sit at a table surrounded by various children enjoying the play dough we brought, colouring or painting and lovely Iraqi mothers, make-up done, hair arranged, clothed in lovely scarves and bright coloured dresses sit with pride in chairs just behind and around the children at the table chatting to one another and to me. This was me on Saturday helping the children with their various crafts while speaking to the most friendly group of Iraqi women I have yet had a chance to meet. They all seemed so pleased to hear me speaking Arabic and I was so pleased to be speaking Arabic to them. When I didn't understand or know a word they would think of everything they could to help me. Never discouraging or mocking but polite and helpful.  One more would pull up a chair as she heard that a volunteer spoke Arabic and wanted to hear it for herself and see that I not only was speaking but also understanding what they said.

One woman Bahr (she told me her name meant Spring in Kurdish and I reminded her it meant the beach in Arabic) heard about me as another woman called to her. She came over greeting me with a big smile, happy to communicate and tell me who she was. She seemed to have a real need for this communication since she neither spoke English or French. She had been educated in Syria when she was younger. She was Kurdish, Iraqi. She told me she had been traveling for two years. She showed me a picture of her home in Iraq that looked quite inviting and how it was now destroyed. She told me of her journey across the sea from Turkey to Greece and showed me a picture of her on one of those rafts you see on the nightly news overflowing with too many people. Yes, the one she pointed to was indeed her. She is single with no husband and no children and traveling through country after country with nothing. She wanted to show me that she was skilled. She had worked in a salon doing hair, nails, etc. She made her way to her corner of the room and returned to me with thread around her neck. She cocked my head upward and went straight to work. She threaded my upper lip and got rid of every last hair working so quickly and smoothing as she somehow miraculously twisted the thread around each blonde hair and gently yanked it out. She didn't laugh at me when my eyes flowed with tears, instead worry on her face drove her back to her corner where she grabbed me some tissues. We spoke of our love of Arabic music. I sang to her and the other women the songs by Fairuz I just learned from my Arabic tutor two weeks before. The women smiled and joined in singing with me. So many smiles and instant love and respect reciprocated. I showed them pictures of my four daughters at home. They all looked surprised and congratulated me. They then each took turns showing me their children and telling me their ages. We got on FaceBook and I typed in my name for them so they could see my profile and home page. We connected as friends. I loved them all instantly. I got out a big bag of finger nail polish we all looked at each colour and they pointed out the ones they liked and I gave them each some. Then they told me how they can only stay at this sports hall for a total of 2 months. They have already been there since the middle of December. What will become of them after that? They gestured to the windows and said they will sleep outside with looks of worry on their faces. My heart sank. Who could do it? Who could kick these lovely women with so much to offer out on the street with their children and families?

It was interesting to me as I glanced around the gymnasium/auditorium that the cots the families were provided to sleep on were instead turned on their sides and used as low walls to cordon off a space for each family. They preferred to sleep on blankets on the floor and have their own space (however small) claimed. As I sat there, another family arrived looking shattered and took the last remaining space on the floor. Now the entire auditorium full of families with their walled off family spaces. There was little space for children to run or play.

Later that day, we went over to the "jungle" where mostly men are sleeping out rough in the woods at the moment in temperatures below zero on most days especially at night. We did some chatting there and then set to work picking up litter. I was so struck to go into the woods and find a pile of rubbish with little plastic toys, used nappies, markers, women's boots and clothes, a man's coat, blankets and food wrappers. I thought as I picked up each article from the pile one by one - who were these people? They were clearly living here with a baby and possibly a small child. Did they leave in a hurry? Is that why so much was left behind? How long had they lived this way? How did they keep those little ones warm at night? Where are they now?  What a difficult scene that was to see and clean up. I was distracted as a refugee man came through and began speaking with my friend and I about his journey and years as a refugee and his only desire to join his son in England. His wife left him long ago. He still got the occasional chat with his son though and for that he was very grateful to his estranged wife. He spoke six languages and said his plan was that he will never give up. He repeated it over and over.

Earlier that day, people in the jungle were still desperate for water due to the public water main still shut off by the local authority. Part of our group went to the nearest supermarket and bought 800 2-litre bottles of water filling our giant van to the ceiling and handed out every last one peacefully and with grateful smiles and shiny eyes.

Earlier that day, we witnessed a large group of refugee men like gazelles run after a lorry or semi-truck almost effortlessly as the lorry driver clearly tried to get away as fast as possible. We saw the remaining few men jump up as the lorry tried to speed up even more and saw the back door swing open with gusto from the men so desperate for a way to the U.K. I was so involved in the scene in front of me that I hardly saw the annoyed police van behind me trying to go after them. The police, after finally getting around my car, sped by and caught up to the lorry checking carefully for no stow-aways. 

That morning, I was pleasantly surprised at the joy I felt as I worked in the warehouse doing monotonous jobs in the kitchen - chopping carrots and celery in massive assembly lines of volunteers all so incredibly efficient and organized. I felt more joy as I helped wrap the individual vegetable soup bowls with clear plastic wrap and plopped a stack of bread on top with a spoon picturing a hungry man digging in and devouring it all. I stacked each bowl with its pile of bread into crates to be taken out in vans in an hour or two to feed all these people who depended on this food so much. When my team leader arrived in the kitchen because it was time for us to go, I could hardly tear myself away - another minute - one more bowl to wrap - one more stack of bread - one more mouth to feed.  This was my day in Calais. It is with much mixed emotions that I tell you about it.

Our whole group of volunteers with a few Iraqis thrown in for fun.

Iraqi men under our gazebo drawing

John Travolta sleeping rough in Calais? Who knew?

Three trolleys full of water

One large van completely full of water

Looking a bit plump with my chef blacks over my big coat but I was warm. Getting ready to prepare lunch for 3000 refugees. 

Waiting in the lobby of the sports hall for the refugee families to finish their lunch so we can go in and play with them.

The drawings and writings of refugee men

Drawings and writings of refugee men

The drawings and writings of refugee men

Bahr doing what she does best and boy did her eye brows look amazing. We had no idea we would get beauty treatments! 

A man from our group hard at working chopping celery.