AS night fell and the temperatures dropped, 'The Jungle' in Calais, a refugee camp in the north of France housing an estimated 6,000 refugees from war-trouble torn countries in Africa and the Middle East, took on a different atmosphere.
While most families were back in their caravans or huddled over open fires to keep themselves warm, the young and single made their way to find their own entertainment; there were reports of discos, and arts and music festivals. From a distance, one could hear African drumbeats. They have to make life as normal as possible.
Others more determined and adventurous made their way to what is known as the “rat lanes”; narrow lanes in the bushes that would lead them to the outside world and to the queues of trucks heading towards the Euro Tunnel and, possibly, their freedom.
We took a walk in the dark, picking our way between tents of different shapes and sizes that had become a feature of The Jungle. Jamalulail Ismail, 46, an engineer who has made The Jungle his home over the last few weeks to help these refugees, was taking my two friends and I to a tent where his wife, Sofinee Haron, 40, had gone to see a family from Syria.
We were greeted warmly by Sameera, who had been helping Sofinee in 'Kitchen in Calais", feeding the residents of The Jungle. These last few days, she had been poorly, and visibly worried about the future of her five teenage children.
“Every time we went to school, my mother would be trembling as she didn’t know whether we would make it home,” explained Ali, 16, who is more fluent in English. The tent for the six of them, with only a candle to enable us to see each other, was a far cry from their family home in Damascus.
Sameera offered us her blanket so we could share the warmth. Ameer, 14, the youngest, offered us tea. Such is the hospitality one finds throughout The Jungle. They have very little but would share whatever they have.
Sameera had sold her house. She couldn’t live with the sounds of planes flying low and most of the time dropping shells, destroying her beloved city. Her boys were not safe either. They risked being detained and disappearing forever. She had high hopes for her children; she wanted them to be doctors, accountants and lawyers. And England, across the Channel, holds the key to these dreams. With the money from the sale of her house, she had paid hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars for the family to take trains and go on a precarious voyage in a small dinghy from Turkey to Lesbos in Greece, and trudging for hours on foot to cross yet another border. After two months and two days of uncertainty, they made it as a family and reached The Jungle.
“So why do you want to go to the United Kingdom? The risks are high and you might not even see your children again,” we said almost in chorus, trying to dissuade the family from making the attempt to cross the Channel. Indeed, each morning, it was not unusual to see men with hands bandaged and fingers bleeding after failed attempts to climb the barbed wires to escape. There were more gory stories of those who did make it but were crushed by in lorries or trains.
“Education is good in England. I want them to have a better future,” said Sameera, with her son acting as translator. She had made up her mind.
From the stillness of the night, we heard cries of the takbir. People were yodelling and singing. Apparently, they had received news from across the Channel that two former residents had made it there. The bikers pedalling to recharge their mobile phones cheered in unison. Then came another chorus of shouts and takbir and we went out to investigate. From a nearby camp, residents of The Jungle crowded around a big open fire; all smiles and laughter. The news was that the French authorities had approved the resettlement of 300 refugees who had signed up when they arrived. Down the road, at the Mujahiddeen makeshift mosque, people were crowding around to check if they had made it. The mood of celebration and jubilation extended to another big tent nearby. We were invited to join in. It was a wedding. A marriage ritual had taken place and we ate biscuits from a big tray. But there was no bride. The bride was still in Sudan.
“If they can’t be together in this world, they will meet as husband and wife in Jannah,’ said a close friend of the groom.
As we made our way from the hotel to The Jungle the next morning, we could see residents from The Jungle with their belongings; on bicycles and on foot, making their way to the railway station on to their next destination.
“I am going to Lille,” said one to Jamal, with a big smile plastered on his face. He will no longer taste the hospitality of Kitchen in Calais, nor have any need for gas tanks that Jamal usually offers, as he now has a proper home. Near the Kitchen, Sameera was already waiting for Sofinee and gave her a big hug.
“I have decided to take your advice and take the children to Germany instead,” she said. I watched her get into the car to go to the railway station. This woman, who had once known the meaning of comfort, had no socks on.
I ran back to get some socks for her and her children as the days were getting colder. But socks were the last thing on her mind. Germany promises free education. This mother doesn’t need socks. She has the promise of a better future in Germany for her children.