Читать книгу The Migrant Diaries - Lynne Jones - Страница 25

There is music and drumming at the Ethiopian Church when I get to the camp. Men and women wrapped in the long white shawls come in and out making obeisance to the Cross. The dignity and beauty of other people’s religious rituals is always moving, even for a non-believer. The building and ritual and warmth and light state: this is who we are. This is what matters. We are civilised and decent, respect us. Solomon who built the church, sits quietly on the bench at the side of the compound watching people come and go. Then a Mercedes drives up and parks near the church. Two men get out and start handing out packages from the boot. A cluster of men immediately gather around, and a fight ensues. The combatants are quickly separated by other refugees, but the tension remains. I ask the men why they did not take the stuff to the warehouse.

– We’ve promised to put it directly into the hands of refugees.

– But, this way, it’s only going into the hands of the biggest and strongest who live nearest the road.

The man shrugs and turns away, and I give up interfering.

What’s remarkable is that, even in these times of extreme stress, there is still not too much violence or crime in the Jungle. Bahirun told me the other night that since the emergence of a community leadership, consisting of respected elders from each ethnic group, relationships within the camp are much better, communities can sort things out pretty quickly and there are fewer fights.

It would be wrong to idealise the situation. Sarah had her phone stolen from her at ten in the morning a few days ago. I know of two sexual assaults, and there are still tensions between ethnic groups.

– I have had Afghans threatening to burn down the shelters of the Eritrean women because they were getting built first—Ben told me. His solution was to take the Afghan making the threat along to an Eritrean part of the camp and offer him a lighter.

– Of course, he did not really want to do it. It was just frustration and bluster. Just imagine if you got a bunch of English, German, French and Dutch young men dumped in these conditions. They would be drunk in minutes and fighting in hours. These men have had incredibly traumatic experiences—many have been in the army or fled bombs falling on them. Many have never encountered cultures other than their own. Given all of this, it’s miraculous that there is not more trouble. The only death was an accident in a drunken brawl when someone pulled a knife.

– This IS a jungle—Nahida said to me—no trees, but a people jungle. There is no law, so how to live together without law? But refugees do want to help one another.

She is right. People do form queues, they do come to meetings and listen attentively to get information which they share, and they do take care of themselves and one another.

The same with the volunteers, who somehow assimilate and see where they might help. Later in the day I meet a man wearing gloves and carrying a plastic bag. He has flown all the way from Canada to pick up rubbish.

– Why? I ask.

– Because this place is the most extraordinary thing on the planet.