Читать книгу The Migrant Diaries - Lynne Jones - Страница 27

The Jungle, Monday 22 February

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I wake up with a profound feeling of depression. I probably should not listen to the World Service in the morning. Further disintegrations in Syria. Fighting between US backed opposition groups. Migrants breaching the fence in Hungary, so they are extending it around Romania. Trump triumphs in the US on a rhetoric of excluding Muslims and building walls. I have a sense of descending into modern medievalism. Unless we radically rethink the way we live, we will become a world of walled kingdoms and endless hitech war, surrounded by the shanty towns and encampments of the dispossessed.

I am trying to tie up loose ends before I leave. Suddenly, everyone calls. Ben T. wants me at the Youth Centre to see two boys who have ‘freaked out,’ although they have calmed them down by the time I get there. Then, Laura asks me to come to the nursery to advise on a hyperactive infant. Again, I get there to find she is doing all the right things, and the child is cheerful and doing well.

I go around saying goodbye to friends. I have finally discovered why Adam’s shelter has been locked every time I visited in the last ten days. A volunteer friend tells me he has accepted adoption by a French family. It had been offered before, but he turned it down when a lawyer told him there was a chance he might be able to join his uncle in the UK. But recently, he heard that the uncle had rejected him, so he had asked the family if they would consider him again, and they had said yes. I am so happy to hear this. At Alpha’s beautifully painted house, some French people are measuring it up, preparing to move it to a museum—better to be a piece of artwork than a destroyed refugee home. Alpha shows me the bag of tear gas canisters he has just picked up and is going to make into something beautiful.

UNHCR is also here, along with a French Government official. The two women have come to assure young people that they will receive all necessary protection. In the ACTED tent they meet with some thirty boys whom Jess has dragged, somewhat reluctantly, from the Youth Centre.

If you apply for asylum in France, we can promise you will be given food and accommodation, until the process is finished. We have buses going to Bordeaux and Perpignan—says the woman from UNHCR.

We know people who have applied for asylum, and they don’t get food and medicine—says a Sudanese boy.

Perhaps there were mistakes. I don’t know, I am not responsible.

I work for the French government, and I can assure you, if you apply for asylum here, you will have all protections. If you know of specific cases, please tell me about them.

There is a discontented murmuring, and the UNHCR woman suddenly loses her temper.

Do stop complaining! Just give me the names—be efficient!

There is a stunned silence, then a girl asks:

Are there spaces for three hundred children around France?

I cannot say, as protection is the responsibility of the departments.

From the look on her face, the UNHCR lady is clearly regretting attending the meeting. The French government official steps in:

We have centres for adults, but if we have to find spaces for children, we will. If you want to be protected, we will protect you.

Silence, no one looks reassured.

I have been here five months with my family. It’s the English who have helped. I have seen no one from the French government—says another boy.

We will be here every day. The French Government woman smiles.

The decision to evict has been put on hold—the lawyer tells us at the packed evening meeting. The judge agreed with the Help Refugees’ estimate of numbers and was concerned about the estimated three hundred unaccompanied children in the camp. Apparently, she is visiting tomorrow to assess the situation for herself.

The Migrant Diaries

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