Snapshot of the Calais jungle
At 8am, he and Hasan joined the breakfast queue in the aid workers
tent. Most days they had bread and jam, on rare occasions a croissant. Calais
was a dump, but at least they wouldn't starve. The Jungle was a melting pot of
nationalities and languages, united by the dream of a better future. If Joram
could get regular work, he would smuggle himself and Hasan over to England, although
it might take years to raise the money, and the risks were high.
Joram eventually found what he needed in exchange for five
cigarettes. They had proved a useful currency now he had finally quit smoking, although
blood still punctuated every cough. Holding the nails in his mouth, he
stretched the tarpaulin across the roof and fixed it to the rickety frame.
Absorbed in his work Joram didn't see the man approach until he was standing
next to him.
‘Have you lived here long?’ asked the stranger.
Joram glanced at him briefly, then returned to his hammering. He
knew most of the faces in the Jungle. The man didn’t look like the usual
official, but that could be deliberate.
‘Who wants to know?’
‘I’m Arnaud Rossi, I'm a photographer,’ said the man holding out
his hand. It hung in the air like an unanswered question, until he withdrew it.
‘There's no need for photographs here. Anyone can see what a dump
it is.’
‘I'm here to document stories, to show life in a refugee camp. I
wanted your permission to take photographs of your home and the conditions you are
forced to live in?’
Joram turned to face him. ‘Who sent you? Why do the authorities
need pictures when they can come any day to see for themselves?’
‘I work for myself.’
Joram spat on the dirt. ‘Do you know what will happen when you
show off your project? The people in my country will say - Ah there's Joram -
and drag me and my son back to Syria.’
‘I promise that won't happen.
I can frame the shots, so you can stay anonymous.’
‘Leave us alone, we have better things to worry about.’
‘Ok, sorry to disturb you.’
As Arnaud headed off, Joram called after him. ‘You say you're a
photographer, but where is your camera? You officials think we are stupid.’
Joram forgot about Arnaud until mid-afternoon when Hasan returned
from his lessons waving a polaroid.
‘Look, Dad. A man came to our school today. He took my photograph.’
Joram pulled his son over. ‘Didn't I warn you about talking to
strangers? You mustn't trust anyone.’
Knowing Joram's temper always ended with a hug, rather than a
smack, Hasan pressed the photo in his dad's hand, ‘He was nice, Dad. He brought
three different cameras, and one was amazing - the photo appeared straight
away.’
Joram studied the picture. He hadn't seen his son look so happy in
months.
‘He wants to help us. Tell the world about what's going here. Then
they'll find us a proper home.’
Joram wanted to tell his son no one would help them. The world
hated them and wished they would disappear. Instead, he said, ‘Go finish your
homework. Just be careful of this man.’
Joram’s head started to pound as his son's smile disappeared.
The following day, Joram was out looking for odd jobs when he
spotted Arnaud chatting with a group of Sudanese men. They were laughing and were
posing for photos, then they led Arnaud into a shack. Joram waded over through
the mud and stood by the entrance, listening. He recognised the voice of Asim,
who had stolen his toolbox. Asim was recounting his journey from Darfur, a fanciful
tale that sounded as unreliable as the man. Joram feared Arnaud's camera would
go the same way as his tools.
When Arnaud finally emerged, Joram beckoned him over.
'Were you were talking Asim Younis?'
'Yes, he was sharing his story. Why do you ask?
'Asim is a thief and a liar. Make sure you've still got everything
you went in with.’
Arnaud put his hand in his pockets. ‘One minute,’ he said, ducking
back into the shack. He came out again holding a small plastic package. ‘My new
memory card was lying on the table, so Asim couldn't deny that he had it. He said
it must have fallen out of my pocket.’
‘You need to be careful in the Jungle. You won’t find many friends
here.’
Arnaud nodded. ‘It’s been hard to find people who’ll talk to me.’
‘Do you swear you're not from the authorities?’
‘No, I'm from Columbia. I've worked all over the world with anyone
who is oppressed.’
Joram saw an opportunity ‘I’ll help you if you give me a job. I’m
Joram. I can introduce you to people who are genuine, with stories you can only
imagine.’
‘I can't pay you much, but I’m here for a month. Let's see how we
get on.’
They shook hands, and to Hasan’s delight, his father became the photographer’s
assistant.
Joram was as good as his word, and over the next few days, Arnaud heard
stories of tragedy and fear, of families, separated and dead children, washed up
upon the beach. Faces etched with suffering softened and relaxed, as people
shared long-repressed memories. Arnaud’s photos showed them a new aspect of
themselves and their surroundings. And they found understanding and kindness - a
witness to their bravery. Joram too discovered a sense of purpose, even the
beginnings of trust.
But a week later, the evictions began. Rumours from the other side
of the camp told of demolition men pulling down tents and removing anyone who
refused to leave. Arnaud took Joram over in his truck to see for themselves. Anger
and fear mingled in the air. No one seemed to know what was happening.
Then one morning Joram woke up to find an official at his door.
‘Do you speak French?’ said the man.
‘A little,’ said Joram.
‘You have four hours to dismantle your home before we bring in the
bulldozers. Report to the Relief tent at 10am for rehoming.’
Joram closed the door in silence.
‘Where are they sending us, Dad?’ said Hasan.
‘We're not going anywhere. I'm going back to bed.’
‘But we have to get out.’ Hasan wondered why his dad's face looked
so blank of emotion.
Joram lay down on his mattress, ‘Forget it, Hasan. We’re not
leaving.’ He turned and faced the wall.
Unsure what to do and confused by Joram’s behaviour, Hasan said ‘I'll
get us some breakfast, then we can work things out together.’
After no response, Hasan ran out of the hut towards the relief
tent. As he did so, a man skulking behind the shelters took out a cigarette
lighter.
The breakfast queue was unusually empty, but Hasan spotted Arnaud unpacking
his equipment by his car.
Hasan ran over. ‘It's my dad. 'We've been told to get out.’
‘When?’
‘Today, but my dad won't go. He's just lying on his bed not saying
anything.’
‘Get your breakfast, and we'll go back and see him. Maybe I can
get through to him.’
The smell of smoke and burning tarpaulin hit them as they headed
back. Flames were already engulfing the left side of the shack.
‘Joram!’ cried Arnaud aiming a kick at the door, but the heat from
the fire held him back.
Inside they heard Joram's muffled cries, his damaged lungs
constricting from the acrid smoke.
Holding back Hasan, Arnaud shouted, ‘I'm sorry Joram, I'm so
sorry.’ As the roof caved in, Joram called back ‘Look after my son.’
‘I promise,’ he shouted but Arnaud’s voice was drowned out by the roar
of flames and the tormented cries of Hasan.
When Hasan’s sobbing had finally subsided, Arnaud led him back to
the safety of the Relief tent. He called over an aid worker. ‘This is Hasan.
His dad has just died, please look after him. I'll be back for him soon.’
Arnaud returned to the burning shacks as the Fire engines were arriving.
He took out his camera and began to document the scene in front of him, shot by
shot. As the fires died down, he walked back with tears stinging his eyes. With
every step, he vowed to keep his promise to Joram. He would find Hasan a home.
