I’m reading my diary entry from one year ago today…
“We arrived at the Jungle super early today. The buses started leaving at 8am. People didn’t know what was going on. They were wandering around with their stuff packed into bags…everyone seemed confused and lost. The atmosphere was so sad…”
I will never forget those last days I spent in the Calais Jungle.
I will never forget the Eritrean girls wrapped in their white shawls, walking defiantly through the smoke to the remains of the church to pray.
I will never forget the Sudanese guys who still offered us cups of tea as they squeezed everything they owned into tiny bags.
I will never forget the amazing Afghans, who despite everything, found the strength deep inside themselves to dance together as the camp burned around them.
I will never forget that young boy who asked me which bus he needed to get on to go to England.
I will never forget the feeling of helplessness. That feeling that there was nothing I could do. That these men, women and children were knocking at our door, asking for help, and still, the door remained shut.
That feeling that however loudly I shouted, however much I pulled, still, I couldn’t open that door.
Fast forward one year and about 1000 refugees are plummeting head first into the depths of another bitter winter.
The land where the Jungle once stood is bare and unrecognisable…the mission of the French Authorities to remove any shelters leaves many no choice but to sleep out in the open on the hard ground. Any sleeping bags distributed by volunteers are confiscated on average 3 times a week.
How is it possible that they are STILL knocking, and we still don’t answer.
Please don’t close your eyes and your ears to this knocking. Please share, donate, learn, think, read, listen…SOMETHING so that this time next year, maybe, just maybe, that door will be ajar.
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