The last week in Dunkirk was great, frightening and intense.
I moved into a share house with a horrendous chest infection from sleeping in the smokey tent (some beautiful souls from Aid Box Convoy and a wonderful Irish Carmel had gathered me up for a bit already to try and get me well but I was still snot very fun (ha!) so I was found a bunk bed about 10ks from camp).
I can't even describe these 7 days- it feels like ti was a month.
Halfway through the week, the calm, safe aura of the camp exploded in rival mafia gang’s shootings- fighting over god know’s what but pulling guns in broad daylight on the main promenade. That was the day I’d had to stay home covered in blisters and could have very likely been in the area where it happened. My friends Jess and Kirsty were- they were missed by inches.
A young bloke not older than me wasn’t so lucky- the unlucky fella had just headed out to wash up his family’s dinner things and got caught right in the middle. He was shot through the jaw. Gavin (My mate with the one arm and the heart of gold) picked him up and ran pull pelt with him to the MSF tent, dropped him there and then pelted to the gate.
He hollered at the French Police to come and help, there were children in the thoroughfare trapped. The 13 vested and armed police then hid behind their van- one french nose after the other peeking around the corner to see what was going on. We could not believe what we saw- after weeks of stopping blankets, gas, children's supplies through the gates they’d somehow let guns through?
Not one came to help. Not one even tip-toed out from behind their van.
Two hours later the riot police arrived and shut down the entrances. Hundreds of people were then stranded outside in the raining parking lot with no food, no jackets- most had just popped out for a quick errand. The smugglers had melted back into the trees hours ago.
My mates Paul and Jess (utter legends too) flung open the back of their van and put tin after tin of soup on the stove, handing it out as fast as they could make it.
Then in an absurd twist- the bicycle proficiency test cycled past. 40 riot police and 300 refugees watched them wobble past in disbelief as 15 children did their best to ride without training wheels; commenting on the rain and the gossip at school.
Three people were shot that day- all refugees, despite the fact refugees had nothing to do with the fight at all. (Well, except the fact their horrendously hiked fee money probably paid for the guns and the bullets. If we had fair immigration policies we wouldn't even need smugglers at all- imagine how much better that money would be spent in our own economies?)
But still- humour prevailed in another absurdly funny Dunkirk moment.
Jess and Kirsty by that point were sitting in the van in the parking lot waiting to be let back in. A man comes running up to them, gesturing wildly and desperately shouting ‘KISS! KISS! KISS!’ and gesturing in a square shape with his hands. Kirsty and Jess looked at him and shook their heads, politely telling him to bugger off. He got even more agitated- his arms full of belongings. ‘KISS!’They told him again.
Then his mate came sidling up to work out what the bloody hell was going on and why his mate was making such a tit of himself in the middle of a packed, rainy parking lot 20m from police with riot shields.
‘KISS! KISS!’ he shouted. He looked, wildly, desperately around as rain dripped down his face.
His mate looked at him, his wild gestures and the belongings in his hands and leaned in to whisper in his ear ‘BAG’.
His face emptied of colour- he looked at Jess who mimed what ‘kiss’ meant and she says she’d never seen someone go so pale so quickly. He looked at them both- mortified- and accepted the plastic bag with a very embarrassed thanks.
The problems with the mafia continued. Everyone was let back in just after nightfall and during the night the mafia- high on their earlier excitement- continued their secret wars. They ransacked families tents for their dinner- holding guns up to kids heads as their parents stood trembling.
We took a couple of families in with us for a couple of days while we moved they tents to safer ground and you would not believe how gorgeous the kids from both families were. So intelligent and so full of life despite what they’d been through. Mum and Dad blossomed too and we had some great times around the huge kitchen table, chatting away.
When it was time to return to camp the silence in the car was deafening. It was like someone had turned out a light.
So the last week passed- we spent our days at camp and the evenings cooking dinner and drinking around the kitchen table- me putting more dressings on and all of us de- compressing about the things we’d seen that day. I can’t even begin to describe how helpful it is to know there’s a gang of friends around you who know what you’re talking about. I adored every single one of them.
So much happened- trips to Brussels to pick up blankets, eating lunch squished between Iraqis and Kurds and Iranians in the camp kitchen , invited to drink sweet tea in people’s homes and hear about their lives. I drank so much sweet tea my teeth began to vibrate (or at least it felt like it!)
My last day was also a bunch of other volunteer’s last day and it was a sad one. I found most of my friends I’d made and hunted them down for a cuddle and quick photo to remember them by. I was quickly realising this is not the kind of place you can just parachute into for two weeks and then leave as if nothing had happened. I felt intensely guilty as I walked away.
I got to the car twenty minutes late as the everyday nature of a refugee camp held me back so one little job after another. I finally raced to the parking lot, skidding in my boots to Gav’s door and flung myself inside.
Tom Waits was playing as we drove away. I craned my neck to see the camp disappear into the distance as Waltzing Matilda played. For the first time since I arrived I wept for what I’d seen.
I looked over at Gav- also leaving that day- only to see him in just the same state I was! We looked at each other and had a very cathartic sob together. (Gav - this big hairy, strong man- often refuses to hold in his emotions and I don’t think he quite realise how much that helps all of us too. If the toughest looking member of your gang can cry then suddenly we all feel ok to as well.)
We got back to the house where I promptly washed my phone in a locking washing machine and forgot to rinse my armpits, again. I set off with more mates to Ghent, Belgium around 8pm- to have more adventures that are tales for another day.
Leaving I felt guilty- if I’d squished my later things I’d promised to do I probably could have stayed a few more days- but I was in a state. I was covered in painful open sores from scalding myself and was so worn out I had to set 3 alarms to get up in the mornings. A ride was offered and I took it but I was abandoning friends. (By that point I’d booked my flights home already...and it’s a bit far to just drop back by northern fence on the weekends to help out...)
Driving away I contemplated- as is my way. I thought of the literally handfuls of people I’d met who I felt incredibly, ridiculously lucky to have crossed paths with- and to be heading to another country with two of them right then. I met people from all walks of life who were there for no other reason than they felt compelled to help out other human beings. I don't think there’s any better way to gather a group of golden-hearted legends with curious minds and loving souls than this.
I left with an entirely refreshed view of refugees, and a passionate want to fight for the side of humanity; and a truly staggering appreciation for the utter bullshit the media prints about all this.
I felt like I had to say something, so this is what i came up with. It’s long I know, but at least it’s just my blog.
People have already begun to look at this refugee crisis and drawn comparisons to the holocausts of history.
Remember- even the Jewish Holocaust didn’t start with gas chambers. It started with politicians divine people into ‘us vs them’. It started with fear and intolerance and hate speech. Lots of people stopped caring, became de-sensitised and turned a blind eye.
What it all comes down to, really, is what side of history do you want to be on?
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