Return to The Jungle
In August 2015, I visited the migrant camp in Calais known as The Jungle. I will never forget my trepidation as I walked from the centre of Calais towards the camp. When I arrived, the sheer number of people within the camp and how industrious everyone seemed to be overwhelmed me. I had numerous conversations with migrants and was taken aback at how sanguine many of them were in relation to their circumstances. A few of them even made light jokes, which seemed uncomfortable given the situation, but a reminder of the capacity that laughter has to nurture social bonds. At that time, there was a palpable sense of determination and optimism across the camp; 'We've come this far...'
In October 2016, the Jungle was cleared of its inhabitants and the bulldozers were set to work. Many of the migrants were transported to alternative camps across France, but what of the others? I started to wonder what had happened to the migrants I had met the previous year, where were they now? I felt an inexplicable compulsion to return to the site of The Jungle, even though I knew it had been cleared. Maybe a return trip would help to resolve some of the internal conflict that still lingered from my previous visit.
In October 2016, the Jungle was cleared of its inhabitants and the bulldozers were set to work. Many of the migrants were transported to alternative camps across France, but what of the others? I started to wonder what had happened to the migrants I had met the previous year, where were they now? I felt an inexplicable compulsion to return to the site of The Jungle, even though I knew it had been cleared. Maybe a return trip would help to resolve some of the internal conflict that still lingered from my previous visit.
I returned to Calais in March this year and could sense it felt different somehow. For many of the locals, the migrant camp had been a blight; the unlikely home for thousands of migrants and an unwelcome attraction for the world's media. The town seemed to be undergoing a period of growth and repair. There was more conversation, more vigour, and a general lightness to the town. You had the feeling that the migrant camp represented a point in history that the people of Calais would rather forget, or erase entirely.
I headed towards the site of the former camp on foot; retracing the steps I had taken 18 months earlier. Last time I did this journey I passed scores of migrants; this time I did not pass a single one - they had gone, all of them! As I neared the site I came across occasional traces; old bottle tops, discarded lighters, and an abandoned sleeping bag. The road bridge that demarcated the former entrance to The Jungle beckoned. I walked under the bridge and emerged on the other side but rather than the sea of activity I witnessed last time, I was presented with a vast expanse of emptiness. The sandy soil stretched into the distance, occasionally carved by the deep tracks of a bulldozer. The site had been completely cleared, all of the people had gone and their dwellings removed; not a single one remained.
I headed towards the site of the former camp on foot; retracing the steps I had taken 18 months earlier. Last time I did this journey I passed scores of migrants; this time I did not pass a single one - they had gone, all of them! As I neared the site I came across occasional traces; old bottle tops, discarded lighters, and an abandoned sleeping bag. The road bridge that demarcated the former entrance to The Jungle beckoned. I walked under the bridge and emerged on the other side but rather than the sea of activity I witnessed last time, I was presented with a vast expanse of emptiness. The sandy soil stretched into the distance, occasionally carved by the deep tracks of a bulldozer. The site had been completely cleared, all of the people had gone and their dwellings removed; not a single one remained.
The inside of the road bridge still hosted Banksy's mural of Steve Jobs; it somehow felt tired and without purpose, mirroring the spent fire and discarded belonging littered around its base. It also served as a reminder that the spotlight that once shone on this place has moved on and sought a new spectacle elsewhere.
As I walked across the site, the remnants of the camp and its former inhabitants were still visible on the surface; blankets, toothbrushes, tampons, cutlery, food cartons, tablets - all of the essentials needed for a very basic mode of living. Among the debris there were also some cogent reminders that the camp also housed children; toy cars, LEGO blocks, colouring books and jigsaw pieces.
Perhaps the playing was not reserved just for children, there were also dominoes, scrabble pieces, playing cards and deflated footballs among the debris; a way to pass the time for those in an extended state of limbo. There were numerous empty lager cans and bottles littered across the site. I thought about why these may have been drunk; was it a way to socialise with new found friends, a drink at the end of a long day or perhaps a way to forget, just for a while?
Perhaps the playing was not reserved just for children, there were also dominoes, scrabble pieces, playing cards and deflated footballs among the debris; a way to pass the time for those in an extended state of limbo. There were numerous empty lager cans and bottles littered across the site. I thought about why these may have been drunk; was it a way to socialise with new found friends, a drink at the end of a long day or perhaps a way to forget, just for a while?
As I wandered across the site, I came across six people in fluorescent jackets. They were in the process of forensically cleaning the site. This was more than a simple cleansing operation; it was a process of total erasure. Before long all physical traces of the migrant camp would be gone, I was told that they wanted to return the site to nature. The nature had already started to return to the site and you could hear a variety of birds chirping in the nearby bushes; the sound seemed somewhat discordant in this vast empty space. An even more unlikely return to nature was represented by a small patch of the site where some onions had been discarded. In an improbable turn, a handful of these onions had actually managed to take root and were starting to grow; this seemed poignant somehow.
Humans always leave traces and despite the efforts to erase the physical remnants of the site a discernible presence remains. This is a place that is traumatised, one that is psychologically scarred. The makeshift dwellings that once stretched towards the sky in supplication were destroyed in the most brutal manner; the beacons of hope and aspiration flattened. I wonder if the bulldozers even hesitated when they razed the rudimentary mosques and church to the ground.
Below ground is where the memory of this place is now held, but instead of hope and aspiration, there are tendrils of distress and dark imaginings. I felt that if I were to take a spade and dig down the soil would be dark and sickly; full of unanswered prayers and haunting memories of Mediterranean crossings at night. The emptiness on the surface cannot hide the pain that is below.
Places hold memories and this is a place that can never forget.
Below ground is where the memory of this place is now held, but instead of hope and aspiration, there are tendrils of distress and dark imaginings. I felt that if I were to take a spade and dig down the soil would be dark and sickly; full of unanswered prayers and haunting memories of Mediterranean crossings at night. The emptiness on the surface cannot hide the pain that is below.
Places hold memories and this is a place that can never forget.
What does it take to make the Artes Mundi shortlist?
Just Between Us - Thomas Williams
Engagement with others is not always an easy task, especially when it extends across differences in race, religion, language and citizenship status. Just Between Us is an exhibition that explores active engagement across physical thresholds as well as these metaphorical boundaries.
The Trinity Centre acts as an important hub to asylum seekers and refugees located within the city of Cardiff; situated just a few hundred metres away is the contemporary art gallery, G39. Despite sharing a close physical proximity, the two sets of users of these institutions rarely, if ever mix. Just Between Us chronicles Thomas Williams attempt at reaching out from the G39 gallery to engage with the asylum seeker and refugee community at the Trinity Centre.
Thomas' primary medium for the exhibition is text, which is projected onto the wall of the Unit #1 space at G39. The text exposes the artist's difficulties in attempting to engage with the asylum seeker and refugee community at the Trinity Centre.
Principally, the exhibition is an acknowledgement of ‘failure’ by the artist. We read that on one particular occasion, Thomas had made cakes with the intention of attempting an exchange with members of the community at the Trinity Centre,
'I had paper and felt tips as well so people could give me something in exchange for the cake'.
The Trinity Centre acts as an important hub to asylum seekers and refugees located within the city of Cardiff; situated just a few hundred metres away is the contemporary art gallery, G39. Despite sharing a close physical proximity, the two sets of users of these institutions rarely, if ever mix. Just Between Us chronicles Thomas Williams attempt at reaching out from the G39 gallery to engage with the asylum seeker and refugee community at the Trinity Centre.
Thomas' primary medium for the exhibition is text, which is projected onto the wall of the Unit #1 space at G39. The text exposes the artist's difficulties in attempting to engage with the asylum seeker and refugee community at the Trinity Centre.
Principally, the exhibition is an acknowledgement of ‘failure’ by the artist. We read that on one particular occasion, Thomas had made cakes with the intention of attempting an exchange with members of the community at the Trinity Centre,
'I had paper and felt tips as well so people could give me something in exchange for the cake'.
With further reading, we learn that Thomas was unable to make the exchange as his overwrought sensitivity manifested itself,
'I'm a man and I made cake. You are men and you are playing sport'.
Unable to bring himself to make the exchange, Thomas took the cakes home,
'so much cake to eat'.
In a separate episode, we read that Thomas had arranged a series of walks for members of the Trinity Centre as a way of introducing them to the local area and promoting social cohesion. But, despite the artist texting them all the night before, 'nobody showed up'. Once again, the artist's anxieties came to the fore, and he asks himself, 'why would you want to go on a walk with a stranger?'
'I'm a man and I made cake. You are men and you are playing sport'.
Unable to bring himself to make the exchange, Thomas took the cakes home,
'so much cake to eat'.
In a separate episode, we read that Thomas had arranged a series of walks for members of the Trinity Centre as a way of introducing them to the local area and promoting social cohesion. But, despite the artist texting them all the night before, 'nobody showed up'. Once again, the artist's anxieties came to the fore, and he asks himself, 'why would you want to go on a walk with a stranger?'
From a socially engaged perspective, the entire volume may rightly be considered a ‘failure', a difficult to wield but critical tool in the artist’s armory. However, the artist employs another important tool in their armory, that of ‘resilience’. This is acknowledged in a soliloquy by the artist, who asks himself, 'now to work out how to use this new episode of failure in a creative and useful way?'.
Looking beyond the parameters of socially engaged practice, Thomas' work is more effective and articulates the essence of human engagement across boundaries and its potential pitfalls; we are able to recall our own psychological pain in similar situations. His work reminds us of the difficulty in active engagement and the potentially debilitating effect our sensitivities to others might have in this process.
Thomas delivers work that requires active consumption rather than a passive form of spectatorship. It is the artist’s commitment to his cosmopolitan imagination that engenders a sense of ethical and social responsibility, despite adversity that should be noted for its ability make us question our own relationship to others with/in the world.
Looking beyond the parameters of socially engaged practice, Thomas' work is more effective and articulates the essence of human engagement across boundaries and its potential pitfalls; we are able to recall our own psychological pain in similar situations. His work reminds us of the difficulty in active engagement and the potentially debilitating effect our sensitivities to others might have in this process.
Thomas delivers work that requires active consumption rather than a passive form of spectatorship. It is the artist’s commitment to his cosmopolitan imagination that engenders a sense of ethical and social responsibility, despite adversity that should be noted for its ability make us question our own relationship to others with/in the world.
Calais: Where Worlds Collide
Having seen the news coverage of the migrant camps in Calais I felt a compulsion to see them with my own eyes and hear first hand about the lives of people living there.
I’d be lying to say I wasn’t slightly apprehensive about going and wondered whether it would be a safe place for me to visit. However, this apprehension was counterbalanced by a pressing need to know more about the situation there.
On arriving at the ferry port I got a bus into the town centre. On route, I passed several groups of migrants. It was as if two separate worlds had collided, with holidaymakers travelling in one direction and migrants seeking to travel in the other.
I set off on foot towards The Jungle (the name adopted by the residents of the largest migrant camp in Calais). I noted that some parts of Calais had seen better days as I passed abandoned buildings and run down hotels. However, on the outskirts of Calais I passed through what seemed like a fairly affluent housing estate; surely I was in the wrong place. The houses ended and I entered an industrial park. A long road ran through the industrial park with a trickle of migrants passing in both directions. I followed the road away from the town and gradually saw an increasing number of migrants. As I passed under a road bridge I emerged into The Jungle.
I’d be lying to say I wasn’t slightly apprehensive about going and wondered whether it would be a safe place for me to visit. However, this apprehension was counterbalanced by a pressing need to know more about the situation there.
On arriving at the ferry port I got a bus into the town centre. On route, I passed several groups of migrants. It was as if two separate worlds had collided, with holidaymakers travelling in one direction and migrants seeking to travel in the other.
I set off on foot towards The Jungle (the name adopted by the residents of the largest migrant camp in Calais). I noted that some parts of Calais had seen better days as I passed abandoned buildings and run down hotels. However, on the outskirts of Calais I passed through what seemed like a fairly affluent housing estate; surely I was in the wrong place. The houses ended and I entered an industrial park. A long road ran through the industrial park with a trickle of migrants passing in both directions. I followed the road away from the town and gradually saw an increasing number of migrants. As I passed under a road bridge I emerged into The Jungle.
There were people everywhere. All of the photographs I had previously seen didn’t prepare me for the physical experience of standing within the camp.
I felt some migrants watching me as I entered the camp, it seemed the they were just as apprehensive about me as I might have been about them, and with good reason. Not everyone that enters The Jungle has come with good intentions. I learned later about the far-right groups who had previously visited the site and assaulted a number of migrants. I also learned about the brutality of the French police, a story corroborated by numerous migrants and also my friend who visited three days later and told me about their presence on site with pepper spray in hand. And of course, there are the people smugglers, attempting to extort money from these desperate individuals.
As I wandered further into The Jungle I realised I wasn’t in any danger. I struggled to imagine what distress some of these individuals must have experienced to make them want to cross continents in search of a safe haven; they were not looking for trouble. I felt guilty at my initial thoughts of apprehension.
A circuitous road runs throughout the camp from which tents stretch out in all directions, spilling over into the dunes and wooded areas. The tents vary in size, dimension and construction; perhaps an indication of how long the inhabitants intend to stay in The Jungle. Most of the tents were inhabited but some appeared abandoned, presumably by those who had successfully made their journey to the UK or elsewhere.
I felt some migrants watching me as I entered the camp, it seemed the they were just as apprehensive about me as I might have been about them, and with good reason. Not everyone that enters The Jungle has come with good intentions. I learned later about the far-right groups who had previously visited the site and assaulted a number of migrants. I also learned about the brutality of the French police, a story corroborated by numerous migrants and also my friend who visited three days later and told me about their presence on site with pepper spray in hand. And of course, there are the people smugglers, attempting to extort money from these desperate individuals.
As I wandered further into The Jungle I realised I wasn’t in any danger. I struggled to imagine what distress some of these individuals must have experienced to make them want to cross continents in search of a safe haven; they were not looking for trouble. I felt guilty at my initial thoughts of apprehension.
A circuitous road runs throughout the camp from which tents stretch out in all directions, spilling over into the dunes and wooded areas. The tents vary in size, dimension and construction; perhaps an indication of how long the inhabitants intend to stay in The Jungle. Most of the tents were inhabited but some appeared abandoned, presumably by those who had successfully made their journey to the UK or elsewhere.
I was struck by one particular tent surrounded by potted plants and flowers. Did these flowers and plants give a sense of normality or perhaps dignity to their residents amidst the chaos?
To call The Jungle a ‘camp’ is perhaps an overstatement and suggests a purpose built facility. In reality, it is disused piece of wasteland that has been increasingly inhabited by migrants.
To call The Jungle a ‘camp’ is perhaps an overstatement and suggests a purpose built facility. In reality, it is disused piece of wasteland that has been increasingly inhabited by migrants.
There is very little infrastructure within The Jungle apart from one enclosed compound (right). The French authorities provide one meal a day for the residents from this compound and offer accommodation to a small number of women and children there. About 95% of the residents within The Jungle live outside of this compound.
Apart from this limited infrastructure and a handful of portable toilets there are very few other facilities within The Jungle; life remains rudimentary.
Apart from this limited infrastructure and a handful of portable toilets there are very few other facilities within The Jungle; life remains rudimentary.
I saw several migrants collecting or carrying wood, presumably to make fires to cook on. I was acutely aware that these fires would soon be needed for warmth as the winter months approached.
The lack of infrastructure was clearly starting to cause problems and rubbish had started to accumulate at various points across the camp.
In this photograph, migrants are wheeling canisters of water back to their tent that they have filled from a mains pipe that runs through the camp.
The enterprising and entrepreneurial spirit of migrants is evident throughout the camp. This makeshift shop had been built by one of The Jungle residents and is one of many that can be found on site. The proprietor had previously been a shop owner in his home country of Syria.
Although this makeshift shop tells the tale of innovation in a desperate situation it worryingly suggests a sense of permanence.
Although this makeshift shop tells the tale of innovation in a desperate situation it worryingly suggests a sense of permanence.
As well as individual enterprise, there are also strong notions of community and cooperation throughout The Jungle, as demonstrated by this church built by its residents; a mosque has also been built on the site. the varying backgrounds, languages and religions within the camp, you might expect there to be problems between its various residents. From what I could see, this was simply not the case, a sense of solidarity and camaraderie was palpable.
In the photograph to the left, migrants are gathered around an electricity supply charging their mobile phones.
Fortunately there were those within the camp who were trying to make life more bearable for its inhabitants. Medicins du Monde had a First Aid tent on site which also served as an information point.
Medicins du Monde also offered Art lessons as a form of therapy to residents within The Jungle. They told me that many residents found these Art lessons extremely beneficial as a form of escapism from their everyday concerns. Furthermore, they acted as a useful instrument to help migrants learn new language skills.
Fortunately there were those within the camp who were trying to make life more bearable for its inhabitants. Medicins du Monde had a First Aid tent on site which also served as an information point.
Medicins du Monde also offered Art lessons as a form of therapy to residents within The Jungle. They told me that many residents found these Art lessons extremely beneficial as a form of escapism from their everyday concerns. Furthermore, they acted as a useful instrument to help migrants learn new language skills.
Clearly, there was some hostility within the town towards the migrants, especially by those who ran businesses. However, there were many other residents that were willing to help. In the image below a local Calais resident is delivering wooden pallets to The Jungle and is distributing them as fairly as he can amongst the migrants.
Despite the harrowing circumstances which surround them I found the residents I had met in the Jungle to be friendly and amiable and extremely appreciative of those willing to help them. For the most part, they retained high spirits and the drive and determination to search for a better life despite the obstacles in their way. Several even managed to make light jokes about their current situation, dire as it was.
I spoke to individuals from Eritrea, Sudan, Syria and Pakistan many of which kindly shared their personal stories, including the reasons why they had left their home countries and their hopes and aspirations for the future. It seems that world affairs, which can often seem so remote and abstract, took on concrete meanings through the personal stories of the residents in The Jungle.
I spoke to a man from Parachinar located on the Pakistan/Afghanistan border who had left his village after ISIS had invaded. As a male nurse, he had seen the mutilated bodies lying within the hospital following an ISIS attack. He told me that he had no option to leave his village, fearing for his life. I asked him why he wanted to travel to the UK and he told me that he had heard that asylum seekers would be well received and given a place of sanctuary. I wish I could have told him that this was categorically the case.
I spoke to individuals from Eritrea, Sudan, Syria and Pakistan many of which kindly shared their personal stories, including the reasons why they had left their home countries and their hopes and aspirations for the future. It seems that world affairs, which can often seem so remote and abstract, took on concrete meanings through the personal stories of the residents in The Jungle.
I spoke to a man from Parachinar located on the Pakistan/Afghanistan border who had left his village after ISIS had invaded. As a male nurse, he had seen the mutilated bodies lying within the hospital following an ISIS attack. He told me that he had no option to leave his village, fearing for his life. I asked him why he wanted to travel to the UK and he told me that he had heard that asylum seekers would be well received and given a place of sanctuary. I wish I could have told him that this was categorically the case.