If the Somme could sigh: Chilcot and the repetition of history.

The hundredth anniversary of the battle of the Somme still provokes a strong emotive response from the British public, this includes myself. The sadness and the futility echo with us, the knowledge that streets of wives, mothers and children all lost their husbands, sons and fathers in a single day.

We know now that the young men who walked across the fields did not do so for their own freedom: It was for the empire of others. Most men were short from bad diet, the German soldiors had the vote where their English counterparts, predominantly, did not. They had left tedious or dangerous work and, once they had joined up, reported having the best food they could remember eating. There was no threat to Britain, and most had no freedom to speak of to defend if there had of been.

This year the anniversary fell awfully close to the release of the Chilcot report: a review of a contemporary conflict that begs reflection on our progress. A century since the whistles blew in flanders, what was our modern motivation and was it any less questionable than that of the past?

It was not the first time the English had fought on the Somme: Agincourt still raises pariotic rhetoric through the medium of Shakespeare, and Waterloo, which ended a long and bitter war against the french. It can't be denied that both of these were empirical battles. Nor was 2003 the first time British boots went to Iraq, far from it.

Iraq itself was formed by the British, lumped together from three Ottoman provinces once oil was discovered in Mosad. The already disgruntled populace, denied the freedom and independence it was promised for fighting with the British in WW1, was placed under direct British control. What were now Iraqis, although quite probably not to themselves, saw this as an invasion. In 1920 they revolted and were brutally reminded who ran the country. Gas was used on the insurgents of the day.

In 1941 it appeared as thought the British were busy; allies against the British were also, apparently, in abundance. None the less the support from the Germans was minimal and another rebellion was quickly quashed by British soldiors, all of whom were experienced and battle hardened. Iraq had been independent since 1932, but this was in name only and no real changes took place for the populace. It is important to remember why this took place: if the oil had not been there then neither would the British. 

In 1914 German soldiors were not slaughtering babies on Church doorsteps, in 1990 Iraqs troops were not massacring babies in Kuwait hospitals nonetheless, on both occasions, this is what the allied countries were informed. Nayirah, the daughter of the Kuwait ambassador pretended she wasn't and said she had witnessed these atrocities take place. It is safe to assume the enthusiastic allied leaders knew this, but the enemies of empire killing babies is a historically tried and tested method of encouraging the unwilling to fight. The testimony of the girl received massive exposure at the time: rather notably and for obvious reasons it rarely gets a mention now. In the context of false reasons of fighting iraq it does seem awfully relevant, even if it was an earlier war it proves how happy those that desire war are willing to lie to achieve it.

We continued to bomb and threaten Iraq between 1991 and 2003, occasionally firing tomahawk missiles to enforce the dubious peace and no fly zone created at the culmination of desert storm. This was just a Conflict of air defense systems but it was still very noticeable to the Iraqis, if not to the western media.

The Chilcot enquiry is supossed to explain why we started the 5th Anglo Iraq war: once again the reasons were false. Atrocities were used as propaganda once more: the genocide of the Kurdish population was frequently referenced. Although the allies were clearly not overly influenced by it: firstly it took place in the eighties, when Saddam Hussain was regarded as an ally and we didn't seem to mind at the time. Secondly the chemical weapons used were of western manufacture and sold to Iraq to be used against Iran,  which they were. This one of the reasons Iran is deeply suspicious of the west to this day. We know the other reasons, we know they weren't true.

What we know of both wars, in 1914 and in 2003: a great deal of money was made and both were the direct cause of future conflicts. The profiteering of WW1 gets less of a mention than a lot of its other aspects, because it still relevant. companies such as vicars and citroen, among others, were caught up  in a perpetual arms race. The french were very aware of this as their revolt of 1917 suggests, the revolt was supported by the song adieu la vie (goodbye to life). The topic of the song is that the rich men at home should do the fighting as it was they that want war.  A german soldior wrote the words: "we have to fight only for the purse of others, anything else they keep telling us is rubbish." It was observed, cynically but accurately by soldiors on all sides, that the war could not continue without the support of the newspapers. All sides were reassured by celebrities and politicians that God was on their side.

Britain and America are still huge arms dealers, but that is just one aspect of the industry: Haliburton made at least 1.7 billion from building prisoner of war camps and army bases. (Remember Dick Cheney was the vice president of this company at one point). Before Iraq was "freed" the oil was nationalised and closed to outside interests, now ExxonMobil, shell and BP all operate there. America troops were told on more than two separate occasions, but in this case, once by Woodrow Wilson and once by George Bush that they were going to "make the world safe for democracy". On no occasion has it been the truth: As observed, Germany at this point had a much more equal democracy than Britain.

The war to end all wars was the direct cause of its sequal: The loss of land, the collapse of the German economy and destruction of its infrastructure, this led to the hyperinflation of the weirmar and a political void. French general Ferdinand Foch said of the treaty of versaille: "This is not peace, but a twenty year armistice." The destruction of iraqs infrastructure and the political void that was left is the exact reason we are fighting the 5th Anglo Iraq war against Isis. Nothing breeds a dictatorship like desperation and nothing breeds radicalisation like decades of bombing and poverty.

There is no need to draw unnecessary comparisons or conclusions: we have a long history of going to war for reasons other than those that we are told, the actual reasons are often the same for differing wars. As another example we know for a fact that the bay of Tonkin incident that started the vietnam war was a lie: I don't want to list examples of this from the past, I would like an example suggesting it has stopped.

Before the battle of the Somme Field marshal sir Douglas Haig stated at the start of a speech "The nation must be taught to bear losses." It did learn, and after half a million iraqi civilians died, I assume they learned too. But we didn't need to learn, why should we have to? The lies made the world unstable, both at the beginning of the 20th century and the start of the 21st. Ruining the lives of millions of people globally on both occasions.

Harry patch, the oldest surviving veteran of the Somme said: "I felt then as I feel now, the politicians that took us to war should be given the guns and told to settle the difference themselves, instead of organising mass murder." For me at least, this applies to contemporary conflicts.

The emporers may have changed their clothes a little, but many of the lies remain the same. Whenever we are informed there is an enemy we should look closely at the person saying it, just to make sure it isn't them. Through education, spotting deceit through our knowledge of history, through kindness and forgiveness, may we find the peace for our children that we have failed to find for ourselves.

The ambassadors daughter. 

Sunshine and suicide: the tale of two journeys.

Saturday the 7th of May, it is about 34 degrees, slow spinning dark teak fans move the warm air above me and my cold bottle of Bintang beer. Writing in a notebook, bits of a book I am composing on the topic of teaching in indonesia. I am in Kota Toa, old town in indonesian, which long before was Dutch colonial Java. The restaurant is everything that pretends to be awesome about colonialism if anything was. Outside the wide white boulevard is loomed over by the columned and green shuttered buildings, now museums that reflect upon the turbulent history of the island as the heat and light of the equator reflect off of the marble.

Six months ago I planned a journey, seems longer and at the same time no time at all. I have been living here four months, one thing is obvious, both to the people at home and those I have met since: I love it here.

One secret, an actual one, I have told no one until now, it was not the only journey I planned.

I was looking at jobs overseas whilst I looked at the train line website for uk travel: I intended to go to Swansea, get a bus to Gower, from there like many before, I intended to jump onto the rocks of the Welsh coast and to be washed away by the Irish sea. I am aware that it seems an over statement, but I had no doubt that once there it would be automatic. Once walking to the train station it would flow naturally until it's conclusion. I was occasionally concerned catching the train to work, just in case I got on a different train.

What is now a year ago; I lost my home, my job and the love of my life departed in what felt at the time like a car crash. If you have been in a car crash you will know that it appears to happen slowly, so you become a horrified spectator enabling you to watch something you know full well is going to hurt but have no capacity to intervene in the cause of. There was no anger at this point, just a numb emotional nihilism and acceptance of a turgid and joyless reality.

I love the coffee here on the island of Java, for reasons that are self explanatory. The food here is nothing like I had tried, the local Wartegs and the people that feed me have welcomed me, often as an odd sort of furry pet, but still happily accepted me as a part of their everyday lives.

In the morning I leave for work, mothers have carried heavy double gas hobs onto the street and fry a breakfast of tofu, children play with match box cars and marbles on the uneven stone that their mothers sit upon and wave at me as I walk up the narrow road in the shimmering heat of the morning.

Only a few months ago I had sat in a box room in Reading surrounded by my remaining possesions, stacked up as they were, higher than the edge of the bed and filling the remainder of the room. Perched on the edge of the bed I had cried. The tangled wires of my stereo system sticking from bags of books, the possesions I had once thought important, now just a pile of bin liners and badly labelled boxes.

I had worked with abusive and abused youths for a long time, but the abuse I received at work and was well accustomed to struck home in a way like never before; the students I had worked with for so long began to hit a nerve. "I'll kill you fucking cunt. I fucked your fucking mum you pedo." Made me cross. I had lost perspective on their motivation for saying it along with my professional ability. "Fucking waste man".

The physical assaults I had avoided, despite my not infrequent hospitalisations I had had in the past, began to frighten me. I got edgy and flinched at sudden lunges by students, which encouraged them to do it more frequently. My fear was that I would strike one of them: if they hit me at that point in my life I would have struck them back. A boiling, knotted part of me wanted to and the pain of being hit myself would be a trigger.

For some reason music, all music, made me angry. As though any expressed emotion on the part of others just encouraged a false, nonexistent idea of hope or happiness that I found physically revolting.

I went to Gower with my ex girlfriend once, I made a mental note to send her a message, one that said using Gower wasn't a message or statement to or about her. It wasn't. It is just a very convenient cliff that I knew of and could use without anyone being traumatised by my remains. These things seemed very important to me, even though nothing else was.

I was trying to find reason, tried to focus on positives, change my perspective but a dull weight in my stomach joined by a sense of hopelessness caused a slouch in my demeanour, I would grind my teeth and think of the cliff face several times each day. I would leave my bag on the bench at the top with a note, I thought, I wasn't keen on the idea of the Facebook goodbye.

The summer of 2015 arrived and I went to the refugee camps in Calais, I hoped to teach there and write an accompanying article. I have written enough about that experience and I returned to England to work in a demoted capacity as winter began. I was aware that the buses only ran to Gower in the summer months, so I elected to get a taxi. It would be an expensive journey, but it wasn't as if money was going to be a problem for the rest of the month.

I know meeting with those fleeing war, those who lost their homes and even loved ones, who continued to struggle should have put me in my place. Should have made me realise how lucky I am, but depression isn't logical, it cannot be defeated by rational cogitation alone. It takes more.

I was aware that the people I lived with would have to clear out my room, this would be an awfully unpleasant task.

This problem solved itself as I spoke of work overseas and sold and gave away most of my things. All of my friends thought they knew where I was going, everyday I fought to prove them right. I lost all self confidence, I began to shake when alone in cafes. I felt scrutinised and obvious. The repeat of each day made me furious to have started it when I knew I should have made the choice yesterday not to. I looked at the train timetable for Wales at work and felt furious at nothing.

Frequently I couldn't face my friends; unable, even at a new years party among people I had known for ten years, I could not convince myself that I was welcome. More and more I growled as I walked, becoming frustrated at people I loved for nothing more than being present.

It was time to catch a train. I caught the right train, in the end. If it had not been for the kindness of others I am certain it would not have been the case. I wasn't running away, I wasn't searching for anything, just using the freedom the previous months had taught me I have.

Men in the uk between the ages of twenty and fortynine are more likely to die from suicide than any other cause. One thing they shared: there was a time, for all of them, when they would never had thought it would end that way. They do not all suffer from depression, they cannot all suffer from a long term mental illness.

At times events are turbulent and the expectation is that you cope: in truth there are times when you cannot. The fact that you cannot causes a new contortion of anger at ones self. Your feelings of bitterness are doubled as you blame circumstance for the state of affairs and you for your failure. Death is not sought, merely escape.

Aeschylus wrote: in our sleep, pain which cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart until, in our own despair against our will, comes wisdom, through the awful grace of God.

This, in part, is the straw that we must clutch: when all is all is lost the fear of loss is gone along with it. This, in it's way, is a form of courage and one we did not previously have. It may all seem horrendously meaningless, but this is a boon to ambition: is failure not as meaningless? There is food you have not tasted, joys you have not felt and the vast unpredictability of life is now completely yours.

Your journey will end at some point, it will be just as inconsequential as though you had ended it yourself. You may as well walk it until then. And now, now you have been as low as you can be, the scenery is entirely up to you.

 

The Sun and the fox: Not just Hillsborough but a history of hate.

The Sun newspaper is struggling in the U.K right now, the reason for this is a history of corruption and lies, along with supporting false statements by corrupt police officers. While Newscorp carefully avoid the topic of this in Britain they successfully spread hate overseas.

Fox news opinion today was as interesting as ever: An insightful article in regard to transgender rights from Todd Sarnes ("a must read for Conservatives!") He mindlessly quotes that: " When I was growing up we just had boys and girls (him and her, not ze and zir). Our bathroom choices were limited to our God-given plumbing."

He advocates a boycott of Target for its policy on transgender toilet use, but most important is the link to the AFA. The Fox news website and The American family association are linked as associates anyway, but today the group were referenced as: "one of the most prominent and respected family advocacy groups in the nation,".

The AFA published an article on gay and transgender rights today too, try and read this just once:

"You see, the homosexual movement gained traction when it was able to get the psychological and academic communities to first reclassify homosexuality from a deviant behaviour to merely an orientation. The next push was to get medical data supporting the theory that one is born homosexual. Once that was accomplished (inconclusively so, not unlike evolution), the goal was to obtain minority status and claims for special status, as in a persecuted class of people deserving of special treatment, or “civil rights.” ".

"Not unlike evolution." The enlightened Lonnie Poindexter there writing for this "prominent and respected group." He goes on to add: "As an African-American male and a Christian, I am appalled and highly offended that my ethnicity is being lumped in with something that God’s Word says is wrong," Don't be, would be my advice, another group having civil rights doesn't make them black. That is the stupidest statement I have ever written and there really is some truly stiff competition.

I reiterate, both these articles are from today.

I digress, you have access to an Internet box: Fox news, which is the Sun, the Times, Sky, the Sunday Times and others is the largest advocate of anti LGTB rights operating in the United States today. You have the power to check this first hand.

I am not comparing this to the Hillsborough debacle, but illustrating that Newscorp is an international, old, and ongoing problem.

Rupert Murdoch, the grandfather of this nest of weasels, met with Thatcher eight times between 1988 and 89, the Hillsborough disaster was in April 1989. Rupert met Tony Blair 30 times in two years (97 - 99) and admitted bartering for buying out the UK media from David Cameron over dinner (BskyB bid, Leveson inquiry.) We should remember the present links of the prime minister to Newscorp, do me favour, Google it if you have forgotten.

I always wonder what the motivation was for the Sun headline so soon after the Hillsborough disaster, it really seems as though there was an emergency meeting to see how it could be gotten away with. And they did get away with it. The police, the politicians, the paper. People calm down a lot if you give them over two decades.

The Hillsborough argument has had time to come out in the wash, and we are truly blessed that the Internet exists at this point to remind ourselves what David Cameron and Boris Johnson had to say about it before it was brought into the light.

Context: when Rupert Murdoch was asked why he was opposed to leaving the EU: "Easy. When I go to Downing Street they do what I say, when I go to Brussels they take no notice."

I know the Daily Mail is owned by a viscount who doesn't pay any tax in the UK. I know the Express is owned by a barely sentient meat lump that donated a million pounds to UKIP, but you don't have to buy those either.

You don't need Sky TV, we have the Internet, and you certainly don't need the Sun and the Times. Until we don't buy anything under the Newscorp umbrella or vote for the half-arsed politicians it promotes we will be victims.

Epilogue.

I apologise for formatting and things: this is the first blog I have written on a tiny tablet, which I had to write in a bar in Jakarta so I had access to the Internet. Have a wonderful day.

Sexuality, Faith & pronouns: Doughnuts and diabetes.

I was in a cafe with a Christian couple and a Muslim, this is not a strange state of affairs in Jakarta nor had we just walked into a bar. I had been posed a question: "How can you agree with gay marriage?" I had laughed originally but the looks of intensity I had been given implied that I was supposed to answer.

"Right." My teacher arms did their thing subconsciously, indicating my torso and then swapping to indicate the listener as if throwing invisible information at them.

"If a man meets a woman, you don't know them." I gestured to an empty space in the room. "They're over there. They fall in love, get married and things. Has it got anything to do with you?"

"No." The Muslim confirmed, but he smiled as his brows furrowed with friendly suspicion.

"So if a man meets a man and you don't know them." I gestured to the same empty space in the room. "They get married. Has it got anything to do with you?" 

King Salman: Thinks the internet spreads
homosexuality, it doesn't.

"It is against my religion."

The Christian responded quickly with a quizzical face, the Muslim nodded and I took a deep breath.

"Do you eat pork?" I asked the Christian.
"Of course." I pointed at the Muslim.
"That is against his religion."
"That's his..."
"Yes. His, hers, theirs. Not yours."

I lit a cigarette as though smelling napalm in the morning.

No anger poured from either, a consensual nodding from the lady and thinking faces from the blokes. We are all still friends, we all had dinner and spoke about other stuff: Why I don't like football, favourite Indonesian and western foods, the myriad of reasons why I'm single, why I should be married and, well, stuff.

The Ancient Greeks: Used Tinder.

Religion seems to struggle with personal and possessive pronouns: His, hers, theirs and mine. If you feel that others should behave in accordance with your religion then surely you should behave in accordance with that of everyone else's: Don't work Saturday or Sunday because someone else doesn't. Don't eat pork, and moving outside the Abrahamic sphere, why not, don't eat beef either. You might suggest that this makes no sense and you'd be right.

Tolerate doesn't seem the verb for the job either, it seems rather presumptuous to assume that you are in the position to simply put up with the behaviour of another when it doesn't actually affect you in the slightest.

The seemingly consistent oversight in regard to gay marriage is that you don't have to join in; you can eat pork and you don't have to drive on a Saturday. Other people eating doughnuts does not affect your diabetes so please stop pretending that it does.

Jakarta and juxtaposition: The UK over the horizon.

I have been living in equatorial Asia for all of nine weeks; it seems like I have been here forever while feeling simultaneously like no time at all. I love so much of what I have seen, the people are welcoming although this explained a little by the lack of bule (pronounced boolay) here. This is Java slang for white foreigner and you will hear it said a lot as you walk around the city if you are one.

Strange looks are common and after the first week or so you stop checking if you have something on your face, people are just interested in what you are doing there at all. As you walk down the street there are waves and greetings of "hello Mr", especially from children, who tend to speak English better than the older populace. The reason for this is the quality of education here, although certainly not without it's faults, has improved massively over the last twenty years.

The food in the capital can not be overrated; the city gathers people from all of the islands of Indonesia  and their habits, culture and food with them.  There are no breakfast, lunch and evening meal foods, you just eat what you like when you like; from satay, soto, nasi padung and warteg (pronounced vartek) all is wonderful. I assure you I could devote an entire blog to this at some point.

One thing that has to be expected if you come here is that the standard of living is surprisingly low for the majority of the population; corrugated shacks and slums surround the occasional affluent mansion and there is no border between them.

The shimmering glass and the shacks.

There is a huge difference here between rich and poor and affluence is happily advertised. Jakarta is not centralised although there has been several attempts to alter this; this means that the poverty is not concealed like it is in many western cities. Children of a very low age sell packets of tissues and coffee on the street late into the night and carry umbrellas for the rich for a few yards and a fraction of a rupiah.

There is no clean water here, the river sits and bubbles, ominously green with unmonitored industrial and domestic waste, nothing lives in it and the only movement is the multitude of insects skimming at the pungent surface. The rubbish here is removed by hand pulled wooden carts, some collect elements of it in backpacks manufactured from old plastic barrels as they can form a meager living from selling it.

It is clear to an outsider that there is a problem here with caste; there is no social mobility here at all. I have asked several people, including a class of twelfth year students; what are the chances of someone here who works on the bins going to university? The response was uniformly given with a furrowed brow at the ridiculousness of the question. None. Of course none.

Sometimes the answer raised in pitch at the end, putting it into an inquiry of why I would ask at all. On occasion, with friends, I told them that that is what happened to me; I used to work the bins and I went to university. They were impressed that I lived in a country where that was possible, but it occurred to me, just recently; if I went home now I wouldn't.

I do not see myself as an ex-pat; this a term invented by white people to differentiate between themselves and what foreigners are doing. If you have moved to a foreign country you are a migrant; as you would presumably be if you had moved from Jakarta to Birmingham.

One habit that remains with me, as it was on cold mornings in Berkshire, before the traditional British commute on the apparently random Reading Waterloo line or the delightful bus to Bracknell, was to sip my black coffee and go through the news of the morning from a variety of perspectives. This usually includes The Independent, Guardian, Huffington post, daily mail, AFA, Fox and the spoof-like racism of The Express.

Immigrant INVASION. FOREIGN worker
STEALS job.

All history students know that all sources are deliberately or inadvertently biased, so sometimes one must estimate the truth nestling among the human discrepancies. Contemporary media certainly forces us to do this in the present, presumably somewhere between the tits and the capital letter racism are the remains of reality.

Far away from me, not even peeping over the horizon, a tiny island seems to be regressing. A disenfranchised populace has no say in the direction of the country as a facade of a democracy is run by a by a ruling elite.

The news is completely distracted by the resignation of someone who was in no way qualified and no one wanted to be in charge of work and pensions in the first place. No depth needed on this; but for those who have tried to claim benefits can you imagine saying that you had quit because you disagreed with your boss or disliked someone you worked with? You would be sneered at. Who do you think you are? It is not your place to make judgments. And you know what? You are not in a position to make judgments and your position is your caste.

The removal of a tentacle doesn't kill Medusa, you have to
hold a mirror up to the whole monster.

From the bombing of Syria and it's inevitable international repercussions, newly formed contracts for doctors, zero hour contracts for everyone and the repeated and completely politically motivated delay of the Chilcot inquiry. It doesn't matter where you stand and no-one asked you.

Now the complete overhaul of the education system "announced by ministers". Announced. Sorry teachers, parents and members of the populace: Not your place.

Academies function in this way: The lack of pay scale results in teachers getting paid apparently randomly differing wages and are discouraged from discussing them with other members of staff. As there are no long term contracts you could be asked to interview for your own job every July to review whether you return in September.

This discourages anyone disagreeing with management however badly the school might be run. Altruistic motivation in a profession can only take you so far. The mental breaking point of teaching in the UK is by far far enough without it being made pointless by incompetent managers with misguided concepts of their own importance.

A vacant eyed lawyer who has never
worked in a school is in charge of education.

No one will want to teach. So why do it? A teacher is no use to a Tory: an educated populace looking between the tits for the truth is their nemesis and they know it.

Caste does not exist: it is in the minds only of those who believe they are in the upper one. We are not serfs born to carry on the tasks of those who preceded us. It doesn't matter what your stance is, it doesn't matter if our political ideologies differ if none have the right or ability apply them. Caste is a global issue, but in a race to the bottom the UK is winning.

It may take a while to take back what has been stolen, perhaps it's slipped too far this time, but it is the same thieves as before and we leave the door wide open to them again and again.

As for me? England looks like a nice place to visit, but I'm not sure I'd like to live there.

Priorities and permanence: The lost lives of war.

A great deal has changed in the eyes of the world since I visited Calais a mere month ago: One thing that is noticeable is the amount of cameras that are present now; before I saw only a couple of journalists in the week that I was there, now every fifty yards I was able to see the fluffy end of a microphone boom amongst earnest, animated faces.

This, in turn, has helped: I saw four rental vans from the U.K with open rear doors handing out donated toiletries, clothing and food, even a minibus belonging to a primary school was parked near the entrance, driven to Calais on good intentions and empathy.

The overpass that stood as a gate to the Jungle no longer does so; tents now sprawl from underneath it and out into what was the approaching road. The reasons being that more refugees have arrived and land within the camp has been lost to water. On arriving I sought out the art tent, in which I had previously found it so easy to talk to people, but it seems to have been moved or shut as the area it was in is now rancid and waterlogged.

On the left is where the Art Tent used to be.

I circumnavigated the camp, past what was a large expanse of sand that was now two hundred yards of water, leaving only a narrow path that two people could not simultaneously pass. As I bore right it became apparent that the whole map of the Jungle had altered in my absence; where there previously paths there were now ramshackle gatherings of shacks, where there were dwellings and open ground are now large pools of stagnant water.

The camp is certainly more inhospitable than before, even some of the road wide thoroughfares are now unnavigable despite the day being a warm one. A sea breeze thankfully relieving the smell that settled over the camp during the still hot summer.

I was walking towards the church and the books in the Jungle tent, a small library that had a dozen books and a leaky roof on my last visit. It was locked up and looked very similar to before, perhaps there are more books inside now, but whether added permanence to the site is positive is a question which nags at the back of my mind, not quite identified at this point.

There is a throng of people by the church, a huge pile of battered footwear is piled neatly at the door. The church has grown in my absence; a large canvas wall surrounds it and murals adorn the outside wall. Within the makeshift walls of the churchyard a large grill is set up, people sit around on the floor eating rice dishes from polystyrene takeaway cartons. As I line up to take a photograph of one of the new paintings a man sits down on the floor to my right holding his food; he kisses the yellow tray and then taps it gently with his forehead, repeating the process three times before opening the lid. Even as an Atheist I am made thoughtful by how grateful people can be no matter how little they have.

Time spent: by someone with nowhere else to go.

I leave the makeshift gates of the church, opposite this there are two people building a platform on wooden stilts, the idea being to move their dwelling on to it to avoid the rising water that will quickly follow the first days of autumn. This, along with elaborate decorations on the church, seem to indicate that many people here see no end to their state of affairs.

I was doubtful there would be anyone at the school, but set off in that direction, moving to the edges of what was the path to navigate numerous litter strewn pools. In the middle of a dry section stood a small girl looking disconsolately down at a brimming bucket of water. I asked her if she wanted help and she stood straighter and nodded, examining my face. We both held the handle and bumped gracelessly along as I asked where she was going. She pointed with her free hand at a group of buildings not far in the distance.

She was an eleven year old from Eritrea, and had been in the Jungle for two weeks. I asked what she thought of the place, she managed a shrug. "It is safe." She conceded eventually. "It is the only place I know that is safe." Her perspective on the world was a dark one and I reeled slightly from it, although I can see why to her it is a valid one. Her father had fled with her to avoid conscription or imprisonment, a choice with no positive option. He is the sole guardian, her mother, like many women, never had the chance to leave Eritrea.

I tried to shake off the melancholy feeling that follows me whenever I walk around the Jungle; it had been emphasised by the last meeting and is not helpful. I stomped toward the school once more along what had in August, been a path. There was a hut in front of me, two men sat outside it in the gentle afternoon sun and heating an open can of beans on a small fire. They waved me to a halt as I passed.

Where an eleven year old girl lives with her father: An hour
from the British Library.  

"You can not get through that way." He pointed to a path back to the wider road. "You have to go that way." There were large white words painted on the door of their canvas shack: Kamal smile please. "Why are you going there anyway? There is nothing
good over there."

He was smiling as he spoke. The other man pointed to where I had walked from.
"There is nothing good over there either." They both laughed and the nearest slapped me on the back. They were both Syrians and had been on the camp for nearly two months, both now in their early twenties they had fled the civil war in their teens. I asked about the words that filled the door.  "Do you know who Kamal is?" The first speaker smiled mischievously and I shook my head. "I am." He said, poking himself in the chest. "After three weeks here my brother painted it, he was bored of me being sad."

"Did it help?" I asked, Kamal shrugged and produced a half smile, curling his bottom lip under his upper at the silliness of the conversation.

"Sometimes it is the small things." There was a sadness still in his eyes, but he seemed determined not to let it show. I sat with them for a while, they occasionally poked at the can of beans with a fork as we chatted and asked me to write down the link to my first article for them. "When you are famous we can say we met you." Kamal's eyes smiled with his mouth this time. We shook hands once more and I wandered off towards the school.    

The school was closed but surrounded by people nonetheless, I continued past as everyone looked busy and focused around cameras without me getting involved. A high metal fence stood on my right and the entirety of the camp on my left as I navigated pools of water and passing bicycles. There were more signs and decorations than my first visit, as people tried to make things more like a home in the face of the circumstances.

From the art of the jungle (Look it up on Facebook) to the poems and the paintings, the planned stilted housing and the assistance of everyday people, the entire situation has altered from refugee to migrant and from crisis to permanence.

We are unable to repair the political situation in Eritrea, I cannot see a way to make peace in the Sudan, there is certainly nothing that can be done for Syria, especially if we continue to bomb it. These are not practical solutions for a separate symptom. Spend all winter on the coast of Dover in a shelter you have manufactured from waste wood and canvas, then picture your children perpetually living there.

Everyone wants to go home, somewhere one feels safe, a place to retreat to. For some children and young people the Jungle is the safest place they have ever been; as a result it has become their home. This is their time, their memories, their childhood and in this case not providing is as bad as taking away.

Welcome to the Jungle: The lost people of the Western world.

Before I begin I will arrange my footing slightly; hopefully making the stance of words slightly harder to push over. I do not believe in an open door policy on immigration in the U.K, there are sixty four million people here and it is not a large land mass; from a basic perspective it is matter of space and resources.

When I first walked into the Jungle I was concerned that I would be of interest, which was foolish and it quickly turned out that quite the opposite was true. It was very infrequent that anyone paid any attention to me at all, if I did make eye contact with anyone I received a bonjour or a small wave.

The smell of the air is physically oppressive and begins a mile from the overpass that acts as gate to the camp, long before the beer kegs of the depot and the dog training centre; the atmosphere clings to the roof of the mouth in a thin coating and makes it uncomfortable.

Although it is quite easy to get lost in the camp, it has a rough circular outside route which is webbed through inwardly, with interweaving paths through brambles that lead to smaller circular encampments made up of differing nationalities and ethnicities. The road around the outside is just mud trampled firm in the heat, but retaining water from the night’s rain in deep holes. The road is clear of the detritus that otherwise covers the ground, where it is in large piles and scattered so it is nearly always underfoot elsewhere.

I realised that I was approaching the tall canvas church, which I had already done, so I headed towards a fenced organised looking area. I saw the hospital, which consists of two tents; next to this there was a white canvas labelled the Art Tent. When I ducked inside four young men sat drawing and colouring, another, who looked in his early twenties, was strumming a guitar in the corner.

A young lady in a white waistcoat with a medical logo on the side of it greeted me, and invited me to sit. I sat at the rickety camping tables and began to draw low quality cartoon animals; I was informed that there were three doctors and they could not be there all the time. The lady I was talking to was a therapist, a great deal of the people that arrive are traumatised.

She asked me, not unkindly, what I was doing on the site: I explained that I wanted to teach some English but I was interested in writing an article, I was told where the school was and that it was run by volunteers.

“You will be the next Van Gogh.” Said the tall man next to me, patting me on the shoulder. “Everyone knows these are green.” He added as he began to colour in the walrus. A bearded man stuck his head through the flap and asked to see the doctor, he was pointed to the next tent which was the triage section.

The guitar did not seem to be frustrating the man trying to play it, but he had been patiently trying to tune it since I had arrived. He occasionally squinted down the length of the neck. He asked me to play, and mostly through luck, I was able to tune the chipped old acoustic. I taught him some chords and he, on his part, listened attentively as we passed the guitar between us, although he never smiled. He fetched a crayon and marked out chord diagrams of what I had shown him. After about an hour I excused myself to find the school; he whispered thank you without looking up.

Outside the tent there stood the man who had asked about the hospital, his brow was furrowed and his hand was on his hip as he looked at the tents. I said bonjour in such a way that he asked me if I was English. I said yes and asked him how things were, he told me he wanted to see a doctor, as he was sick. “They cannot see too many people in a day, they are good, there just aren’t many of them. “You work in England? I said I worked in a school and he nodded. “I am a mechanic, is there much work in England?

Atifibrahim.

“Not really no.” I told him. “A couple of hundred at least apply for each new job vacancy.” He rolled his eyes.

What is England like?” He asked without enthusiasm. I shrugged.

“Good and bad, I guess. You want to go there?”

“Not really.” He shrugged expansively. “Would it be better than here?” He gestured at the jungle with an outstretched arm.

“Probably not.” I was forced to answer. He clapped me on the back and held out his hand.

“Atifibrahim.” He said. After the introductions he told me that he was from the Sudan. “When the politics went wrong I was arrested as I had opposed the government, some of my friends disappeared and bad things happened to their families. “Bad things.” He repeated as he grimaced into the distance. “We had to leave.”He shrugged a gesture of glum acceptance. “What would happen if I went to England? Would I be allowed to work?” I shook my head.

“You would be kept in detention.”
“How long for?”
“Until they review your case.”
“And that takes a long time.” He stated.”It takes a long time here too. Would I be with my family?”
“Probably not.” I turned my face away as he raised up his palms and his eyes filled up quickly. “Mainly the children are separated.”
“Then what do I do?" This was clearly news to him, he was genuinely upset.
“Germany seems to be letting the most people in.” I said, stuck for words. He patted me on the back gently.

"We all dream.” He said. “All I want is peace for me and my family. He looked over the camp in the distance. “I think that winter will be bad.” I spoke to Atifibrahim a few times over the next couple of days, after a couple of days he allowed me to take his picture and after three days later was able to see a doctor.

The school was about twenty by thirty feet inside; mismatched desks filled it from edge to edge, apart from the small aisle down the centre, which was occupied by a narrow tree trunk that supported the centre of the roof.

The improvised school was full every time I visited.

The room was full of students with their elbows down so that they could write in such close proximity to each other. A petite woman at the front taught French in a motivated fashion. I waited until the end of the lesson and spoke to the teacher; she gave me the name of someone to speak to about teaching English but I would have to return the following day.

I walked around the orbiting path, past the church again and then the tents that act as cafes and shops; cooked chicken stood exposed in the sun amongst the cans of Sprite and bags of potatoes. I headed back to the art tent; I was going to leave the camp for the day and thought it best to say goodbye. The young man was still practicing guitar and I made a positive comment; he shrugged without looking up.

The next day it was raining heavily; one benefit to this is the smell of the camp is not present until you are actually there. This turned out to be of little comfort; the mud got everywhere. Puddles of ten foot diameter and unknown depth had to navigated, along with the industrial metal that sticks inexplicably and immoveable from the sludge. The stand pipes that provide water now stood in such deep mud that no-one on site could possible get clean. I couldn’t find the woman that I had been told to speak too, so I headed for the shelter of a tent with music coming from it.

The end of the tent was curtained off, a friendly bearded man stood in there chopping onions. The rest was taken up with tables and chairs made from pallets. I asked for a coffee; I was told it was Arabic coffee and given a circled finger and thumb signal of recommendation. I sat at a table and a tea pot and a shot glass were brought to me.

A lady with red rimmed eyes was sat at the other table; She asked me for cigarette, where I came from and what I did, then told me everyone calls her Baby because her brothers are all older than her.

“I don’t normally smoke. But in the circumstances.” She laughed a little and made a gesture at the sky. “You like England?” I shrugged. “I liked Ethiopia. But there are problems there.” The coffee was thick and soup like. “I was a lawyer, and thought if I protested about the killing of women then there would be a change.” She shrugged and and shook her head. “Some of my friends that just turned up at the protest started to get sent to prison, some for five years. Maybe it would have been better to stay.” She watched the rain silently pour into the already waterlogged ground of the camp. I asked her if her family were there. “My husband is in Libya, it was very bad there when I left, I was pregnant so he made me go when I could. Even without him. Sometimes I think he might still be alive.” She looked at the ground for a while.

“Do you have trouble raising the baby here?”

“I lost the baby when I was arrested Paris.” She apologised as her shoulders shook slightly. “I have hope because god knows that I am strong.” Her words sped up. “I had a drink some days ago, and was angry because I was weak. God will forgive me if I am strong. I don't know if my husband is alive or dead. There is always hope, but I am lost in the Jungle like everyone else. Baby let me write down what she said and really didn’t care if I took her picture or not.

Baby

I headed back to the school and was informed by the woman that I was told to talk to, to talk to the other one, as no-one seemed to be in charge. I agreed politely to return the next day as I was a little exasperated but determined to teach if I could. I was receiving more waves, hellos and friendly shouts of Englishman than I had before as people got used to seeing me around for a little more.

There were very young teenagers hunched around the small tables in the art tent; I drew cartoon landscapes for the others to colour in. I explained to the therapist that I might not be able to teach as I might not have time to organise it. She told me just teach then and there; to the people that were present at the time. I managed to teach my name is and I am from, before a queue started to form outside and they went to see what it was for. Despite the pouring rain a long line had formed: It was for socks and books of the gospel.

Lots of people had retreated under shelter so I went back to the café. Baby was still there, crying quietly. I sat at the only other table, which was also occupied by two boys. They spoke to me about England and asked if the schools were good. They asked if they would be allowed to go to school there, they told me that they had not been to school for a long time. They both looked like they had already been crying.

Michael claimed to be 21, which I would have questioned as a barman, his brother, Sian, to my left was 16. I didn’t know whether brother meant being from the same country, someone one trusts or being actually related, but I had learned within the camp that it made little difference. Sian sat staring at the floor, if I did make eye contact with him he quickly looked away again.

“Why are the English government so cruel?” Michael's voice became louder and he began to cry. “Can I sit on a train in Germany like a human being? Without anyone hitting me?” We cannot go back to Syria, me and my brother cannot go back to Syria, they are still fighting. Me and my brother know that most of our family are dead.” He paused, looked at his brother, who looked at the floor. “We want to go to school and people hit us and spray us." He paused. "I want to sit on a train.” He repeated. “Why do all these things happen?” He genuinely seemed to be asking me. He just sat looking at me; making me wish I had an answer. “You must have hope.” I offered feebly. His whole body slumped and he looked exasperated and at me as though I was mad.

“Where is there hope? Every country should have human rights, where are they?” He sat and looked stunned for a moment. “Where am I?” His face did not expect an answer. They both stood and I asked where they were going.

“To the train station.” I asked them not to get hurt; there didn’t seem a great deal else that I could do. They hadn’t wanted me to take a picture of their faces, but dismissed me taking one as they walked up the track. I looked for them each day at the camp, but never found them again. I doubt very much they made it to the U.K.

Michael and Sian in search of a home.

The following day was incredibly hot and Calais proper had some impressively armoured police swaggering around it; I didn’t pay them more than a passing thought as I headed to the camp.

It was about midday: I was talking with a Syrian who laughed and shrugged as he told me he did not know if he was 21 or 22; Ahmed Kino told me he was hoping to stay in France.

“I have sent off the paperwork.” He did not look overly optimistic. I asked him how he felt about migrants being told to go home. “My home is a hole in the ground, it is gone, and still they fight over it.” He smiled a little and shrugged, even trying to find the humour in this.

“The papers are supposed to take three months aren’t they?” I was curious as I received varying reports, Ahmed looked at me as though I very naive.

“There are many people that have been here longer than that.” He looked at me quizzically: “A whole universe and I am not allowed in some of it. Are these places special? Why are they special?” He looked around the camp distractedly. “I worry though.” He looked at me again. “Sometimes, when people are poor you see the animal in them.”

There was a chattering, near the gate, more quick and active than the normal background atmosphere of the camp. There was a shout from the direction of the underpass and Ahmed and I went to look. The police were on the road of the overpass and on the road to the left leading up to it. There were more in the distance. Ahmed headed back to the camp.

“This won’t help.” He said. “It won’t help me.” He put his hand on my shoulder briefly before heading back into the camp.

Some people were walking up the embankment and blocking the overhead road; I went around the embankment, so was behind a thin line of police who were stood before an equally thin line of protesters. Behind me were many vans with plenty more. A chant of “We are not animals” was clearly audible from where I was.

The number of protesters swelled until there were between thirty and forty, including some of the aid workers that I had previously been speaking to. It escalated and calmed down very quickly; I noticed that people were jumping the fence sliding back down the embankment.

Riot police had approached from the other side sandwiching the thin line of protesters between the authorities, despite the fact that the protesters had not tried to move. A plume of tear gas arose on the right hand side of the road and caught me on the left hand side of the face. I slid into the foliage down the slight incline of the embankment and out of the way.

I went back to the entrance, people were chanting, but none made any further move to occupy the road. Among those having their faces wiped and being told to close their eyes I saw the sixty year old white woman who had made the sharing sign. I spoke to a 41 year old wedding planner from London called Liz; her face was red and I asked if she had been gassed. She hadn’t.

“When the police hit the refugees protected me. I feel quite humble. I wasn’t expecting the police to do that.” She looked very distressed. “Everybody deserves to be happy and safe.” She began to cry again.

I wandered back into the camp and two people from the Sudan asked me what was going on: They were not the only ones. I explained over and over again too many faces that an English minister was inspecting security in the camp but not the camp itself. Most shrugged; I saw none join the protest as a result. Many people were fixing tents and queuing for the hospital as though nothing was happening. The protest remained in the gateway and out of the way for the rest of the day. Thirty to forty people had protested out of a possible three thousand. They had been kept out of the public eye both physically and by being ignored by the media. Despite the poverty, none had shown the animal in them.

On my last day in the camp I had a beer in the café tent and looked for Michael and Sian, but without hope and to no avail. I was walking up past the church and was thinking about leaving for the last time. I heard my name called and I turned.

“You taught me guitar the other day. You remember?”
“Of course. Have you practiced?”
“The owner took it away. Sorry I did not speak much, some days I am sadder than others.”

“Like everyone.” I shrugged. “Are you trying to get to England?” He shook his head. “I have applied for paperwork In France and I never wanted to come here.” I asked how that had happened. “I left Darfur after our car was shot and we crashed, I broke my leg, but we were very lucky. We were not rich, but I had work as a vet, we had food and we were safe. I lived better than this in my country, but they killed my friend and said that they would kill me. So I went to Khartoum, the people of Khartoum don’t like the people of Darfur, in the same way that people of other countries don’t like foreigners.

The police beat me and burned my arms with cigarettes, they told me they knew where I slept and if they saw me they would kill me.” He shrugged. “I had to leave there too. Italy would not help me, nor Greece. You have to move on.” He looked at the floor for a while. “I wish these things had never happened.” He looked as though he might cry. I asked him how he felt about English politicians not trusting the people of the Jungle.

“David Cameron needs to ask himself if there are bad people in the jungle why did they not stay and be bad in Syria, Darfur or Afghanistan, or Iraq? There are plenty of opportunities to be bad people in these places. There is very little that can be done here, good or bad.” He shrugged and looked as though he might cry. I said goodbye to Rashid, he firmly shook my hand and I left the Jungle.

I said at the beginning that I didn’t agree with open door immigration, but that has nothing to do with what is happening in the Jungle. When these people fled Eritrea, the Sudan, Darfur, Syria and Iraq they were refugees and worthy of help. Now they are near our borders, they are migrants and worthy of nothing but contempt.

There are children without enough food, clothing and completely missing their education along with adults who are willing to work, from backgrounds that many English people would struggle to empathise with. They are deep in filth, despondency and an hour from London.

L'apartheid

From the protest that most people in the camp didn’t know of and that most people in the U.K never will. As we examine the firmness of the fences and the ferocity of the dogs we force mere children to take risks that we would not wish upon ourselves.

If there is to be pride in your nation, it is to be taken only in the behaviour of the inhabitants themselves; there is no reason not to be proud of your forebears, the actions of your grandmother and father in times of difficulty. The question is only this: would they, and will your grandchildren, be proud of us?

As I button up my shirt and go to work on Monday, I will look at my reflection in the window of the bus as it ponders through suburban Wokingham. As the rainy season approaches what is normal for others simply should not be. If we do nothing but ignore the suffering of the innocents, whatever reason we give, we are the lost people of the western world.