Afghanistan - Care4Calais

Tariq’s story

Care4Calais News — Thu, 20 Oct 2022 18:34:11 +0000

Yesterday I was helping out with English classes at a distribution when I got talking to a young Afghan refugee. He was about 18, the same as me, and we were getting along well when I somehow managed to get a little cut on my finger.

The boy, who I’ll call Tariq, suddenly disappeared, only to reappear a few moments later with a sticking plaster. It was such a moving thing to do – he had been through so much, but he could still notice and help with my little problem. I have only been in Calais for a week but I’ve already learned that the refugees here often have big hearts.

We talked some more, and he told me that a few days ago he had tried to cross to the UK in a boat, but but the engine had failed. They had been stranded on the sea among high waves, and terrified until they were rescued.

But still, he said, he would be trying again tomorrow (that’s now today). It was a chilling reminder of their situation; even that terrifying risk is better than what they have left behind.

I’ve met a lot of Afghan people in my time here so far. There are many in Dunkirk – in fact there are so many, and they like making friendship bracelets so much that we buy big reels of thread in green, black and red, the colours of there Afghan flag! Small things like that are so important when they’re this far from home. Like Tariq, they all just want to get and job and work, to have a normal life, and most feel sure the British Government would welcome them.

Their faith in us is so at odds with what some of our politicians say, it’s heartbreaking sometimes. I know Tariq has left now, and he must be either still at sea or in the UK. I really hope he gets the welcome he deserves in the end.

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The photography of former refugee Abdul Saboor

Care4Calais News — Mon, 10 Jan 2022 18:56:22 +0000

I left Afghanistan because they shot me. Not once, but three times. I don’t know who shot me or why, they were too far away to see. Afghanistan is a dangerous country – people do not follow rules, they do what they like.

The first time I was shot, it was was in my arm, and I treated the wound myself. The next time it was my leg, and the doctors wanted me to stay in hospital, but I wouldn’t stay. The last time was in my back, and that was bad; I stayed in the hospital for 10 days with that. The doctor said I should have stayed 40, and they were very cross with me when I wouldn’t stay. But when I was well, I left Afghanistan.

I’ve not been back.

When I left, I crossed into Pakistan, then Iran where they put me in prison and deported me back to Afghanistan. So I got back into Pakistan, and this time made it through Iran and into Turkey. Then I walked up through the Balkans, and I saw the horror the refugees suffer on this walk. In Serbia I started taking photos to show the stories.

I don’t really know why I started to take the photos, I just knew someone had to document the journeys that were being made in a way that the media were not. I used my phone at first, but later on in France, a kind volunteer have me a camera.

I kept taking photographs because I thought it was important to document everything. In many places, especially in the Balkans there were no journalists so many details of the refugee’s journey are not known.

I spent a year in Serbia, then I moved from Germany to France. I wasn’t really aiming at France – I didn’t know where would accept me. But two years ago I got my French papers so I’ll be staying here.

In Afghanistan I operated heavy machinery. Now in France I take photographs and teach photography at a university in Paris. I’ve done quite a bit with my pictures – I’ve done several exhibitions and been featured in newspaper articles. I live in Paris most of the time, but I spend a lot of time in Calais and Dunkirk in the refugee camps there.

I find it hard taking the photographs in the camps, because I know the pain of refugees. I have been there, I am them. I know the pain of loss, the fear of the journey and the crossing. I know how scared they are of the future, and how they are afraid for their children. I know how hard the life is, how cold they are and how hungry. And yet I must ask to take the photo. I stay with them though, I live there with them for sometime. They get to trust me, and let me tell their stories.

I keep going back because if I don’t tell their story who will? The media who are there for a day? They do not understand the life of a migrant. They do not look into a refugee’s eyes and see the pain, understand the suffering, but I do. Because I have been in that situation myself.

My best photo? It was when I found a group of refugees who had found a good place to sleep. They put up tents and cleaned the ground. Then the police came and destroyed the camp. When I photographed it, I saw the spear of light piercing the dark destruction. That is the hope of a refugee and it is always there, but sometimes you must look closely to find it.

I like to take photos of the dark where the light finds a way through. The light is hope, it is a spiritual thing; there is always hope, but lately that light has become less and less. The darkness is the despair we feel when we leave our homes and find the hostility that welcomes us, but the light will always find a way in.

I’m 29, I think (birthdays are not a thing in Afghanistan) but I’m tired today so I feel older – tomorrow I might be 28. I have a life in France now, and I must be happy with that, but I do miss Afghanistan. I miss my home, my family, and the countryside. I’ve missed important weddings and funerals, I’ve missed seeing my nephews grow. and I miss the food and the sun, the festivals and the music. Oh, and cricket – I really, really miss playing cricket.

But as long as there are refugees and there is light I will keep telling the story, but we must keep fighting for the light, because they cannot go back. Behind them, the light has gone out.

Abdul Saboor

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The trauma of Afghan children

Care4Calais News — Tue, 26 Oct 2021 19:37:29 +0000

Some of the little Afghan girls and boys I see at our distributions seem so sad it’s unbearable. They’re so quiet and withdrawn, and while some just want to be with their mums, others seem quite detached from everything.

At our last distribution, a little boy of about six came along with his mum, but then just found a child’s chair, sat down facing the wall, and stayed like that. He didn’t want to move, or talk, or interact with the other children at all. We tried very gently to encourage him to join in the playing, but he didn’t want to, so we kept an eye on him while his mum went to choose some clothes.

The thing is, one of the Afghan dads told me, it isn’t just that they’re in a strange new place. It’s that the journey here was so long and strange. “My family was travelling for nine days in total,” he said. “Waiting at the airport, going to Dubai, coming to the UK, where we were in quarantine.

“I had three children under seven years old. They had never been on a plane before in their lives. Imagine your first experience of flying in a plane is waiting to get through an airport where you might be killed, running down the runway to climb up into this big cargo plane with 300 people. Children and babies crying and scared. And no-one told us where we were going. Our children asked us, and we could not tell them.”

Most adults would find it terrifying. And my children were scared flying in a nice comfortable passenger for the first time. just can’t imagine the impact it’s made on these poor kids.

I remember reading a few weeks ago that holidaymakers at a hotel hosting some Afghan refugees on the coast had complained that the children were “running amok” there. I found it incredibly hard to believe, because the children we see are very reserved, and their mums keep a very close eye on them. To say such things about children who have been through so much is reprehensible.

We try to make things better for them at distributions by making a little play area for the children, with mats and toys. Most of them are happy there, and it makes it easier for the parents to concentrate on what they need if they can leave their children somewhere safe – so long as they can always see each other, our space works well.

The little boy on the chair did come round a little, and when his mum came back he snuggled into her and he cheered up. When I asked if he was ok, she gave a tired smile, and nodded. The suffering and bravery of these families overwhelms me sometimes. I smiled and back and busied myself with something to keep the tears back. This woman and her little boy don’t need our tears. They needed to know our government’s plans for them.

A lot of the Afghan women have been through so much, you can tell, but often they are so quiet, bearing it all in near-silence. It breaks my heart, but I try to be as welcoming as possible, and help them choose clothes for themselves or their children.

Sometimes they open up. That same day I had a long conversation about winter coats with one lady – we stood there talking about the kinds we preferred, and I helped her choose something that she liked, and she seemed really pleased with it. It felt good to have helped her. Small kindnesses can go a long way, sometimes; I try to imagine the pain of the women, men and children, and do what I can to let them know that decent people here are on their side.

– J, Care4Calais volunteer, London

Care4Calais will need a lot of warm coats for refugees this winter. If you can help, please go here

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The anxiety of an Afghan refugee

Care4Calais News — Sat, 16 Oct 2021 08:50:03 +0000

“It’s my family I am frightened for now. On the phone, my father told me the Taliban had been for him. They came into his home, they tied his hands and put a bag over his head, they took him away to question him about me. They brought him back, but when they don’t find me they will take him again.

“He and my mother now move from house to house, hiding. It is the same for my brother. I don’t know what to do. I am sorry… ”

As Abdul, a young Afghan father in his early thirties told me this, tears welled up in his eyes, and he turned away for a moment, unable to speak. We were talking at a clothes and toys distribution for Afghan refugees in London this morning. “It is bad. Very bad. So bad,” he kept saying – not, I realised, because his English was limited, but because there are not the words to describe it in any language.

He had worked in security at the British embassy in Kabul, so when the Taliban entered the city he knew immediately that he’d be a target. He and his wife and their three young sons headed for the airport straight away, with just one bag between them. Not a suitcase, he said, but one like that – and pointed at a small holdall on one of the tables nearby.

They had had to wait at the airport for a couple of days amid the rising panic, but managed to get on a flight out, and were now living in a hotel in London. Like many Afghan refugees here, he is relieved to be safe, but anxious to the point of trauma for his family back home. A moment after he had turned away, he came back wanting to continue our conversation, but broke down again before regaining his composure.

I felt heartbroken listening to him. To think that a man or a woman suffering this sort of pain can be demonised by some people is utterly appalling. They desperately need our help and support, and it’s incredibly humbling and moving to see how reserved they are about asking for it. I glanced down and saw that Abdul’s basket had just two pairs of shoes and some jeans. Seeing me look, he explained that he didn’t want to take too much for himself, because his wife was also choosing things for their boys.

Abdul didn’t know what would happen to his father and brother in the end, he said. They would just have to keep hiding. The Taliban are ruthless and relentless; the idea they have changed is nonsense, and if they can’t find their targets they go after their families. So for many people who escaped, their real worries are only now just beginning. As compassionate people, we must keep on being there for them.

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