Let Them In!

Six men sat on plastic chairs around a fire on the sand dunes of the Calais camp and told me their story. Most of them in their mid to late 30s, I would guess, and a long way from home. They wore donated jeans and tracksuits, clothes that had obviously seen a previous life. On their phones, they showed me their photos from back home, images of proud men in flowing robes, images of their wives and children – their previous life. They were Kurds, born and raised in Iran. And converts to Christianity. Why did they leave Iran to end up stranded on a Calais rubbish tip? One of them rolled up his sleeve and showed me a three-inch scar running diagonally up his arm. This was where he had been strung up by the Iranian security services for two days – with one arm tied to the ceiling and another to the floor. Unable to sit or stand, he was regularly kicked in the balls by passing guards. Embarrassed, he gestured towards his genitals and told me: “no working”. He then showed me the whitened scars where they had hooked him up to the electricity. Another spoke of the death of his brothers. His English wasn’t good, but he made his hand into the shape of a gun and pointed it towards the ground. “Tak, tak, tak,” he said. I understood.