Terror in Paris takes it toll on refugees in Calais camp

I’D LIKE to tell you how a terrorist organisation impacted on one man’s ability to have a shower. But first, a word about their name. Given that Islamic State is neither Islamic nor a state, it’s probably time to refer to them as Daesh, a name coined by someone in the Syrian resistance.

Pronounced Da’sh, it’s an acronym, which in Arabic is a rarity — a made up word for a made up organisation. Daesh is also a play on words, because ‘daes’ is Arabic for ‘trample / crush underfoot’.

Anyway, more about the man whom Daesh prevented from having a shower. This man — we’ll call him Sami — has lived in the Calais refugee camp for four months. Now I know you might not want to hear about the Calais refugees again, but I have just come back from my fourth stint volunteering there and to be honest it’s pretty hard to think about tinsel and Christmas shopping when your head is full of desperate hungry people losing hope as they slide about in the winter mud, surrounded by riot police done up like Judge Dredd.

Sami, himself a refugee, also volunteers within the camp. In the absence of all major organisations like the Red Cross or Oxfam, every day — in return for absolutely nothing, other than hours of aggravation — he distributes essentials (shoes, coats, blankets) from a wonky windowless shed inside the camp. The queue is endless, and fraught with desperation. There is immense dignity and good humour, but sometimes you wonder if it won’t all kick off, when men in flip-flops who have stood in the rain for three hours finally reach the top of the queue and there are no more shoes left.

Keeping the queue of men from anger and despair (the women and children have other queues in the camp) is exhausting for Sami. His diplomacy skills are UN-level, plus he speaks four languages. He is selfless and tireless. My friend and I, staying in the only cheap hotel in Calais that accepts refugees (it’s French Muslim owned), invite Sami to come with us for hot food, a hot shower, and a warm room to himself, just for 12 hours respite from the camp. It’s a tiny gesture, yet all we can do.

But there’s a problem. The night before, two days after the Paris attacks, French riot police raided the hotel, smashing up half a dozen rooms, using rather more force than was necessary. They found no Daesh terrorists, because there are only refugees here, but now the hotel owner cannot accept guests, even for a shower, unless they have passports.

Sami does not. Like many who made the dangerous journey here, he is ‘sans papiers’ — stateless, IDless. Everyone — the owner, Sami, my friend and I — spend ages apologising to each other. Sami is stoic. It’s the thought that counts, he says kindly. Except it isn’t, when you are hungry, dirty, tired and cold. It’s the action.