Sometimes I am bruised by the love I have for my children. Sometimes I curse it and resent it and push against it. It’s the kind of love that makes you feel vulnerable as hell. The kind that appears suddenly when you watch them sleep, thumping you in the chest. Your heart goes cold and the blood freezes in your veins. It’s a terrifying love, as painful as it is joyful. If I wasn’t saturated in this much love, life wouldn’t be so scary. If my children didn’t pepper my everyday with all these insane moments of such extraordinary and searing joy, life wouldn’t be so bloody terrifying. If I didn’t have so much happiness, I wouldn’t have so much to lose.
I saw a counsellor for a while, and she told me I was ‘sensitive.’ Sensitive people feel joy deeply. Which is fantastic. But the flip side is that they feel pain deeply. My sensitive heart means that I feel intense joy, and I feel acute pain.
When I first laid eyes on the photograph of Alan Kurdi, the little Syrian boy who drowned in the Mediterranean Sea in September last year, my heart shattered into a million pieces. My heart was broken because I know that I am not alone in having a sensitive heart. Because I know that other mothers love their children in exactly the same all consuming way that I love mine. Other mothers ache simply because their children exist. When you have a child, your heart beats on the outside of your body. I’ve never known vulnerability like it.
In the early hours of 2nd September 2015, having fled several Syrian cities which had been attacked by ISIL, Alan Kurdi’s mother paid traffickers the equivalent of $5,860, and put her two small sons into a small rubber boat. She swallowed her terror of the open sea, she faced the extreme danger they were all in, and she took the ultimate risk. Because she had no other options left open to her. There were sixteen people in the boat, which was designed for a maximum of eight. The life jackets provided were fakes, so they did not work. The family were trying to reach the Greek island of Kos, when the boat capsized. And the family drowned.
When I heard that Alan’s mother had not survived, I was shocked at my feelings, because they were feelings of relief. I was relieved that she didn’t have to suffer the agony of the loss of her family.
After that, my consciousness was continually littered with the image of Alan and his story. With the understanding that he and his brother could so easily have been my two boys. With the knowledge of how if they had been mine, my love for them would have destroyed me in this situation. Their suffering as they fled and as they died in that cold water, would have been too much for me to bear. I became haunted by the knowledge that although her suffering was finite, their mother spent her last moments in acute terror for her children. I could not even begin to imagine her distress. But I made myself try to imagine it. Because once you climb into someone else’s skin, someone else’s pain, and walk around in it, then you experience empathy and with empathy comes action. I knew that had to do something to help, where now, she could not.
I was completely overwhelmed. How could I, a busy working mum of three small children, do anything of any significance? Then I saw a post from a woman collecting blankets for the babies who had made the journey to Greece and were facing terrible cold and hunger. I know how to write a story, and I knew that if I started sharing these stories and needs online I could rally support. And when you have support you feel less alone, less overwhelmed and much, much stronger. I started a collection in Tooting and saw immediately just how badly people wanted to help. Within an few days I had a car full of warm, fleecy love, which I was able to take to be shipped to those small babies who needed them. It was embarrassingly easy.
Soon after that I read about family who were trying to get to Greece when their boat was hit by a storm. A young father suddenly had his tiny daughter ripped from his arms by a huge wave. He dove into the freezing water and frantically searched for her. He went down and up again, down and up, searching with more desperation that anyone I know could ever begin to fathom. But he could not find her and she was lost forever. She died in a cold and violent sea, one month before her second birthday. My own daughter was exactly the same age at the time. Stories like this SMASH your heart to pieces. They hurt to think about. This story would not leave me and it hurt me, physically, to think about. Physically. But I decided to sit in the pain. I made myself imagine searching for my baby in that water. I made myself think about it and I cried and I hurt and then I made myself do it again. And my sensitive heart was in agony and so I had no choice but to do more to help. And when I started doing things, the pain eased up a bit.
Mother Theresa said “We cannot do great things in this world. But we can do small things with great love.” And Margaret Mead said that we should “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.” And Glennon Doyle Melton, (who is my daily inspiration and if you don’t follow her on Instagram or read her books and blog you SHOULD), says “We can do hard things.” And we can. We already have.
Soon after that story broke I read about an American woman who started an appeal for baby slings and went to Greece with hundreds of them, strapping babies onto their mothers as soon as they came off the boats in order to make their journeys just a tiny bit easier. I wondered if I could do the same. But as the weather grew colder and more vicious we heard more and more about people suffering in Calais, so very, very close to home. Unlike the families in Greece, these were people that I could physically get to, really easily. Ideas started sparkling. At times I felt thoroughly defeated. It’s very overwhelming to stare at a problem of this scale and feel useless. It’s very easy to feel so helpless that you cannot see how your help will help. It can seem pointless to even try. But we must never think that because we can only do so little, that we shouldn’t bother to do even that. (If you think you’re too small to make a difference – spend a night in a tent with a mosquito.) I had to start somewhere. I knew from the blanket collection that I would have a ‘small group of thoughtful, committed citizens’ behind whatever I tried to do.
So I made a plea for help – cash for a Crowdfunder, and sleeping bags from an Amazon wish list for those who so desperately needed them. The response was MIND BLOWING. Within 48 hours, our kitchen was full of brand new sleeping bags. The Crowdfunder grew and grew and grew before our eyes and soon we had £2K. My children’s response thrilled me as much as anyone else’s. They may not eat broccoli or turn the telly off when I ask them to or get their wees into the toilet bowl, but they were, and are, deeply compassionate. And that’s all I really give a shit about. They wanted to learn all about the crisis and understand how they could help.
Soon it was time to go. The kids and their friends filled our car with the sleeping bags, and I cashed the Crowdfunder into Euros. Rupert and I kissed the children goodbye and drove to the Eurotunnel. We reported to the L’Auberge Warehouse, in a secret location in Calais, ready to do as we were told. We were put to work sorting clothes, and bagging up tinned food for the families to use to cook for themselves. One of our main jobs was to make up ‘grab packs’ so that families could grab them and run should they be evicted from the camp as was the (very real) threat back then. Soon it was time to go to the shops and spend all the money everyone had kindly donated. And that was when we met Tina.
In October last year, Tina took a week out of her studies on ‘Humanitarian Crises’, in order to come and help out in Calais. And when she got there, she found herself IN a humanitarian crisis. So she left her life here, and she stayed there. And she is still there. And every day she looks after thousands of refugees; delivering food, phones, clothes and HOPE. She took us and all our Euros to the big cash and carry, and on the way she told us that the French police hated the refugees and that the locals hate them too – the presence of such an enormous group of people is a huge concern to them, and so we were to respect their feelings however much we disagreed with them. We needed to be highly inconspicuous and to play down the fact that we were helping the people in the camp. So off came our muddy wellies and high vis jackets, on came our fake smiles. Once we had bought and paid for the food, casually joking with the staff and acting as if we were ordinary holiday makers who just happened to need enough food for hundreds of people for no particular reason at all, we drove it back to the warehouse. It was pounced on gratefully and immediately chopped and cooked and put into stews and curries and salads ready to be driven out into the camp, which is a few minutes drive away, a few hours later. The warehouse feeds thousands of refugees every single day. Hot, nourishing, delicious food. All volunteers are fed too, so we got to taste it all. I was blown away – it was sensational. You could feel the love in every bite.
After lunch, it was back to clothes sorting. We met some incredible people. One woman had just returned from a stint in Greece where she was collecting babies off the boats. Her stories of hurriedly dressing screaming and sodden and freezing babies, and finding dead children in the bottom of boats had me madly googling flights to Greece as I folded children’s clothes and wept. As we worked, people would fly in and ask me to pack a bag of clothes quickly – one for a seven month old boy whose father was missing, another for a newborn whose mother had died. I could hardly bear it as I scrambled together the warmest items I could find and packed up some formula and bottles. I couldn’t believe what was happening.
There is a common misunderstanding surrounding this situation. Many people assume that charities are on the ground, helping. But the fact is that no official aid organizations or charities are being allowed into the camp. This is because their involvement would mean the camp would gain official refugee status, which would mean the refugees would have rights to be there, which would mean that the authorities could not go in and tear them up whenever the want to do so. Which is exactly what they did, just two days after we left.
The absence of official aid organisations is bad – it means that the residents in the camp are only being kept alive by normal people whose hearts are breaking enough to want to do something. If we do not continue to give, they will not eat. But our presence, although by no means professional, is wildly powerful – it means that the people keeping these desperate people alive, care. The people who are helping are not being paid by Oxfam or Save the Children or anyone else, to be there. These people are there because they want to be there. Because they want to help. Our determined presence there offers much more than food and shelter. It offers hope – which is more vital to the human condition than anything else. With a little bit of hope in your pocket, you can survive most things. Our presence there says ‘our government may not care, but WE are not our government. We care, and we want to help.’ Every grass root organisation working on the ground, every single volunteer, is working as if there has been a natural disaster – because the scale of the situation really is as bad as if there had been.
The first time we went into the camp it was bitterly cold. We were taken in by Toby and his girlfriend Rachel, volunteers who were living there in tents, alongside the refugees. Toby was beside himself over the brand new sleeping bags we had with us and couldn’t wait to give them out to his cold friends. The camp is next to a motorway, on a landfill site, completely unfit to build anything on, with a large swamp in the middle. Because it floods easily and all the time, disease and infection are rife. Medical treatment is in short supply. The lives of these people depends entirely on the goodwill of people willing to help. Until recently there was no running water or toilets. Now there are a few, but the refugees have to make do with portaloos and should they want a shower they will have to queue for hours and hours, for just two minutes washing time. As well as serving hot food, the incredible volunteers respect their various cultures and everyone’s dignity by bagging up food packages containing essential items so that families can cook for themselves as they would do at home, rather than just receive handouts. But there is a huge problem with sourcing and storing cooking gas and so many people are spending hours searching for firewood to make fires to cook on. This causes fires to break out in the night which leads to more panic and chaos.
Toby took us into the camp and showed us the eviction notice that the French authorities had displayed in the camp as was their legal obligation. It was a piece of A4 paper, torn and sodden by the rain, stuck onto a post with some tape, and completely unreadable. The French police, wearing balaclavas and armed with guns searched our car and questioned us at the entrance. With no reason to detain us, they eventually let us into the camp. Toby explained that the police hated him with a passion for helping the refugees. (He has since been arrested for ‘standing in one spot for too long’, and is not allowed back onto French soil for three years.) We met some refugees who wanted to speak English with us. They were talking in groups about how they would be able to cope if they were attacked. They showed us their church, their little school, and their makeshift shelters. Two grubby little boys played at our feet with sticks in the dirt while we talked. My toes soon went numb with the cold. It seemed unthinkable that I had to leave these poor people in such horrendous conditions. And then things went from bad to worse. Just two days later, we were watching footage of the destruction of the South of the camp, live, in real time on social media, posted by those who were there, witnessing it happening. It was truly devastating. It wasn’t just the refugees the French were trying to send a message to with their bulldozers and their chainsaws – it was to all of us who were trying to help too. ‘Stop building shelters’ their actions said – ‘stop, because we will tear them down. Stop providing food and clothing – we will burn it all’. After all our efforts, this was hugely demoralising. But all I knew was that if they were going to destroy the thousands of pounds worth of practical support, there was only one thing to do – raise thousands of pounds more.
I started another Crowdfunder and when there was enough money in it I went out again – this time leaving the kids with Rupert, and taking some friends with me. As well as cash, we took with us more sleeping bags and lovely squashy sleeping mats, and this time colouring books and pens for the children as well. This time I took an individual care package to a refugee named Ali, whom my friend Alice had been looking after on her own trips out there. My friend Sarah and I sat in his tiny shelter, hiding away from the rain and drinking tea. Ali was in the jungle because ISIS had demanded that that he join them. They had threatened to kill him if he refused. His only other alternative was to flee. Since his wife had been killed in Syria ten months ago, he made the decision to leave their 18 month old son with his mother and make the journey alone. His plan was to make it to the UK, find accommodation and work, and then to send for his son once he was settled. We gave him a few treats, and a phone charger. His phone lit up and so did his face – now he would be able to speak with what remained of his family. It was devastating to watch him stroke pictures of his son and cry quietly as he talked about his wife.
The alternative accommodation that the French authorities were offering since the eviction, the ‘containers’ which the media presented as cosy and warm, were actually wholly unsuitable. If the refugees were to accept a bed in one, they were not permitted to stay with their families, as men and women were and are separated within them. Should any inhabitant decide to leave at any point, what little possessions they had would be thrown out and the space given to someone else. It was astounding to witness such extraordinary lack of compassion. The people in this camp are despised, and made to feel like animals. After all they have been through, I cannot even begin to imagine what this must feel like.
Calais is not somewhere you can turn up to, drop donations off, and say your cheerios. When you get involved, you become involved. The first two Crowdfunders raised nearly £4,500 in cash. By this time I had also gathered £5,000 worth of brand new donations. But having saturated my own network of friends and family and community I knew I had to throw the nets out wider in order to raise more. When I was teaching in school we always said that teachers themselves are the greatest resource of all. So I knew that by taking PEOPLE with me the next time, by filling my car with willing hearts and hands, the support we could offer would go a great deal further. And so that’s what I did. Wonderful, warm hearted people came forward and committed to coming with me. The youngest volunteer was twelve year old Callum, who after a day of working in the warehouse told his mother that they had to go back and help again. Once home again she told me that this experience has brought out something truly beautiful in her son. Just as it has in mine. We can all be part of the solution to this atrocity. Together, we can do hard things. We have raised £12,000 in just three months. Just through Crowdfunders and shameless begging. And this is only the beginning. Many, many wonderful people are helping, in many wonderful ways. Alice has been going out monthly, since August, and taking huge amounts of food and new clothes and toiletries with her each time. There are many warm hearts invested in this – but we need more.
On this last trip out we were met by Tina who simply fell into my arms and held me tight. She gave my team a tour and explained that the shelves were nearly empty, that thousands of people were depending on her to feed them, and that more were arriving every day. The pressure on these volunteers in unbelievable. Tina recently managed to strike a deal with a cash and carry outlet in Lille and now she can get large quantities of food for a reduced price. She was able to restock the kitchens with the money we turned up with. We unloaded the car with fresh cakes lovingly baked by the good people of Tooting and the reaction of the full time volunteers reduced me to tears. Again. They were SO excited and so happy and so touched. They are so tired and so weary and at times the hopelessness is so crushing, especially with zero governmental support, and so the love that arrived in those cake tins REALLY gave them a boost. After the passionate debrief from Hettie who is one of the young volunteers who works full time and tirelessly, we were put to work sorting clothes. This is a massive job – before you can fold everything into piles you have to weed out dirty, torn, and wildly inappropriate items. The warehouse has received wedding dresses, ball gowns, high heels, and all sorts. (One of my team found USED THONGS, an actual poo in a pair of trousers, and too many glittery outfits, suit and ties to count). People have sent ripped tents, torn and dirty sleeping bags, dvd players and other completely thoughtless and unhelpful items which costs time and money to dispose of. It has become apparent that people are trying to clear out their wardrobes and their consciences at the same time. But how would you feel if you were starving, cold and desperate, and all you were handed to sleep in was a crappy, ripped and stained sleeping bag from 1974 ? Nothing would spell out ‘charity case’ more clearly. The volunteers will only take new or very high quality items into the camp. The refugees already feel like animals – our job is to make them feel like welcome guests. The notion that if it’s for charity then it can be crap, has always riled me. (One of my favourite hashtags throughout this whole venture has been ‘onlythebest’.)
Certain sections of the media would have you believe that the camp is full of healthy, strapping, young men who have left perfectly reasonable lives in order to find even better ones here on the golden pavements and the green pastures of the UK. Others would have you believe that these people are a threat to our securities and our economy. But the reality is that NO-ONE would consider the camp a better alternative to anything. Yes there are a huge number of young men. But the majority of these men are men who have REFUSED to join enemies. Men who have REFUSED to make these enemies stronger. Many have wives and families whom they have left behind. And many have wives and children huddled inside the tents and shelters of the Women and Children’s Centre in the camp. The media photograph things in very misleading ways, always remember that. The media LIE to us. And what you also need to remember is that Calais is the last point, the dead end currently, of a very long and arduous journey. One volunteer found two twelve year old girls who had WALKED to Calais. From Afghanistan. Unimaginable, but true. The residents of the camp are the fittest and the strongest, simply the only ones who have survived the journey. Assume nothing. NO ONE would live in the squalor of Calais if they had a better alternative. Everyone has a story.
Tina asked me to go with her on her food distribution this time, and so we drove into the camp and again, it broke my heart. People were begging me for food – mostly onions! The shops were closed it being a Sunday, and the food from Lille wouldn’t arrive until the next day. After we had given out all we had, I ran back to my car and managed to find a local market where a pal and I bought every onion they had. You should have seen the looks on these people’s faces when we gave them out at the camp!! I met a helicopter pilot from Afghanistan called Aminullah. He was easily one of the most beautiful human beings I have ever laid eyes on. He was in the camp because Al queida ordered him to join their forces. He refused, and so they shot his father. He still refused and so they shot his brother. They told him they would continue to shoot members of his family, until he surrounded. So he ran away. Now he is in Calais and his family are on the run. He hasn’t seen his two tiny daughters in over a year. I also met a Sudanese man who left his town when rebels came and started killing everyone. His family was scattered and he has no way of communicating with them. He was half way through a degree at home, and wants to continue his studies in the UK so that he can have half a hope of finding a job that can pay for him to start the search for his family. The media would have you believe that these two, ‘healthy, fit’ young men, are trying to take us for a ride. But nothing could be further from the truth. Everyone of them has a story. Stories that need to be heard. Everyone I met smiled at me. Everyone I met hugged me. The people I met and drank tea with and talked to all had good English. They were all well educated, with hopes and dreams and with a great deal to offer. These people have not been born into poverty. They are not used to living in this way. They are shocked and traumatised and suffering beyond measure. As we left I met a woman and her tiny son. I handed over one of my boys’ toy lions that had hitched a lift with me without my knowledge, and was nestled in my pocket. The boy’s eyes lit up and his mother’s beautiful face broke into a wide smile. I didn’t insult anyone by crying, but saved all my tears up for when I was home again.
People try to escape every night. They’ve been trying for months on end. They climb under trucks and try to sneak into lorries. The French police are EVERYWHERE though, and when they find them, which they do, they toss them back into the camp. So people sleep, they eat whatever they can, and then they try again. And again. And again. Why do these people want to come to the UK? Because they speak our language. Why else? Because the third of those who have reluctantly accepted asylum in France have reported back to those in the camp. They say that it is so awful that they are considering coming back to the ‘jungle’. Why else? Because asylum in France takes 8-9 months whereas the wait in the UK is much shorter. And why else? Because 90% of those of us who are out there helping, are British. The friendly faces that hold their hands and serve them food and sit and drink tea with them, are British. The French spray their children in the face with tear gas and fire rubber bullets at them and shout at them as if they were dogs. Would you want to stay in a country that treated you like that?
In the camp currently are 40% Sudanese people, 40% Afghans, 20% of other ethnicities, all escaping different atrocities.We hear a lot about the devastating war that has destroyed Syria over the last five years. It has displaced more than 4 million people, which according to the UN Refugee Agency, is the biggest refugee population from a single conflict in a generation. But there are currently 14 other conflicts going on in the world, many in the Middle East and North Africa. While some politicians have said that economic migrants make up the majority of those arriving, in reality the majority are refugees fleeing extreme danger in Syria, Eritrea and Afghanistan. Neighboring countries such as Turkey and Lebanon have taken in Syrian refugees, but camps there remain overpopulated, forcing those people to continue on with their journey. Here in our little corner of Europe, we are facing only the tip of the iceberg. There are FAR more refugees worldwide. In fact, there are 59.5 million forcibly displaced people on our planet. That is one in every 122 people in our global population. And the countries taking in the majority of these refugees? Developing countries. Poor countries take in 86% of the world’s refugees. A figure that should make us, as the fifth richest nation in the world, hang our heads in shame.
Germany has called for a quota system to be implemented across the EU that would allow for a more even distribution of the number of refugees, with each country’s size and economic strength taken into consideration. They have said they expect to take in 800,000 refugees this year. However, Central and Eastern European states have opposed that proposal, and David Cameron rejected a plan for the UK to take in 10,000 more refugees. Cameron argued that countries needed to focus on finding solutions to the conflicts that have caused the crisis. But there are cold and hungry and desperate people who need our help NOW! My eldest, Will, wrote to the Prime Minister to ask him to at least accept the unaccompanied children, (78% of the children in Calais are alone), a request which much to our delight the PM seems to have acknowledged, although no numbers or time frames have been committed to. With traffickers pouncing on and raping vulnerable children in the camp each and every night, and 129 already missing, it is imperative that we take children in NOW. Foster parents are on standby ready to receive them. All we need is permission to allow them in.
What can you do to help? You do not have to go to Calais to be of use. You do not even need to give money if that is something you cannot do. But everyone can contact their MPs and councillors. Everyone can use their voice and their power and their freedom. And everyone should.
Did you know that 5.5 million Brits live abroad permanently? That’s one in ten of us. Did you know that Immigrants are 60% less likely to claim benefits than a British born person? Did you know that between 1995 and 2011, EU immigrants contributed £8.8 billion more than they gained? And did you know that most studies suggest that as long as the government protect low wage earners – immigration has no significant effect on overall employment or British unemployment? It’s all true. I checked. Yet despite all this, the UK processed fewer first time Asylum applications in January to March 2015 than six other EU countries.
On my first trip out I met and spoke with Rob Laurie – the guy who was in the press after he attempted to smuggle a four year old girl back home with him to where she had an uncle who lived just streets away from his own house. He had built up a friendship with the girl’s father who had been begging him for weeks to take her back to the UK. One freezing night, she climbed inside Rob’s coat, curled up on his lap, and fell asleep. Later he said he knew he shouldn’t have done it. But unable to bear her father’s tears anymore, he carried the little girl into his van and drove her out of the camp. Sniffer dogs pounced on them at the border and found her in the sleeping compartment of his van, all tucked up, and still fast asleep. She was sent her straight back into the camp and Rob faced a six month long trial and suffered enormously before being finally let off with a thousand Euro fine. Now he drops as many donations as he can gather from his trips around the UK, at the warehouse every week.
People are getting absolutely desperate. They are terrified and panicking and violence is escalating as it would in ANY group of people in this situation. But in their desperation to get out of the hell hole in which they are festering, more problems are springing up. People are drugging their children and stowing them away in vehicles in the hope that they will stay quiet throughout the journey should they be able to even make the trip. People are suffocating to death in their attempts to find freedom. Some do make it, but the vast majority do not. Ali, the refugee we met on our second trip, was one of the so-called ‘lucky’ ones. He managed to make it to Dover two weeks ago. After seven months of trying to escape, he eventually borrowed 2,500 Euros from his brother and paid people smugglers to help him find his way to a Spanish truck with a secret compartment and a driver who was prepared to turn a blind eye. They made it through, and with Alice’s help, sought asylum here once they arrived. The camp was physically awful, but it did offer them community and belonging. Now Ali and people like him face isolation and loneliness, as well as a huge struggle to integrate here.
This escape story highlights the insanity of the current system – by forcibly keeping people out, we have created an illegal industry of people smuggling. Genuine people like Ali who need really asylum, are resorting to paying illegal and dangerous smugglers. As a result, huge amounts of money is being pumped into illegal activity in the UK. So instead of pouring money into building higher fences, and more barbed wire and more sniffer dogs and a higher police presence, we must invest in improvements to our asylum system. If there is to be any hope of getting out of this, ALL authorities must start processing asylum claims safely, so that we can make sure that the people who are coming into our country are the people that really genuinely need to. Then we can give them resources we have available. But at the moment, our government are frightened and they are being governed by their fear. When Sadiq Kahn became Mayor he congratulated London on overcoming fear with hope, and choosing unity over division. This is what we must do as a nation, and we must do it now.
I am sensitive. In the best possible way. I wake up most days feeling really happy. Because I feel so unbelievably lucky to be alive. My precious little step-sister died when she was hit by a car. She was 7. My darling cousin James was killed on his motorbike when he 28. And my gorgeous mother died from cancer when she was 42. I know how someone can be here one minute and then gone the next. The reality of life is death. I could die tonight. Morbid, but true! We all think we have time. Maybe we do – but maybe we don’t. So I wake up every day thinking if this is going to be my last day – I want to have made it count. And although at times I feel guilty that I have this life, the gorgeous, happy, wonderful life that so many others would KILL for, I choose to feel gratitude over guilt. Because I have a duty to those people, to treasure my life. So I choose to feel grateful and I choose to have a good time, and I choose to do good things. I choose to make it count.
Remember – the life you lead is yours down to luck, and nothing else. It just so happens that you were born into a life of freedom and safety. But it could be us in this situation. It was us, 70 years ago. So we have to look after these people in the same way we would like to be looked after, if it were us. It is pure chance, that it is not.
“The greatest secret to success and happiness, is helping other people become successful and happy.” Deepak Chopra
If you are interested in helping us help those in Calais in any way, then please ask to join our ‘Calais Support and Fundraising Network’ on Facebook to find out more.
You can also donate to the fourth Crowdfunder here: