The former Jungle camp outside Calais. Futuro Berg/Instagram. Used with permission, all rights reserved.
A scrap of wasteland on the edge of a forest. The grass is sparse; litter is strewn among the mud and puddles. An electricity pylon punctures the low grey cloud. Hundreds of men in hoods and hats gather around the stark metal structure, huddling for warmth. The layers of shirts, jumpers, coats, and scarves do little to keep out the cold. The wind is sharp, biting. Today they are in luck. Today there is no rain. Their damp socks and broken shoes will have a chance to dry out.
They line up, eyes heavy with fatigue, patiently waiting for a bowl of rice and beans that will silence their stomachs for a few hours. They have come from distant towns and cities, and speak many languages. They have no worldly possessions but the clothes on their backs. They will eat, then head back to the forest to sleep, often beneath the bare sky. They will have only a few brief hours before they are awoken by riot police armed with batons and tear gas and ordered to disperse.
