In a bustling governmental office, the name ‘Mohammed Ahmed’ echoes through the room. Four individuals, all asserting their youth, come forward in anticipation of receiving Asda food vouchers and their subsistence funds. A painstaking task ensues as staff members attempt to identify the rightful recipient of the aid, based on matching facial features with the ID on file. In the end, only one man leaves the window satisfied, the genuine Mr. Ahmed, while the rest reluctantly withdraw.
The year is 2003, and I’ve just begun my full-time career in a repurposed, deteriorating schoolhouse situated on Sycamore Road, Aston, merely a stone’s throw away from the famed Villa Park Stadium. Strikingly, the concerns we faced back then mirror those of today – the continuous, unmitigated influx of humans seeking refuge with limited resources to accommodate them.
The atmosphere inside is potent with the heavy scent of perspiration and damp clothing. A security personnel struggles to oversee the crowd of anxious men and to convalesce them into the spare seating available. The underlying stipulation for all present is their assertion of being under 18, the cornerstone of their asylum claim.
A common pastime among the staff was to speculate the ages of the claimants based on their ID cards. An innocuous question like, ‘what do you reckon, how old is this gent?’ would be followed by a startling revelation – the man in question claimed to be just fifteen, despite appearing much older.
This was a time when paper documents dominated, and digital systems were yet to take over. Irrespective of their literacy level, upon signing an ‘X’ on the form, claimants would walk away with entitlements. Thus, it wasn’t odd to issue payments to a multitude Mr X’s in a single day.
Some justifications for needy documentation were along the lines of ‘Vladimir escaped from Albania due to an imminent threat from enemy forces,’ or ‘Mustafa, an unattached Sudanese.’ It was typical for the file to remain scant as many recipients vanished without a trace before their story could be fully revealed.
Ironically, the more vague the asylum petitioner’s admission, the higher chance they had to be granted a stay by the Home Office. To attain my position on one side of the glass window, I was required to present extensive documentation, from personal ID to bank statements, and even criminal background checks. Meanwhile, on the other side, declaring oneself an underage asylum seeker seemed to suffice.
When a falsehood was brought to light, it wasn’t long before another would take its place. A Jamaican man claimed asylum stating homophobic endangerment in his home country due to his sexual orientation. In the end, his request for permanent UK residence was authorized.
The Home Office demonstrated a penchant for granting refuge to individuals who could showcase their awareness of war or torture from a foreign land. Nonetheless, this presented a fundamental ambiguity – those with firsthand war knowledge could be either the oppressed or the oppressors. Therefore, discerning who was escaping maltreatment or legal penalty was a complex matter.
My first visit to the infamous Calais migrant camp, often referred to as ‘The Jungle,’ occurred in 2015, followed by a repeat visit just a year later. The trickle of desperate faces I’d been used to seeing had become a deluge of humanity. Just a brief journey from King’s Cross Station, tucked beneath a motorway overpass, ‘The Jungle’ was a desolate, trash-filled enclave bustling with 4,000 inhabitants, predominantly young males.
The camp was a bizarre, desolate version of a music festival, featuring row after row of tents, dirt-filled tracks, and clusters of disheartened groups loitering amidst thickets. Residents gravitated towards their compatriots, forming ethnic hubs identifiable by national flags – the Sudanese engaging in a friendly game of soccer, surrounded by their Afghan and Pakistani counterparts, joined together by the universal love of cricket.
Flags fluttering above the camp signaled the presence of citizens from Nigeria, Cameroon, and Senegal, among others, raising questions about the conflicts they were allegedly fleeing. Hundreds of men lined up in minimal clothing for a chance to use the singular, overburdened cold tap at the site, or to claim a meal from the soup kitchen.
Many of these men, being the eldest in patriarchal family structures, shouldered the hopes of their families. Even if their success merely translates into sweeping factory floors in the UK, they are compelled to proclaim victory due to societal pressure. Frustration ensued often, leading them to form human chains blocking the highway to the Channel Tunnel.
An interesting observation was the reason many young men chose England – their fondness for UK football teams, particularly Chelsea or Manchester United. Massive murals of footballers like Wayne Rooney or Cesc Fabregas adorned the walls back home. Social media and prevalent mobile phones offer an alluring depiction of British life, often inducing unrealistic expectations.
The presence of women in ‘The Jungle’ was rare. On a visit, I encountered an Eritrean woman assisting her injured brother. Later that night, I spotted a heavily pregnant woman from Syria, struggling to sneak her way under a barricade in the hopes of finding passage on a truck – any truck that could transport her to the UK where her husband already resided, working.