A name echoes through the lobby: ‘Mohammed Ahmed!’ A quartet of individuals, all asserting to be minors, rush to the reception where food vouchers for Asda and a cash allowance await. Distinguishing the genuine Mr. Ahmed from the rest – via comparison with the picture on the ID card at the front desk – becomes a necessity. This takes place despite English authorities making no efforts to curb the enticing benefits of seeking asylum. Rewind to 2003, my initial full-time post had me stationed in a repurposed, dilapidated educational building on Aston’s Sycamore Road, a short distance from Villa Park stadium. The scenario hasn’t altered much since – an incessant influx of refugees with insufficient resources to accommodate them.
The atmosphere in the room is heavy with the scent of perspiration and moist clothing, while a security officer attempts to manage the restless crowd into the limited seating. The clientele all claim to be underage, providing a unique guessing game for staff attempting to figure out their ages based on identification documents. Someone might question, ‘Guess his age?’ Answers may range wildly, often far removed from the reality – 15 instead of a more plausible 32. In this pre-digital era dominated by hard copies and low literacy rate, new arrivals could merely mark an ‘X’ on the form and walk away with the benefits.
In this process, you might encounter numerous iterations of a mysterious Mr X, drawn links to varied contexts. ‘Vladimir lacks paperwork due to evading enemy troops in Albania,’ or ‘Mustafa, an orphan hailing from Sudan.’ These file folders often remained scanty with numerous individuals never to be seen again. Intriguingly, the fewer details an asylum applicant provided, the better their chances with the Home Office, tipping the scales in their favor.
During my recruitment, I was obligated to provide identification, banking details, and clear a verification process. Astonishingly, to obtain monetary aid on the flip side of the counter, it sufficed to claim asylum as an underage individual. It felt like an inverted reality where uncovered deceits only paved the way for new ones. One individual from Jamaica acquired permanent UK residency by claiming he feared homophobic assault in his homeland owing to his sexual orientation.
Decisions from the Home Office seemed to pivot around the applicant’s familiarity with destructive events in their homeland. However, exposure to warfare or torture could be acquired on either side – the persecuted or the persecutor. Drawing that distinction was often a challenge. A person could be absconding due to charges of causing an accident back home. In 2015, I set foot in the migrant camp in Calais for the first time, returning a year after, only to witness a significant increase in desperate entrants.
Hidden beneath a freeway flyover and merely a couple of hours from King’s Cross station, ‘The Jungle’ was a grim sight teeming with about 4,000 individuals, predominantly young males. It was a bleak mimic of Glastonbury, marked by mud and tents and hapless crowds nestled within thorn bushes. Nationalities were demarcated by flags, signaling the presence of disbanded communities – Sudanese youths engaged in a friendly ball game adjacent to Afghani and Pakistani factions, bonding over cricket.
Along with recognized conflict zones, there were also representations from Kuwait, Nigeria, Cameroon, and Senegal. But, what was the nature of the conflict they were fleeing? Hundreds willed to get their turn at either the camp’s solitary, overburdened cold tap or a soup kitchen for their sole meal. Numerous individuals were presumably firstborns from patriarchal societies, sent ahead by their families and compelled to portray their journey as triumphant, even if it involved mundane tasks like cleaning an industrial floor.
Irritated by the barriers, they would form a human chain across the highway leading to the Channel Tunnel. Amid a chorus of car horns, they chanted, ‘We are human! We are not animals!’ Homemade signs displayed taunts like, ‘Britain, did your mother not teach you to share?’ I cannot tally how many chose England based on the Football Clubs they admired, like Chelsea or Manchester United or murals of familiar sports personalities like Wayne Rooney or Cesc Fabregas back home.
Furthermore, the influence of social media can’t be overlooked. The farthest corners of the globe now bask in the connectivity offered by mobile phones and various apps, offering an enticing peek into the British way of life through a rosy lens. Twice, an Afghan migrant amusingly admitted his desire for ‘an English girlfriend.’ Prying further often led to humorous, incredulous reactions. Their understanding of British women may derive from pop idols or influencers, or perhaps harboring deeper motives.
Among the inhabitants of ‘The Jungle,’ I encountered two women. One Eritrean woman assisted her incapacitated brother who had suffered an injury while attempting to scale a fence. Late at night, an eight-month pregnant Syrian woman, despite her condition, was determined to trespass a barrier to hitch a ride on any available truck. Her ultimate goal was to reunite with her husband, gainfully employed in the UK.
Since 2018, the English Channel has witnessed migrations of over 170,000 males on tiny boats. Approximately 95 per cent of them register for asylum. The prospect for the decade beginning in 2019 is an expenditure of £15.3 billion sanctioned for asylum seekers, thrice the estimation released by the Conservative government in 2019. Legal procedures to finalise these cases are anticipated to drain over £40 million annually. The cases often rest on inadequate documentation and vague affirmations.
Two decades have elapsed, yet the United Kingdom appears stagnant in its approach to this issue. Upon arrival, migrants face no scrutiny for undocumented casual employment; rarely is additional paperwork requested; even identified deceivers or violators are not ousted.