RED

June 2026, Calais

We share here another illustrated reflection by Alex Holmes, longterm accompanier of refugees in Calais recently returned to the UK. All names have been changed.

‘June, the season of red. Scarlet poppies swathe the base of Calais’ security fence lines. Ripe cherries lie like blood drops on the detritus of the cleared camp. A red toy bin lorry baked into the bone dry earth. An empty bottle of ‘Miss Important’ perfume garlanded by poppy petals. Emblazoned in block capitals across the thigh of Jemal’s jeans, three words: ‘DON’T LOOK BACK’. The first two words are white; the third, a bold red. ‘The past has too many memories, too much pain,’ he says. ‘There is only one way to go, forwards.’ Forwards, for Jemal, is the UK.

Sunday evening, late. The embedded ritual of Sunday coffee. ‘I love flowers.’ Rahwa has covered the coffee table, an upturned box, with a tablecloth, a survival blanket that glows a brilliant gold in the low sunlight. Scarlet poppy blooms border the table edge. On the ground, a log of wood holds in place poppies, wild grasses and a single stem of marestail. The plaintive miaow of one of the camp cats triggers memories of English lessons in Eritrea: ‘The cat is on the table…the rat is under the table.’ Rahwa, grinning broadly, repeats her remembered English. She then apologises that the coffee is not proper Eritrean coffee, just the instant variety.

Another police clearance, the second in five days. Everything has been taken, tents, food, cooking pots, clothes. Hamid’s phone. More tents have been provided; the camp resurrected. ‘Stay to dinner, eat with us!’ Russom. On his finger a ring with the three-triangled Eritrean flag. ‘The green one is the land, the blue one is the sea.’ He then feigns a sword slice. ‘If I cut you, blood comes out, yes. Don’t worry I’m joking, I won’t cut you. That is the red part of the flag. We sacrificed much blood. For 30 years we were fighting for our independence. We are strong. One Eritrean is like ten people. Come, eat.’ ‘Ful’, a bean stew spiced with berbere, is simmering in a new red casserole pot on the fire. ‘Bruq madhi’, he says, ‘enjoy!’

Semere is dj. The much loved Yemane Barya, commonly thought to have been murdered by the Eritrean regime, sings of the battlefield: ‘Seyomay, my young brother, who shared his water bottle with me, who made me promise we wouldn’t separate, where are you now?… Eternal glory to our martyrs.’ Into the silence that follows, Rahwa appears. A request. Two women arrived in the camp earlier in the day. ‘Can you find somewhere for them to stay for two days? They have their periods and they can’t wash properly here.’

Yemane Barya is now singing about love. ‘Love can be hard, it can break your heart,’ says Yusef. The gentle German, Tigrinya and Arabic speaking Yusef who spent two years in an underground Eritrean prison. His offence, trying to escape his country. As a young boy, he was apprenticed to a goldsmith. On his phone he finds exquisite examples of earrings and necklaces of the sort he once made. There is a red hue to the gold. With the aid of google translate he explains that it is red gold, gold alloyed with copper. ‘My dream is to do this work again, make beautiful gold jewellery and have a jewellery shop. When I have made money, I will help poor people in Africa.’ He is silent for a while, a serious expression on his face. Then a smile. ‘I want to be a good person’, he says, ‘and be good to others.’’

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