SIGHTLINES

March 2026

We are pleased to share below the latest moving reflection and images from Alex Holmes, longterm volunteer in Calais. All names of individuals have been changed.

“SIGHTLINES”

‘Which way UK?’ asks Abel. ‘That way?’ He points inland, his gaze fixed on the line of trucks that power southwards heading deep into Europe. He’s standing near the ‘binto’, the bridge beneath which, some years ago, many Eritreans sheltered before the space was cleared and fenced off. The support columns of the bridge, previously scratched with a litany of Eritrean names and words, have been scrubbed clean. The authorities try continually to eradicate all memory of the exiled communities who have sought temporary refuge in Calais.

Not far from the bridge, alongside a narrow stream, the Watergang du Nord, the newly established Eritrean camp sits on a thick carpet of wood shavings. The bushes have been shredded; sightlines cleared. Across town, the campsite at Les Fontinettes has received the same treatment. An industrial sized macerator has chewed up the woodland undergrowth and spat out the shreddings. Around the foot of trees, the residue of the life once lived here has escaped destruction. A slow and partial decomposition has begun: a doll, her back branded with numbers, face to the ground, her hair coming away from her scalp; a yellow toy car nestling beside a lace-less trainer; a trio of plastic horses at their journey’s end. A wooden box contains a miniature diorama, a teddy on a cushion, his hat in his hand and, above him, on a tiny coat hanger, his decaying two-buttoned jumper. There are toothbrushes and razors, tubes of skin cream, piles of sodden clothes, the weathered photo of a young man.

Back in the Eritrean camp, a small fire smoulders in the heart of the ‘palace’, a structure of wooden pallets, blankets and mattresses, roofed over with a tarpaulin and tethered to the metal fence. The ‘palace’ must be deconstructed every second day and hidden away to prevent its destruction by the police. An intense game of cards in underway. Negus watches on, looking up from time to time to continue his story, of how he left home aged twelve, eventually reaching Libya where he spent five years in a smugglers’ detention centre. He rolls up his trouser leg to reveal multiple blotches of scar tissue where he was tortured. ‘They called me bambino; bambino do this, bambino do that. They had no respect. Nobody cared for me. But here with other Eritreans I am treated with kindness. We understand each other’. A small cross is faintly tattooed on his wrist. ‘My friend did it but it was too sore so I said stop.’ What keeps you strong? ‘When I can love myself, then I am strong. One day I’ll be a truck driver and play the saxophone.’ Sightlines dreamed.

Five cats from across the Watergang du Nord wait expectantly for food. A small bridge has been constructed to enable them to cross the waterway to the camp. The sun is shining, and the tarpaulin roof of the ‘palace’ has been peeled back. In the blue sky above, aeroplane vapour trails mirror the metal strings on the kraar, a traditional Eritrean instrument, that’s leaning against the pallet wall. Today, the ‘palace’ is a hub of activity. Over the fire, onions simmer in the large aluminium pan. Diced sheep meat is added, then berbere spice, and still later, tomatoes. Medhane, chef of the day, stirs the pot. On an upturned box, the injera prepared by an Eritrean friend in town. Today is Orthodox Easter. Fasika.

Fasika, a day of joyful celebration for both the Christians and the Muslims in the camp. For Christians, the great sightline of hope. Preparations now over, the food is ready to be served. Each shared platter is a feast of injera, spicy zigni, rice, eggs and salad; each an artwork on display against the backdrop of a forked blossom tree on a sunlit blanket of gold. Photographs are taken. The air thrums with the infectious beat of habesha music. Then silence; a prayer is said over the feast. And into that still moment breaks the unequivocal two-tone call of a male cuckoo. It repeats again and again, coming ever closer. And suddenly there he is, the great migrant bird from Africa, flying directly overhead. A flight line of hope. A sightline of hope.