How the desire of 2 newlyweds to help UK migrants mushroomed into a convoy

The World
Syed Bokari talks to migrants at the 'Jungle' camp in Calais, France

It’s a wet Friday afternoon in suburban west London, and newlyweds Mona Dohle and Syed Bokhari are packing to set off on their honeymoon in a few hours. But there is something a little unusual about their holiday plans.

Stacked high in the hallway are 400 cans of kidney beans, another 400  of tuna, 7,500 tea bags and 265 pound of sugar. Upstairs, there are enough sanitary towels for 400 women.

This trip will not be a conventional romantic getaway.

Weeks ago, Mona and Syed started an online campaign to raise money for the thousands of migrants now living in a makeshift camp known as the 'Jungle' near the French port of Calais. Most of the people are sleeping outside, in terrible conditions, hoping for a chance to cross the channel tunnel into Britain. And for weeks, British TV has been filled with footage of migrants climbing the fences around the tunnel and slipping into trucks heading to southern England. There have been calls for police crackdowns, higher fences and tougher border security. Prime Minister David Cameron famously described the migrants in the camp as a "swarm."

Originally, the couple’s plan was to drive to France in their car and deliver a small amount of food and clothes to the camp.  But the donations kept coming. Now the project has blossomed into a convoy of seven cars and 14 volunteers.

Sitting on a pile of sugar bags in Syed’s mother’s bedroom, Mona tells me that it is a sign of how some British people are tired of hearing anti-immigrant messages on TV and in the news. “The more publicity there was in the media against the immigrants, the more movement there was to organize aid convoys,” she says. “This isn’t just a charity appeal — this is a response to a political crisis."

Mona is German, and she says she feels the privilege that her European passport grants her every time she travels back.

In the house there’s an air of good-natured crisis; Syed tells me that organizing things doesn’t really come naturally to any of them. And some of the donations they’ve received have been well meant, but a little off. For example: a bunch of DVDs that were donated.  Syed explains that there is no electricity in the camp. Or the holistic alarm clock that wakes you up by simulating sunlight. Lack of sunlight is not a big problem for people sleeping outside. Syed walks past me carrying a small green cardboard box, with the words "Transgender Aid Package" written carefully. He explains that it was a very heartfelt donation from a British activist, but no one is sure whether there are in fact any transgendered people in the camp. Perhaps it could be given to a woman who was designated female at birth instead? No one knows, and the package is put in one of the cars as well.           

We set off. Syed is worried about his car’s suspension under all the extra weight. Mona asks him not to take any sudden right-hand turns in case one of the sugar bags on the seat next to her hits her in the head: “Don’t kill your wife!”

She also says she assumes the police are watching the convoy. Recently a local police officer viewed her LinkedIn profile for the first time. He probably was not aware that the site lets you know who has viewed you at any given time. “I thought of endorsing his LinkedIn profile for ‘Investigation Skills,’” she tells me, “but that might not be the best plan.”

As we near the English south coast, Syed gets talking about why the situation in Calais hits home for him in particular. When and his family first arrived in England, they were asylum seekers themselves, fleeing from persecution in Pakistan. He arrived with his parents when he was 6, and was eventually granted British citizenship:  “We came over in the early 90s — I remember the whole process. At the time the language used was "bogus asylum seekers" — and I grew up with that. So it is personal for me in that sense.” He pauses. “And now, those people coming from Syria have escaped a far greater tragedy. I kind of feel I need to do something myself.”

We take the late-night ferry to France, and wake up the next day to a damp morning in Calais. All the volunteers in the convoy gather in an old church hall being used by a French charity to store donations. French aid workers have warned us not to turn up at the gates of the camp unannounced and start giving out food: when other groups have done that, it has been an invitation to chaos, with the strongest taking all the goods. So first everything needs to be painstakingly divided up into parcels.

Syed organizes a production line, and people make "Breaking Bad" jokes as the volunteers start pouring sugar into plastic baggies. Outside the church hall, a few migrants from Sudan and Iran have gathered to ask for clothes. The French charity is officially closed today, but the group gives them shoes, trousers and bottles of milk.

There is nervous laughter as the convoy sets off towards the outskirts of Calais and the entry point to the camp. As we approach, we can see that French volunteers are already distributing food, and a line about 100 long stretches deep into the camp. Syed tells Mona that these people have already passed the first test of Britishness, a willingness to line up in an orderly fashion.

As Syed talks to a man from Pakistan in Urdu, I stand on the top of a small hill watching the volunteers pass out the bags.

Tired faces from all over the world stand patiently waiting for the same packets of dates, sugar and tea that yesterday were sitting in a front hall in London. After the last bag is gone Mona hugs Syed. Syed tells me it was all worth it. “You can see people smiling. We need more of this. We’re coming back.”

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