These Days

We stand in the field in our uniforms, our identities wrapped up under our labels. Volunteers in our grubby jeans and colourful jackets and muddy Docs, van keys dangling from our necks, phones in steady hands filming. Filming the CRS and police in their riot gear, balding heads and covered identity badges, truncheons in hand,…

Il est mort. Il est mort.

The wind whistles around the caravan, shaking it on its mouldy foundations and crumbling panels. And the rain smacks off the roof, like boulders crashing down a mountain. But it’s fine, I think, as I curl up under 2 warm duvets, a hot water bottle in one arm, the gentle snores of my roommate just…

Calaismas: Bleak Midwinter

It’s Boxing Day and I’m stood with 8 teenagers barely older than 15 from Eritrea and Afghanistan staring at sixteen CRS officers as they take away sleeping bags and tents once again and one of the kids is mumbling “racists racists racists” under his breath and another reaches into his pocket and pulls out a…