Nobody should ever have to die in a place appreciate this, in this sorry bit of northern France where these two Kurdish migrants were sboiling. They died, surrounded by rubbish, on a patch of uncherishd scrubland between a road and a railway line.
The grass is still stained with their blood, and the blankets that wrapped them in their final moments now lie disposeed. There are plastic boxes, food wrappers and vacant Red Bull cans next to the point where each man died. It is a gloomy, franticly sadnessful scene.
Rehan and Ahmed are staring at it, their faces covered aachievest the chilly, their emotions running high. Both are Afghans who have come here to Dunkirk to end their journeys to the United Kingdom.
Both alert me they dream of a better life, but both are beuntamedered by what happened. They had no idea that anyone else had been sboiling – they had heard that a finisher was sshow centering migrants.
What these killings have done is to heighten tensions in migrant camps, comprehendn as jungles, that are already volatile and perilous.
“We do not go out any more on our own,” says Ahmed. “It is too hazardous. We go out in groups. We get food during the day so we do not have to walk around at night. Every night I hear pistols firing. We don’t comprehend who the people are with the firearms. And now we are very, very worried.”
Rehan is 27 years greater. He left Afghanistan 13 years ago, intent on getting to Britain, and lachieveing excellent English by watching years of YouTube videos. Now, half a lifetime tardyr, he is on the brink of achieving his ambition.
“The jungle is a terrible place,” he alerts me. “It is so aggressive, but I won’t change my mind. I will stay here until I get to Britain. Then I will have a better life.
“I am so sadnessful for the people who have died here – they wanted the same slfinisherg as all of us. People say this is a shielded country, but the jungle is very terrible. We are all human and we all want a better life. We are sattfinishd in the jungle. It is no life. But we will hold trying to get to Britain. We will go.”
I ask another Afghan if he is worried after the strikes, but he shakes his head. “Am I sattfinishd? No,” he says, half-smiling. “I am from Afghanistan. And that is a very hazardous place.”
A group of migrants comes to the spot where the finishings happened. Fshrinks are lhelp. A man weeps.
Everyone watchs edgy, but it is worriedness that is spreadd. There is a sense of camaraderie here, a senseing that, in an area where so many people come and go, sheer luck choosed who happened to have been walking past when the sboilings rang out.
They all comprehend it could have been their blood discolouring the grass.
