Isaac looked at his sandals and surprised him with great sure how much he would be suitable for ahead: a dangerous crossing of the English channel, where desperate people are trying to reach the UK before score.
Tanzania’s 35 -year -old man never expected, or wanted, being here, was handing over by hand at a temporary Woodland camp in northern France, with dozens of other migrants. They also ran away from the struggle, oppression, poverty and other sorrows for hope, although uncertain, that life should be better somewhere, somewhere, somewhere, somewhere, anywhere, certainly better.
Isaac said, “If I had an alternative, I would not have been sitting here.” “I didn’t know what expected. I did not even bring a jacket or sweater.”
Everyone wants to live independently as a gay person. The aspiration is rejected in Tanzania, where homosexuality is forbidden and criminal. A cruel beating by a group of men who left their shoulders with permanent pain assured them that their East African homeland, where they worked to keep themselves through school, would never be accepted.
So he left. Three years later, Isaac now finds himself sitting on dirt and pine needles, chewing a boiled-egg baget sandwich that was provided by men that he paid for a place on a flarened inflatable boat. When it runs, will the French police stop it from setting it from a nearby beach, whether Isaac and other men, women and children waiting with him will reach the UK or try to die – all are all unknown.
But Isaac is out of all options. His petition for shelter in Germany, where he had fled from Tanzania, was rejected, his first experience of LGBTQ+ Freedom.
Facing exile, Isaac feels best and can hit the road again, hopefully refugee officers in the UK may be more intelligent.
His wish: “A better place where I can actually accept.”
The fact that people who migrate to other people along the northern coast of Isaac and France are not almost as a rule, want to be identified by their full names or, in many cases, to be photographed, to be photographed, in itself, there is a story. Their beliefs, such as their health, their shoes, their belongings and whatever money they have, often get away from tyrannical migration travel and cruelty on the way.
Speaking in different languages, followers of different religions and each are pushed on the road with their own unique reasons and hopes, Afghan, Iranians, Iranians, Iranians, Kurds, Somalis, Irritance, Palestines, Palestines, Kenaiyas and others who create a kind of joint nation in camps along the coast, which are shared by human beings.
If they were born in an English city or an American city, in a Japanese hospital or in a Brazilian farm, then it is a fair condition that they will not be here, a camp surrounding the fire, sleeping around the fire, furious about their children with cough and dirty diapers, and to cross a sea that hunt with the most weak people who are hunt with the most weak people, who are hunt with the most weak people, Are.
And yet, here they are – essentially nowhere – the sick smoke of plastic burning on fire, as thirsty and cold, gives way to chilli nights.
The men left for more firewood. A woman breastfeeds. A bored child landed in the forest. Some people cut, pest bites and other wounds were raised by him and his loved ones. A man wrapped a bandage around his head. Psychological injuries appear less. Some people in a group of about 40 people keep themselves, barely speak or connect with others.
At night camp fire sparks with sparks, one of the lost people around it played a song from his phone. Charles Aznavore’s voice, chroning in French, rising above the flames of flames. The songs of his hit “Emenez-Moyi” (“Tech Me Ame”) looked real, looking at the audience.
“Take me to the end of the Earth, take me to the land of miracles, it will be less painful in the sun,” Aznavaur sang.
Told about the detection of the song, one of the men said: “It’s about us!”
One Palestinian, Qasim, is only 26, but the forest has been accumulated in four days, his chin-stble, and his wife, worrying in his eyes for his wife, made him bigger over the years. He said that he was very keen to eat as the police had detained Anouer during a storm on the previous day. The group sought a shelter in an abandoned house. The police asked them to leave. Tempers erupted. Officials used tear gas. Annouer was taken.
Some people in the group said that things became hot as they were generally disappointed that the police had thwarted their previous attempts to take them to the sea, making their inflatable boats punctured with a knife.
Qassim said Anouar was killed in hand by gas canister. Whatever was said in front of his hoodi was stained with him. He strictly wanted him to be released from custody before the next crossing effort, so he could leave as a family with his daughters – Jori, 6, and Kadi, 4.
While he was waiting for the news, what Qasim said was only a brief version of a life that looked too long due to the fingers that filled it.
When she was a teenager, an Israeli bombing at her family house in Gaza killed her parents and woke up from a coma in an Egyptian hospital a month later. Her facial hair has grown with white flakes since then; With shock, he gives figures.
He moved to Yemen, where he and Anouer met and married, but then he left the struggle for Europe, and with his daughters. He said that the journey was cruel, which included months of interns in Turkey, which shared only one toilet and lived on a piece of bread per day, he said.
“This is my life,” he said. “My life is very difficult.”
Anouer was released after about 24 hours. The group welcomed him to the camp with applause.
The next morning, they left. The wait was over. His boat slipped from French police patrolling.
After reaching Britain, one of those people wrote that they almost died.
“It was really bad,” read the message. “really hard.”
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Associated press journalist Nicholas Gariga contributed to this report.
