Journal of a Volunteer – Baroch Camp, Grande-Synthe

(December 2015 – March 2016)

Field Testimony – Raw, Unfictionalized Version

Author: Fred aka AIXIO

I – The Call

December 2014.

I receive a message from Artists in Action, an organization looking for volunteers to help in a refugee camp.

I had already taken part in clothing and food drives.

I go with the idea of staying two or three weeks.

I didn’t know yet I would end up staying more than two years.

II – First Contact

We arrive at a warehouse.

Young people are busy preparing food bags.

I sleep the first night in a caravan.

The next morning, I jump on a food distribution truck.

I want to be in direct contact with people, not stay inside the warehouse.

Destination: Baroch Camp.

III – Entering Hell

After 20 minutes, we arrive.

Several vehicles are waiting.

The police are checking the trucks.

We present ourselves as an NGO, but we're missing a paper.

A friend walks into the camp and comes back with a borrowed pass.

They finally let us in.

That day was my first day in hell.

IV – Mud, Cold, Hunger

Each step sinks into the mud.

It’s near freezing. Rain is falling.

As soon as we stop, people rush to the truck.

Men are almost fighting to grab the food bags.

We distribute the best we can.

I barely have time to look up.

But when I do, what I see freezes my blood:

Women. Teenagers. Toddlers.Standing aside.In the mud. In the cold. In the rain.

I swallow my tears.

Even today, just thinking about it blurs my eyes with tears.

V – Law of the Strongest

After the distribution, I walk deeper into the camp.

It’s massive.

Some NGOs and citizens are trying to build a community kitchen.

But the rest... it’s an open-air nightmare.

Torn tents. Ragged tarps.Some people have a lot. Others, nothing.I realize that the same people are taking everything from the distribution trucks.They hang out by the entrance, near the unloading point.A kind of mafia has formed.They take it all — and resell it to others.This is the law of the strongest, a survival economy.

VI – My Days

My days blur together — loading, unloading, distributing.

I become a cog in the machine of chaos.

VII – The Forgotten

The deeper I go into the camp, the more isolated people I meet.

Faces far from the entrance, far from the central mud.

Where the trucks never go.

A man comes toward me.He asks for eggs for his children.I have nothing.

But I say: “Show me your tent. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

He shows me.

He tells me he can’t approach the distributions,

He’s pushed away by male groups.

There are tensions.

Different ethnicities.

Fear among the misery.

VIII – The Tricked Bag

Back at the warehouse, I grab a big backpack.

I load it with food bags.

Instinctively, I think people will jump me.

So I cover the food with diapers and sanitary pads.

As soon as I arrive at the camp, a group of men comes up to me.They ask what I’m carrying.I set the bag on my foot, unzip it, and show them the diapers.They walk away.Not interested.From that moment on, my work shifts:I start looking for the most deprived,those who have access to nothing,those who are excluded.

IX – Clandestine Operations

At the warehouse, we plan a cover-up.

We hide tarps and tents under 400–500 food bags.

Two trucks: one goes first to distract, the second blocks the road.

Police want traffic to flow, so they wave us through.

Mission accomplished.

We repeat the process at night,

through the forest, running,

dodging police controls,

smuggling in supplies.

X – Living in Hell

I pitch a tent inside the camp.

It becomes a stock point.

I distribute tools.

We build makeshift shelters.

I end up living on-site.

I run a temporary shelter for new families,

and a first-aid point.

[I’m trained in team first aid.]

We treat small injuries —

but also combat wounds, cuts, accidents.

XI – Toilets, Language, Action

The Red Cross and Doctors of the World arrive.

They install chemical toilets.

Quickly, they’re clogged.People toss plastic bottles inside.They don’t know — after washing,they treat the toilet like a trash bin.

I ask Doctors of the World for a sign.

They reply:

“We need approval from Paris. At least a week.”Too long.

I walk into the camp.

I ask refugees for help translating.

An hour later,

the sign is ready. Translated. Installed.

The solution was already there. On-site.

XII – The Bus

One night, I head to the bus station.

Two refugees approach.

They ask how to get to Calais.

I show them on the map.

Then the police arrive.

They surround us.

They want to arrest us.

I’m frozen.I explain I’m French, a volunteer, a medic.

The bus arrives.

They push me inside.

They keep the two refugees.

I left them.I still feel guilty.

XIII – False Solutions

Days go by.

Doctors of the World start setting up a second camp, parallel to Baroch.

They call it a "shelter" camp.

One gate. One entrance. Police control.

Officially, they want to catch smugglers,but in practice, it’s a locked-down zone.They take control.Citizen volunteers are excluded.They demand everyone be part of a structured organization.After a year in the mud, I know the terrain.I join an NGO.They accept me.

XIV – The Volunteer Masquerade

They put out calls for volunteers.

But most only stay a few days.

Every evening, the same debriefing:

Same smiles. Same thanks.

No time for questions.

No space to speak.

And me — I always ask the uncomfortable questions.

XV – Tea, Cooking, and Nights Under Tension

We set up a tea and coffee tent.

A German group starts a food kitchen.

I join them.

They have a big tent on the camp.

I sleep with them.

I help cook.

We stay at night to keep watch.

Fights break out between groups.I put my hood up, wrap my keffiyeh.I go help the wounded.Knife wounds.No deaths. But deep cuts.Tensions explode.

XVI – Dismantling and Legal Traps

Baroch Camp is dismantled.

Refugees are pushed into La Linière camp.

There, they’re pressured to sign papers to stay in France —

when all of them dreamof England.

Always England.

When the police arrest a group, the country of arrest becomes responsible for them.It’s a legal trap.Many are deported by plane.Quietly.Silently.Without appeal.

XVII – January 23, 2016: The Attempt

That day, a protest spirals out of control.

At Calais port.

A crowd movement.

Refugees march.Then run.They breach barriers.Fences fall.I’m with a friend.We follow — in case someone gets hurt.Hood on, keffiyeh tight.We get kettled. Gassed.Cornered in a dead end.Refugees break a fence low to the ground.They push under it, trampling each other.I push the fence with my foot.My friend does the same.I crawl under.From the other side, I lift it,to let as many through as I can.Cops are coming.We drop the fence back on them.And run.As far, as fast as we can.

XVIII – On the Ferry

We reach a ferry.

Refugees climb aboard.

We climb too.

The captain sprays us with cold water.I contact independent media.We’re on deck.People chant:

"England! England!"

But the boat will never leave.The police surround it.We throw our identifiable clothes into the sea.I had a neon yellow jacket.Now only a black hoodie.I drop the keffiyeh too.

XIX – Arrest

The police move in.

Some refugees try to jump off the ferry.

Ten-meter fall. Ice-cold water.We hold them back.Keep them from jumping.Cops reach a door.We go down to talk.We explain:"Go slowly.Some want to jump.We can help translate."We’re about to leave.Then I hear:

"Get them!"

I turn around.I hold out my hands.They cuff me behind my back.They take us away.

XX – Police Custody

We’re taken into custody.

Held with other Europeans.

The cell is filthy.

Blankets too.

A cop asks if anyone wants to see a doctor.No one answers.Except me.I say yes.They stare at me strangely.Then leave.But I know what I’m doing.

XXI – Scabies as Weapon

I know there are scabies cases in the camp.

So I fake it.

I scratch myself raw — between my fingers, down my calves.

Real wounds.

Real blood.

Around midnight, they come.They take me, handcuffed, to the hospital.

XXII – Fear Switches Sides

In the car, they ask:

"Why do you want a doctor?"

(implying: police brutality complaint?)

I calmly reply:"I think I caught scabies in the camp."

Silence.Cold.Heavy.I see fear in their eyes.Fear switches sides.They edge away from me in the vehicle.They talk less.I’ve become a contagious body.

XXIII – Isolation

Waiting room.

Doctor checks my wounds.

Turns to the police.

He says:

"Yes, looks like scabies.You’ll need to clean everything he touched."

Result:

– Two police vehicles disinfected

– Custody cell cleaned

– Clean blankets ,And me — I’m placed in isolationfor the next twenty hours.

XXIV – Prison

After custody, we’re moved to prison.

Guards insult us.

We’re kept in separate cells.

I turn on the TV.

And there I see:

We’re labeled as NoBorder activists.Framed as agitators. Organizers.A threat.

XXV – Immediate Trial

The next day:

Immediate trial.

We’re accused of organizing the port action.

Of leading it.

Just because we were there.

A public defender is assigned.He finds a loophole.The police have no evidence.No proof.No flagrante delicto.The trial is postponed to February.

XXVI – Banned

While waiting, I am:

– Banned from Nord-Pas-de-Calais

– Banned from three northern departments

– Forbidden from leaving French territory

I go home for a week.But I feel lost.Can’t find my footing.I return to the camps.Until the trial.

XXVII – Under the Radar

I hide.

Avoid police.

Even getting into the camp,

I use secret paths.

My French NGO turns against me.I feel the cold shoulder.I stick with the German kitchen crew.Avoid my old coordinator. keep away from the power games.

XXVIII – Political Trial

The day of our trial,

another one is held in parallel —

A known far-right figure,accused of racial hate speech.The courtroom is tense.We’re acquitted.No proof.No flagrante delicto.To me, this was a political trial.An attempt to mark us, weaken us, surveil us.They couldn’t convict us.So they tried to taint us.But they couldn’t break us.

XXIX – Alone, at Night

After the verdict,

we’re brought back to prison.

Then released.

No escort.No money.Just me.Alone.In the middle of the night.

XXX – Leaving

At some point, I want to go home.

That’s the word: want.

I’m torn. Exhausted.I need to rest. Or collapse.My German friends are expelled from the camp a month later.The next month,a fire destroys everything.La Linière burns down.That world we tried to hold together —collapsed.

XXXI – The Road Again

I contact my friends.

We’re not done.

Not yet.

We leave again.This time: Italy–France border.Vintimille.New camp.

New hell.