Refugee crisis: One Syrian man explains why he tried deadly Eurotunnel crossing over 30 times

At least 13 refugees have died trying to cross from Calais to Dover via the Eurotunnel. But one Syrian refugee explains why he'll never give up, despite the dangers.

When Hamoudi Ali got to Calais, he couldn’t believe his eyes.

“My brother tell me, ‘you’re going to drive to Calais, in jungle, you do not see anybody – just [a few] people, about 100. Not more.’

But upon arrival, he encountered thousands. In confusion, Ali called his brother for an explanation, who didn’t believe Ali’s reports until he used his smartphone to send a video of the camp.

“I said to him, ‘Look! You see that? F***. There is a city. This is big city now.’ ”

Ali, 25, is one of approximately 6,000 refugees living at the migrant camp in Calais, France – also known as the jungle. He fled his native Syria due to the ongoing civil war, and specifically came here because his mother and brother had illegally immigrated to the UK three years ago via Calais. He figured he would do the same.

But, according to Ali, much has changed.

Today, refugees can worship at one of two churches, pray at a mosque, take English or French language classes at ‘school,’ or borrow books from the library. They can also dine at one of roughly a dozen restaurants, two of which have become so popular that they’re now searchable on Google Maps.

This is how Ali, and so many like him fill their days: mulling around makeshift cafes, sipping coffee and making small talk with fellow refugees who are now close friends. During daylight hours, they often rest, conserving their energy for the routine that begins at dusk.

“At night, you do not see me,” he explained. “I go to try.”

Like Ali, most refugees spend their nights “trying” – trying to illegally cross the border by jumping on to trains, sneaking into cargo trucks, walking or even swimming across the channel. Many people have a rough estimate of how many times they’ve tried – usually several times per week – but Ali knew the exact number.

“Last night was 33.”

Ali usually attempts to cross through the Eurotunnel, because if successful, this route offers the fastest journey to the UK.

“The train station – best chance you have,” he said with a smile. “Just 20 minutes to arrive to Dover. Twenty minutes! It’s amazing that your family – in just 20 minutes you can see them.”

Although the distance separating Ali and his family is so small, he never seems frustrated by the proximity – only in awe. It’s been more than three years since he’s seen his mother or brother, and he can’t speak about them without his eyes lighting up.

“Any day, I go. Just to see my mother. Just to see her… The day I see her, I see my world.”

Ali is from Afrin in northern Syria. When the government withdrew its troops from the region in 2012, it became a de facto district of Rojava, an autonomous Kurdish area that consists of three provinces. In July of that year, the Kurdish Democratic Union Party took control of the region, which prompted Ali’s family to flee. Although they are Kurdish, the area faced conflict and forced conscription confronted Ali and his two brothers.

“I do not want [to go to the] army. Because if you go, you have to kill. And I do not like this.”

And so they left.

At the time, Ali was studying law at university and his father owned a car repair shop. But as fighting intensified throughout the summer, his parents and brothers frantically sold any possession they could to accumulate sufficient funds to move to Turkey.

Eventually they reached Istanbul, where Ali began working in clothes shop. Shortly after arriving, however, his family decided that living conditions were too poor to consider settling down permanently. They had to move west, they concluded, for a chance to re-establish the life that they had left behind. But at the time, they only had enough money for his brother and mother to make the journey.

“Oh, I do not forget that day, when I go to [say] goodbye. So much crying. They hug me, kissing me more – because I am the smallest in family. The baby,” he added with a laugh.

Roughly three months ago, Ali managed to amass the cash necessary to make the journey himself. He has now been in Calais for over eight weeks, and he stays in a small red tent that is lined with blankets in the Syrian section of the camp. And although he hasn’t seen his mom for over three years, he speaks to her every day.

“Every two hours, she calls me. Every day,” he explained with an affectionate eye roll, as he recounted a typical conversation. “‘Where are you? Where do you go? What are you doing? I pray for you to arrive. I know what you are doing in jungle, I know that not good life, but you have to try. You have to see me, I have to see you.’”

“Ok mom, please. I know, I’m not good at leaving jungle,” he continued, adding a bit of humor to the situation as he explained how their chat usually ends. “But please do not cry. I’m coming! Any day I come.”

And it’s that same lightheartedness that somehow trickles into every conversation with Ali. Several days later, as he wandered into the camp’s Afghan restaurant for his morning coffee, he pointed to a stuffed animal that balanced on a shelf.

“See? We’re in jungle,” he said with a shrug and a laugh. “We need lion.”