Like most other European countries, Denmark refuses many migrants in this asylum. Now especially the Afghans.
Suddenly, refugees begin to seek new places all over Europe. Many stop in Paris, where thousands of people live in thin camping tents under bridges, on the streets and on the grids of thermal wells.
Someone dies from such life.
Three men in clean shoes and with suitcases on wheels gently walk along the dusty path along the branch of the motorway towards Port de la Chapelle, an inhospitable and neglected district in the northeast of Paris.
At the end of the path, wedged between two ways, several tents are broken. At first glance it looks like one of the unauthorized camps, which are many in this part of the metropolis. But people between tents are moving very strange and chaotic. They resemble a zombie.
The men hurry back. A very quick step. Their faces are confused, because it turned out that they came to the camp of drug dealers and drug addicts. Standing on the edge of a smelly, dirty camp guy shoots his ankle.
“We just arrived by bus, and we need to find where to live,” says the youngest of their three men. He speaks Danish, although he himself is from Afghanistan. – I lived in Aalborg for three years. I was refused, and now I would like to live in the center.
But here, in Paris, there are no such centers.
– People are sleeping on the streets. Under the bridges.
– Hehe …
It looks like he thinks we’re making fun of him.
His name is Asmatulla, and he is 24 years old. Two of his friends are bit older. They just stand there and are silent, digesting the information we received from us.
“But how long will we have to sleep on the street?” Asmatulla asks.
“We recently spoke with one person who spent four months like this.”
“Four months ?!”
Freedom, equality and brotherhood.
Utopia 56 distributes coffee, bananas and good advice to refugees. On the way, I ask Asmatulla why he left Afghanistan.
“My father and uncle were in the Taliban,” he explains.
“They wanted me to join the Taliban too, and I just wanted to finish my studies and become a laboratory assistant. So I had to run away, “he says. “And if I return, they’ll kill me.” Do you understand? ”
Asmatulla – only one of the Kazakhs who was recently rejected in a refuge in Denmark, Norway, Sweden, Germany and other EU countries, decided to go to France in the hope that there they will have more chances.
Many passed through Paris on their way to the north or in Calais, to get further to England, but now the French capital is increasingly becoming the end point through the end. The last chance to live in Europe. Unless, of course, someone does not want to go underground and stay here illegally.
“Politically, there is an active desire not to simplify the life of refugees in Paris,” she states, when we stand on the corner and look at a stretch of land under the motorway where a group of cheap camping tents have found themselves in which many refugees live here.
Now the authorities began laying stone blocks on the ground so that no one could put a tent on this territory. Some French sculptors cut down slogans on some of their blocks. “Freedom” is written on one of them. “Equality” – on the other. “Brotherhood”.
On one of the blocks the man sleeps under several blankets. At the intersection, a small group of Africans settled right on the heat grid. From under the ground, the heat rises through the grate.
“A couple of days ago, one man who was sleeping on this grate died,” Ezzy says. “We found it together with other volunteers.”
A little further to the east, in Port de la Villette, is the largest campground, which stretches along the canal of Saint-Denis, which runs through the whole area.
and under the bridges in northeastern Paris live about two.
One o’clock in the morning. The dog’s cold. Between the tents runs a rat. Then another one. On the edge of the camp, a couple of men tinkle the coals of a fire with a stick. One of them is an 18-year-old Samuel from Eritrea. He wears a fur hat, and he talks about his journey in a muffled voice, which has yet ended here. For a while may be. This story reminds thousands of stories differently.
Ego, but they easily reached Libya, where they were thrown into prison. There they were almost never allowed to eat and drink, Samuel says. Instead, they were beaten with legs and sticks. Many prisoners were killed.
Finally, the family of brothers in Eritrea managed to scrape together 10 thousand dollars, which they sent to Libya.
“But my brother is still in prison in Libya. We did not have enough money to pull both of us out. ”
Samuel landed on land in Italy, and a month later he went north. He crossed the Alps on foot and took the train to Paris, where he had already spent a couple of months. The last week – in an olive-green single-seat tent under this bridge.
He plans to get to England.
“I need to learn. I need money. I need freedom,” – sums up Samuel.
Green, blue and orange tiny tents crowded together between the massive concrete pillars of the bridge, covered with graffiti and slogans like “Slaves for Sale.” In the camp there are almost only men. Young men.