Nobody should ever have to die in a place like this, in this sorry bit of northern France where these two Kurdish migrants were shot. They died, surrounded by rubbish, on a patch of unloved 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 discarded. There are plastic boxes, food wrappers and empty Red Bull cans next to the point where each man died. It is a grim, desperately sad scene.
Rehan and Ahmed are staring at it, their faces covered against the cold, their emotions running high. Both are Afghans who have come here to Dunkirk to complete their journeys to the United Kingdom.
Both tell me they dream of a better life, but both are bewildered by what happened. They had no idea that anyone else had been shot – they had heard that a killer was simply targeting migrants.
What these murders have done is to heighten tensions in migrant camps, known as jungles, that are already volatile and perilous.
“We do not go out any more on our own,” says Ahmed. “It is too dangerous. 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 know who the people are with the guns. And now we are very, very worried.”
Rehan is 27 years old. He left Afghanistan 13 years ago, intent on getting to Britain, and learning excellent English by watching years of YouTube videos. Now, half a lifetime later, he is on the brink of achieving his ambition.
“The jungle is a terrible place,” he tells me. “It is so violent, 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 sad for the people who have died here – they wanted the same thing as all of us. People say this is a safe country, but the jungle is very bad. We are all human and we all want a better life. We are scared in the jungle. It is no life. But we will keep trying to get to Britain. We will go.”
I ask another Afghan if he is nervous after the attacks, but he shakes his head. “Am I scared? No,” he says, half-smiling. “I am from Afghanistan. And that is a very dangerous place.”
A group of migrants comes to the spot where the killings happened. Flowers are laid. A man weeps.
Everyone looks edgy, but it is nervousness that is shared. There is a sense of camaraderie here, a feeling that, in an area where so many people come and go, sheer luck decided who happened to have been walking past when the shots rang out.
They all know it could have been their blood discolouring the grass.
