Plight of the child refugees: Zyrat is 12. He's an orphan. And he's alone in a squalid French camp. If Britain is to call itself civilised, we must take in youngsters like him

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News of the Government’s momentous and laudable change of heart on child migrants might have been a cause for celebration among charities and campaigners yesterday. Out amid the lawlessness and squalor in the sand dunes east of Calais, however, word has yet to trickle through.

And even if it had, it wasn’t going to make a blind bit of difference to the nocturnal routine of Zyrat Ahmadzai.

Last night, as he has done most nights for the past eight months, he was preparing to head off in search of a truck in which to smuggle himself to Britain.

Orphan: Zyrat Ahmadzai in a Jungle caravan. He spends most nights trying to smuggle himself to Britain

Lost childhood: Zyrat Ahmadzai, 12, left, and his friend, Ibrahim, 11, play a video game in the Jungle camp

Desperate: Men roam the pathways between the makeshift shacks of the migrant Jungle camp, Calais

The dangers of leaping onto several tons of moving lorry in the dark are self-evident. But after every failed attempt, Zyrat has returned to a camp fraught with many other hazards, too – not least disease, violence and gang culture. It would be dangerous enough for anyone. I am certainly not hanging around here after dark. But Zyrat is 12. And he is alone.

Here, his home is a derelict caravan which he shares with an ever-changing group of four teenagers.

Zyrat is one of 300 or so unaccompanied minors believed to be living here in The Jungle, and taking his chances at what they call ‘The Game’. It is a game with no rules and a single goal 23 miles to the North: Kent.

To be playing it as an orphaned child is almost beyond comprehension.

Earlier this year, according to charities operating in the camp, there were 423 unattached children like Zyrat here in The Jungle. Since the French authorities bulldozed a large part of it a few weeks ago, that figure has fallen to 294. ‘It means that 129 children have potentially gone missing and we are working very hard to try to find out where they are now,’ says Ginny Howells of Save The Children.

Dreaming of England: Zyrat Ahmadzai

I ask Zyrat if he has a dream. ‘England,’ he says, with a somewhat puzzled look. It turns out there is no other dream.

We are talking at the ‘Jungle Kids Restaurant’, a well-appointed shack with a kitchen, pool table and TV. It is a popular and well-run sanctuary for boys like this (there seem to be no girls).

In Britain, you’d think twice before letting Zyrat get on a train on his own. Yet he has somehow crossed two continents in one piece. He was encouraged to leave home after the Taliban murdered his parents back in Logar, Afghanistan. Today, he seems in good spirits. He smiles bashfully when the older boys rib him as he has his photograph taken. But every now and then, the smile vanishes, his head drops and he is somewhere else altogether.

Alongside him is Mohammed, 14. There is a vacant look on the face of the boy from Kunduz, one of the most war-torn parts of Afghanistan.

I ask Mohammed why he is so determined to get to Britain. ‘I want to study,’ he says wearily. Here, his home is a pile of wood and plastic shared with 11 men, none of whom is a relation. Mohammed says he has incurred many injuries from the police during his many attempts to get on UK-bound freight traffic. ‘Last night they hit some of my friends but I escaped,’ he explains through an interpreter.

What is his ultimate dream? To be a footballer? To see his family again? ‘I don’t have a dream any more,’ he says with a shrug. I am no shrink, but here would seem to be someone at their wit’s end; someone for whom life has lost all meaning beyond furtive trips to the local lorry parks. And he’s only 14.

His friend Tassil Dawlatzai, 15, on the other hand, is about to leave Calais for good. After nine months of fruitless attempts to get into Britain, he is going in the opposite direction – back to Afghanistan. Tassil left home after the Taliban rebels executed his father as a punishment for having worked with Nato forces.

‘They warned my father not to do it, but he said he had to feed his family. So they killed him.’ The Taliban militia then demolished the family home and said they would come back for the rest of the family.

Giving up: Tassil Dawlatzai, 15, left, is going back to Afghanistan after nine months of fruitless attempts to get into Britain. His friend, Mohammed, 14, also pictured, said he is determined to reach England so he can study

Disillusioned: Tassil Dawlatzai, 15, right, and Mohammed, 14, play snooker in the kids' cafe in the Jungle

Abandoned hope: Some of the youngsters stuck in the Jungle, pictured, are preparing to return home

An older brother had already left, so Tassil’s mother sold the family’s two cows to pay a people smuggler to get the boy as far as Turkey. From there, he has crossed Europe with assorted groups of Afghan migrants, relying on the kindness of others.

But after nine months of futile lorry-jumping, he has abandoned all hope of reaching England and just wants to go home. ‘England or Afghanistan – I don’t want to be anywhere else,’ he says. He has no idea what has happened to his mother, and no idea what he will do once he gets home. ‘The Taliban will be looking for me, but I don’t care. I would rather die at home than die here,’ he says.

Leaving Calais for good: Tassil Dawlatzai, 15

I explain to him that he might want to hang around, since British policy may be about to change, thanks to a campaign by Save The Children, the Labour peer Lord Dubs and others, with the support of the Mail. I might as well be talking double Dutch. None of this means a thing to this disillusioned teenager, who now has zero faith in all forms of authority. He shows me the travel papers which he has just received from the French office of immigration, granting him free passage home. Because it is illegal to repatriate a minor, Tassil has told the French authorities that he is 18. An official has given him a random birthday of 01/01/98, and he could be on a plane journey home as early as next week.

Here are three children, not yet old enough to leave school under the law of our land, who already talk with the world-weariness of bitter old men.

As the Mail has argued forcefully on these pages in recent months, Britain has been absolutely right to focus its aid efforts as close as possible to the epicentres of human suffering – and no other European country has come close to the £1.3billion which the UK has pledged to the refugee crisis on the borders of war-torn Syria. And we have been equally forceful in warning of the dangers of the sort of open-door policy advocated by the German Chancellor, Angela Merkel, to the fury of millions of ordinary Germans and of many neighbouring states – and the hand-rubbing delight of the people smugglers.

But there is a small sub-section within this epic human drama who demand exceptional consideration. And they are the children who have ended up at the sharp end of this mass migration, with no one to turn to except total strangers.

The ones I meet here in The Jungle are fortunate to have a place like this restaurant, run by Sikandar Noristany, 43, himself an Afghan refugee who has subsequently been granted asylum in Italy.

‘I don’t want to be here telling these boys to go to school. I am not their father. But someone has to look after them,’ he says. Another impressive operation is Baloo’s Youth Centre for 12-18 year-olds, run by British and Irish youth workers like Jess Egan, 26, from Bath, and Karen Moynihan, 38, from Dublin.

Alone: Zyrat, 12, shares a derelict caravan which he shares with an ever-changing group of four teenagers

Bitter: Children who end up at the Jungle migrant camp, pictured, miss out on countless opportunities

Desperate: Mohammed, 14, left, fled one of the most war-torn regions of Afghanistan. Right, Zyrat, 12

Changing tides: Journalist Robert Hardman tried to explain that British policy could be about to change

‘These children are risking their lives every night trying to get on a lorry, and they’re missing out on all the opportunities they should be having at this stage of their lives,’ says Karen in front of a shack that offers lessons and advice, but also ensures ‘teenagers can just be teenagers’.

Beyond Calais, there is a vague sense that The Jungle and its problems have largely disappeared since the well-publicised destruction of the sleazier part of the camp by the French authorities in March. There has been the equally well-publicised opening of a functional but clean fenced-off complex of accommodation blocks made from shipping containers. These are now home to around 1,500 migrants from all over the world, with a separate section for women with children (of whom there are very few in what is an overwhelmingly male environment).

Yet the majority of the migrants are fearful that by registering there, it will hinder their chances of claiming asylum in the UK – the whole point of being in Calais in the first place. All migrants must register with a handprint which acts as a pass key in and out through the turnstiles. And if they do not press their hand against the screen every 48 hours, they will be barred from returning.

As a result, up to 5,000 people – mainly Afghans, Syrians, Eritreans and Sudanese, plus others from across Africa and Asia – still exist in the fetid heaps of wood and plastic. By day, there is a palpable sense of menace and desperation. By night, even the cops steer well clear.

The arguments can rage on about ‘push’ and ‘pull’ factors for the migrant armies on the move across Europe. What is beyond argument is that no unattached child should be in this hellhole alone for any longer than is absolutely necessary. To absorb the most needy into the British care system – while making it absolutely clear that it is a one-off, time-limited measure, and not future policy – will not break the bank.

It will require careful drafting and some harsh decisions at the margins. But it will also help alleviate an intolerable human tragedy which has been sitting right on our doorstep for too long.