The “ressac” (undertow) is a perpetual movement, a constant ebb and flow of exiles who arrive in Calais, attempt to cross to England, are pushed back and then try again. Like the rise and fall of a history that threatens to repeat itself, it is a wave that drags the brutalities of the past back into the present.

On the beach, Camille, a young volunteer — the author’s fictional alter ego — experiences powerlessness and everyday violence. Trapped in what feels like an open-air prison, he can only watch helplessly as Amna, an exile desperate to cross the sea, confronts an uncompromising police officer — the very embodiment of a cold, inflexible state. An oppressive silence hangs between them, a silence born of being rendered invisible, of voices never truly heard or heeded.

Camille foresees the trauma that awaits future generations of children within this stifling atmosphere, a realisation spurred by the marks of a haunting family legacy he discerns in the relentless harassment and accusations against those who offer refuge.