It was a stunning day in August. I had travelled to Manchester with a group from a refugee charity I volunteer with. The city was buzzing with energy. I wore casuals that day—my Nike polo T-shirt and black denim shorts with sunglasses, “to keep it fashionable” as they say.
We had lunch at Nando’s and I had couscous with chickpeas and hummus along with an aubergine burger. I was sitting with Ana and Jonathan, co-ordinators from the Refugee and Asylum Seekers Voice charity, as well as other members from our WhatsApp group. It was so wonderful to meet so many of them in person for the first time, and there was a real camaraderie in our conversation. We talked about our goals for the future: what kind of work we want to do if we get refugee status, what parts of England we would like to visit. It was just positivity and hope overflowing.
This community is my new family. Our social get-togethers are a blessing. Truly, you can’t help the family you’re born into, but you can choose the family you make. The LGBTQIA+ charity Time to Be Out, based in York, has been my anchor since I was relocated to the north of England. We have a monthly meet-up where we have great conversations. Food is catered to everyone from meat-lovers to vegans—and pescatarians like me. Getting to share my worries with those who have experienced similar homophobic discrimination and violence—even though we are from different cultural backgrounds—centres me mentally and is comforting. It’s very cathartic for me.
At our last social event I met a couple from Iran. They went through so much pain and suffering in their home country for loving one another that it’s left them with emotional scars that are not easy to put aside. Since arriving in the UK they’ve continued their relationship, which the Home Office is fully aware of. While processing them in new accommodation, the Home Office decided to split them up, knowing the emotional and mental anguish it would bring to them both. I can’t help but question whether this would have happened to a heterosexual couple. It’s situations like these that make attending social inclusion groups with members of the asylum community so important. We can provide support when such difficult circumstances arise.
However, the Nationality and Borders Bill threatens everything we do within the asylum community. It demolishes the relationships that we have built with British communities. I arrived here in the hope of security and opportunity—I wanted to live in a safe environment and a free society, where I would be protected by democratic laws from discrimination or persecution. I had hoped that Britain would be a place where my rights were protected as a human being.
I decided to speak to other asylum seekers about the bill. I talked to one family of six who made a dangerous journey from Afghanistan to the UK. Their asylum claim has been pending for eight years. They are living in dilapidated housing provided by a private government contractor. They cannot work and their eldest child, who is now 20, cannot go to university, as he is not eligible for student finance. The family feel stateless every day. Both parents experience an endless sense of uncertainty, especially about their children, which keeps them up at night. How can they secure a future for them?
For families like this, the bill—which has been passed by the Commons and is being debated in the House of Lords—will only make life more difficult. A family who arrives in the UK will have to first wait six months before having their asylum claim processed, while the Home Office tries to find another country to send them to; they want to outsource us. So far, no other countries have agreed to take on the UK’s asylum seekers.
If a family’s asylum claim is accepted and they are granted refugee status, the bill proposes to only give them temporary protection, which has to be renewed every 30 months for 10 years. I know what it feels like, the fear, to have your place in this country constantly dangling over your head. Feeling like you have to prove yourself all over again every couple of years would be exhausting.
And for people like me, so-called “failed” asylum seekers in the appeals process, the bill threatens to take away some of our appeal rights. I could lose the opportunity to challenge previous decisions made on my asylum claim that may be questionable. In 2019, more than 50 per cent of asylum decisions made by the Home Office were overturned on appeal to the tribunal—the proposed legislation could undermine justice.
The draconian rules set out in the bill are an insult. The language and reality of the bill have made me feel so unwanted. For people seeking asylum here in the UK, the policies make us feel like we’re all inanimate things. The government has reduced us to a full stop in a sentence.
