I was ten years old when we landed in Heathrow airport. I’d never been to the UK before. It was late October and really cold – I can still remember the Christmas lights. My parents and three sisters were with me. Only my older brother was missing from the picture-perfect landscape. It felt like we’d made it.
We are Baloch people, from Balochistan in southwest Pakistan. There’s a significant separatist movement in the region, and my family held an influential position locally. Around a dozen of my relatives had been assassinated because of their political beliefs, and many others had just vanished. We were scared the same thing might happen to us. So we packed what we could and fled.
I turned 20 this year. For the last ten years, I’ve felt like I’ve been waiting in the dark. Waiting to be told I am not an imposter in the place I believe to be my home. It’s been a whole decade, but me and my family still haven’t received an answer about our asylum application.
I’m just a number in the backlog
After I finished sixth form a couple of years ago, all my friends started jobs and apprenticeships or went to university. I was not allowed to progress with them. UK asylum laws forbid me from working, or from taking out a loan to cover university tuition fees. I feel like I’m falling behind as I watch my peers start their adult lives. I cannot do what they’re doing because of where I was born. And because the Home Office isn’t keeping up with its own system.
I try to stay busy. Since I can’t work or study, I spend my time volunteering for charities. I’ve been involved in lots of projects I really care about, especially refugee rights and mental health. The charities I work with give me their time in return, and have helped me develop my skills. The Home Office doesn't acknowledge my value, but these charities really do.
It’s hard to live on £225 a week as a family of five
I read recently that there are now over 175,000 asylum cases waiting for a response from the Home Office – a new record. I am one of those 175,000 people. Just a forgotten statistic. Our lives are in limbo while they decide what to do with us.
Immigration lawyers say the system is “fundamentally flawed”, and that delays have been deliberately built into the system. I think they’ve done that to prevent us from calling this country our home. Maybe they believe that it will stop people wanting to come. It won’t. It just dehumanises us as part of the process.
My older brother went missing in Pakistan around five years ago. Soon after, my father gave up his space in the application queue to go back to look for him. He found him, but we haven’t seen either of them since. The best we can do is speak to them on the phone.
Dad’s leaving pulled us out of the queue as well. Since he left, my mum, two of my sisters and I have been on a new asylum claim, and my oldest sister had to make a claim by herself since she was over 18 by then. That’s one reason why processing our application has taken so long. If we ever get our status, we hope our dad and brother can come back through family reunification rules.
A daily struggle
My mother is now effectively the sole parent of four children. It’s a constant struggle for her. Like me, she hasn’t been allowed to work for much of our time here. During those times we lived entirely off the £38 per person per week that we receive from the government as asylum seekers (recently increased to £45 pp/pw). We don’t pay rent or bills because we live in council accommodation, but it’s still hard to live on £225 a week as a family of five.
She recently got the right to work on the shortage occupation list, which gives us some hope for financial independence. She doesn’t receive the weekly payment now that she is working, but we children still do.
My mother’s now a teaching assistant working in a pupil referral unit. She was offered a permanent contract, which would have been great for our family, but once again rules got in the way. She needs something called a ‘share code’ to accept the role. The code is provided by the Home Office in order to verify someone’s right to work, but it’s not given to asylum seekers. So she can’t have the job.
Things won’t stay the same forever
I ran the London marathon on my 20th birthday this year. It was a day I will never forget. I have the medal on my wall and feel pride whenever I look at it. I hadn’t done much running before, but training for the marathon taught me to push against my limits. It felt like defying the bigger limits that prevent me from reaching my ambitions.
I always dreamt of being successful so I could give my family a better life. I had hoped to do this by running my own business. But because of the barriers the Home Office has put in front of me, that dream has changed. Now I wish to help people who are vulnerable. To support marginalised people to grow and thrive.
When there's so many people that believe in you, it can be hard not to believe in yourself. The Running charity, Manchester Mind and Safe Passage no longer feel like charities to me. They are more like my family. They have made me want to do the same, and be there to help others when they need it the most. They have given me hope. Hope that things will not stay the same forever.
I know I belong in this country even if I've been told otherwise. I am in the home I was always destined to find. I will persevere to achieve my dreams, no matter how distant they may seem.
I would like to thank my therapist, Jacqui, my mentors, Jodie, Gary and Alice, also Victor, George and Peter from the Running Charity, Ruth from Safe Passage, Folade and Tyra from Leaders Unlocked, Tania and Adam from We Belong, Edenamiuki from Young Creative Leaders and Joe from Mind.
