presenting alternative positions on migration
Another 15 years of hostility –or will Labour change the tune?
Only two months before the Conservative government was swept aside in 2024, it passed the Safety of Rwanda (Asylum and Immigration) Act, paving the way for the deportation to Rwanda of those seeking asylum in the UK.
Within days of taking power Labour scrapped the Rwanda policy, and also announced that it would stop the use of the Bibby Stockholm barge as accommodation for asylum seekers.
Labour supporters welcomed the two swift actions which it had demanded when in Opposition as a step forward towards a more humane asylum and immigration system.
Subsequently, however, Labour has swivelled back towards more hostile policies and rhetoric on asylum and inward migration generally, partly perhaps as a knee-jerk response to growing support for the Reform party in opinion polls.
Within weeks, Labour announced an increase in immigration raids and deportations, and proposed an expansion of immigration detention places, despite a number of past reports showing the harm caused by detention and evidence of abuses in detention centres. A recent announcement said Labour had completed 19,000 deportations since the election, though roughly 14,000 of them were recorded as “voluntary”.
While the rhetoric has not yet reached the levels of toxicity seen under the previous government, including a former Home Secretary’s condemnation of a “hurricane of mass immigration”, there are
worrying signs that Labour is far from ready to scrap the Hostile Environment policy initiated by the Conservative administration in 2012.
The absurd, repeated claims by Prime Minister Keir Starmer that the Conservatives had an “open borders policy” on immigration risk fuelling xenophobic and racist attitudes in the wake of last summer’s riots.
His comments have presented migration as a “threat” to the country, which further stokes anti-migrant hostility, with all the harm that engenders for individual migrants and the communities in which we live.
And it is not just the government’s words that are having an impact: Labour’s policies, too, are replicating the hostility to migrants conjured up under the last government.
The proposed Border Security, Asylum and Immigration Bill formally seeks to repeal the Safety of Rwanda Act and parts of the Illegal Migration Act. But it continues the trend of legislation treating people seeking asylum as the enemy that must be deterred.
It fails to address why people seek safety in the UK or set out how people can seek asylum in the UK without using irregular routes.
In September the government said it was open to emulating some Italian policies, including establishing asylum processing centres
Photo: Lauren Hurley/No 10 Downing Street
Speaking for ourselves: A letter from the director
What an extraordinary 15 years!
When I and a group of migrants and friends established Migrant Voice in 2010 the media was full of migrant stories. But few of the stories were by migrants or quoted migrants. Even large non-government organisations were making decisions about what to say about migrants: we migrants were told “the experts” knew more than we did.
The inevitable result was an increasingly negative debate, inaccurate media reports, wild claims by politicians, inexorably followed by a perfect storm of bad practices and policies, including:
an ill-conceived rash of measures in response to the desperate humanitarian crisis in Calais; imposition of the “hostile climate”, a cap on net migration; increased spending on security measures, some of them crazy, in an effort to stop “small boats”; the “Go Home” van that my family and I and many, many migrants felt was directed at all of us; scandals such as Windrush and the kneejerk banning of tens of thousands of overseas students in response to a TV programme.
It’s a trust-shattering list. And there’s more:
the nature of the Brexit debate, with EU nationals feeling for the first time like migrants in a place they called home; war in Syria and Ukraine and other pressing reasons to leave countries such as Eritrea and Hong Kong; Nigel Farage’s infamous “Breaking Point” poster; the Illegal Migration Act stripping more rights from migrants — and confirming the link between migration and illegality in the public mind; the pie-in-the-sky Rwanda scheme; the drumbeat of the ‘Stop the Boats’ rhetoric. And now, within months of a new government
taking office, we have already experienced frightening riots targeting asylum seekers the bitter fruits of years of negative rhetoric and scapegoating; increased deportations and relentless treating of migration as a ‘problem’; and no sign that the administration will take responsibility for educating the public to the truth that migrants’ are an integral part of the community and make a hugely positive contribution to the country.
Yet despite the politicians’ failings and outbursts of media hysteria, most of the British public appreciate that without migrant workers the NHS would not exist, happily put their elderly parents into the hands of migrant care workers, relish the wonderful new foods and restaurants that have transformed our cuisine, thrill to the medals and excitement generated by migrant athletes, dance and sing along to migrants’ music that has become part of the soundtrack of British life, are entertained by migrant detectives tackling crime on TV, earn their living from migrant businesses, and elect migrant politicians.
These 15 years have been an emotional rollercoaster for migrants and for Migrant Voice staff, politically and emotionally.
Two personal examples of many:
when I first met some of the 30,000 international students whose visas were suddenly and unfairly cancelled for allegedly cheating in an English-language exam, I felt overwhelmed and a sense of terror that such a travesty of justice could occur to young men and women who could be my son or daughter.
when the riots erupted in August 2024 they triggered frightening memories of my first years
With thanks to all the volunteer journalists, editors, photographers, contributors and Migrant Voice staff, network members and trustees who took part in the production of this newspaper.
Thank you to all the funders who support our work.
Thank you
Migrant Voice: Started in 2010 to help fill the huge gap in the debate around migration that was left by excluding our voices, Migrant Voice works to build a community of migrants to speak for ourselves. Over the last 15 years Migrant Voice has trained hundreds of people to tell their stories in the media and through other channels, including our own newspapers like this one, as well as influencing the way the media represents us in general. With offices in London, Glasgow and Birmingham, Migrant Voice and our members speak out to create
in the UK where I experienced racism, verbal attacks and a lit cigarette pushed through my letterbox which started to burn my carpet.
Looking back, Migrant Voice is happy to have made a significant contribution to one of the most notable achievements in this difficult decade: a marked uptick in the number of migrant voices in the media and in the corridors of power. We have been active in every aspect of both traditional and new media, thanks to the trust given to us by hundreds, thousands, of migrants who came to us, opened their hearts and bared their souls to tell their stories.
It has been a privilege to be part of their lives and to help make their lives part of the British story.
This one-off newspaper is itself an example of the many ways we tell our own migrant stories and share them with the public. No single publication or social media meme can cover the amazing variety of migrant lives, but we hope the paper offers at least an introduction to who we are: from the young Ukrainian selling cappuccinos and Borscht in a trendy London cafe, to an African woman fighting to reestablish her life after escaping from modern slavery; from a successful Brazilian businessman who started life here without a word of English, to volleyball players from around the world in a Scottish park; from careworkers fighting racism, to a woman from Pakistan who is literally helping Birmingham to bloom.
Some of the testimonies are bleak, some are inspirational. They are all part of British life yesterday, today and tomorrow.
Nazek Ramadan Director, Migrant Voice
positive change in society: countering xenophobia, forging new ties, running campaigns, strengthening communities, influencing policy and bringing justice.
Printed at Web Print UK: Webprintuk.co.uk, pdf@webprintuk.co.uk, First-floor office, The Old Sorting Office, 21-45 Station Road, Barnes, London SW13 0LF Migrant Voice is the newspaper of the registered Charity number 1142963 and the Not-for-Profit Company 07154151 (England and Wales); SC050970 (Scotland) ‘Migrant Voice’. Published by and @Migrant Voice 2025. Please seek permission before reproducing any of our articles or photographs.
One of the biggest injustices in British legal history: ‘Our families are asking for answers’
A new attempt is to be made to tackle what has been described as “one of the biggest scandals in British legal history” and compared with the Windrush and Horizon IT scandals.
A direct appeal to Prime Minister Keir Starmer is planned by victims of the scandal, which began in 2014 with a BBC TV report on cheating in an English-language test by some international students at two UK testing centres.
The then UK government quickly asked the company that ran the tests, Educational Testing Service, to investigate. As a result of its findings, the Home Office suddenly terminated the visas of more than 34,000 students, making their presence here illegal overnight. A further 22,000 were told that their test results were “questionable”. Over 2,400 have been deported.
A few thousand stayed, desperate to clear their names. But, stripped of their right to work, study, rent a house or access healthcare, many became destitute and suffered severe health problems.
They have tried to highlight the mass injustice through media and politics. A few who could afford to, or borrowed money, have been fighting – and recently winning –expensive, uphill court battles.
But there has been no apology, not even a serious review of what some courts have described as flawed evidence; no re-issuing of visas, no readmission to universities that they were forced to leave in an instant.
With a new government in power, the students have decided to try to end their living hell by writing to the Prime Minister and asking him to cut the Gordian Knot that is blocking their future. They plan to send the letter within the next few weeks.
Aditya Khadka voices his anger and frustration on behalf of a group of overseas students fighting to clear their names
We can wait no longer.
We are victims of an injustice inflicted on us by the former UK Government’s “hostile environment” policy under Theresa May.
We were never given a fair chance to defend ourselves, yet our futures were destroyed. Some of us have been driven to the brink of mental and emotional collapse.
In many cultures, having a failed immigration status is seen as shameful, and many parents have cut ties with their own children out of fear of social stigma.
Some families took out loans, sold land, or borrowed money to send their children to the UK for a better future. Instead, their children were left to suffer in legal limbo, unable to work or support themselves.
Our parents wake up every day with unanswered questions: Why did this happen? How did our child’s dream turn into a nightmare?
They hear whispers in their communities, face judgment, and suffer humiliation for a cruel act that was never our fault.
The pain of knowing our parents have suffered because of this injustice is unbearable.
This scandal has done more than deny us visas—it has ruined lives.
Some have lost their minds to depression, anxiety, and PTSD.
Many have considered suicide, many have disappeared. Some have been hospitalised, placed on medication to control their anxiety and panic attacks.
Many of us have been forced into homelessness, unable to rent a home, relying on food banks, temples, and charities just to survive.
We were once students with bright futures. Now, we are ghosts in a country that refuses to acknowledge our suffering.
We are trapped in a system that has stripped us of our dignity.
For many of us, the fight for justice has come at a devastating cost. Wrongfully accused students spent years entangled in legal battles just to clear their names. Lives were placed on hold, dreams shattered, their futures stolen. While the world moved forward, they remained stuck in uncertainty, unable to work, study, or even plan for their future.
Even for those who finally won their cases, the victory came too late. By the time they were granted visas, the damage was irreversible. Many had lost their families back home—parents who passed away while they were stranded in legal limbo, siblings who moved on with their lives, childhood homes that no longer existed. The very places they once called home had become unfamiliar. They had fought for justice, but when they finally received it, they had nothing left to return to. No family. No support. No future back home.
We have spent thousands in legal fees, desperately trying to prove our innocence.
Some of us borrowed money, sold family property, and drained every penny, believing justice would prevail.
The Post Office Horizon IT scandal showed the devastating consequences of a government refusing to admit its mistakes. Innocent people were branded as fraudsters, forced into financial ruin, and some even took their own lives, all because the government ignored clear warnings of faulty evidence. from page 1
Another 15 years of hostility?
in Albania. Italy’s plan has since been found to be unlawful, yet we have continued to hear talk about the UK trying a similar approach.
We no longer have the performative cruelty of the policy of the former Immigration Minister, Robert Jenrick, to paint over murals in an asylum reception centre for children, yet this is a low bar to claim a change of direction. Instead, we have seen a policy pushed through as a “change in guidance”, thereby denying the ability for parliamentary debate to deny people who have been granted asylum the potential of ever receiving citizenship. This policy is likely to face significant challenges because of its potential
violation of parts of the Refugee Convention.
The “Stop the Boats” catchphrase has been replaced with “Smash the Gangs”, but as with the way the Conservatives’ Clandestine Channel Threat Commander has been swapped for an enhanced Border Security Force, the meaning and impact remains very much the same.
Only days after US President Donald Trump released footage of manacled migrants being forced onto deportation flights, the Labour government did the same. The move was roundly condemned, including by some who agree with deportations, with one Labour MP arguing that it “enables the mainstreaming of racism”.
It is not just asylum seekers or undocumented workers who have come under fire. Both increases in visa fees and reductions in the list of jobs for which visas might be given have been floated as a means to “bring down net migration”,
Migrant Voice’s #MyFutureBack campaign
Migrant Voice’s #MyFutureBack campaign has helped many international students clear their names from Home Office accusations of cheating in Englishlanguage tests.
The students have been fighting for justice for 10 years and Migrant Voice has campaigned with a group of them since 2017.
The campaign aims are:
• a simpler process for appeals — introduce a simple, free, and publicly available mechanism for students to apply for a decision on their case or reconsideration
• the immigration record of every student who is cleared of cheating must be wiped clean; and universities, employment checking services and others informed
• facilitate students’ return to study, or support those on work or entrepreneur visas to find new jobs or restart their businesses — by removing barriers created by the allegation
despite the harm of such policies on individuals and families as well as on the wider economy.
We are less than a year into a possible five-year term of Parliament, however. There is still time for Labour to change the narrative on immigration, to reverse course, rather than repeating the failed policies of the past; to be the party that sank the Bibby Stockholm, repealed the Rwanda Plan and extended the 28-day time-limit period for people who have been granted asylum to find accommodation.
The new government can be a force for change in how we speak about migration. It is time to discuss the realities and benefits of migration, not shouting out soundbites or selected statistics, but focussing on the people themselves, and the way migration benefits the whole country.
Students demonstrating in Parliament Square as part of #MyFutureBack campaign. Photo: Migrant Voice
MIGRANT VOICES ON VISA FEES
‘It impacts every area of our lives. Relationships have been impacted as at one stage we were homeless and family members wanted to help but had their own situations. We have borrowed money from friends and family and it’s stressful asking for money from anyone. My husband’s mental health has been impacted and he suffers from depression due to the stresses of immigration and has not been able to provide for the family.
Children have been impacted as they would have loved to go to university but due to NRPF [No Recourse to Public Funds] and no settled status, universities were reluctant to give them places unless prepared to pay international fees, yet they have grown up here.
Family have died back in country of origin, and due to pending visa applications [we] have not been able to travel and bury loved ones. We have lost our goods in storage as we could not pay for them. It’s been a vicious cycle, these immigration issues, and cause stress.’
‘The cost and uncertainty and inability to plan ahead and incredible anxiety knowing a simple bureaucratic error could result in our being ripped apart as a couple.’
‘I was very depressed and suicidal and anxious and insomniac. I couldn’t live my life. I had no support because no one understood what I was going through or cared to learn.’
‘With the increase in the IHS fee and visa fee it’s going to be almost £12k for us to be together. That’s an insane amount of money to take from someone to be with family.’
‘It’s taken a long time to get in a stable place, during which time we’ve had 3 children. It’s hard work: always the next application hanging over you. Always that doubt and fear at the back of your mind.’
Visa fees: ‘Cash cows and political footballs’
More ammunition for the campaign for a government rethink on Britain’s exorbitant visa renewal fees — which are among the highest in the world — has come from ongoing Migrant Voice research.
The evidence is already clear that the cost of visas has hugely damaging financial, health, familial and social effects on those paying them.
Many families are forced into poverty and debt to pay for the costs. Visa fees price them out of their rights, and reduce their children’s life chances.
Migrants wanting to settle in the UK must live here for at least five years before they can apply for permanent residence, but many are placed on the longer “10-year route” for settlement, doubling the costs and putting migrants in positions of far greater uncertainty and vulnerability.
Two-thirds of migrants in a recent survey said they had been forced into debt to pay their visa costs, with debts of up to £30,000 reported. One said, “I feel like we’re treated as cash cows and political footballs.
“No one in the British public cries out if the Immigration Health Surcharge increases to over £1,000 per year. Most people are not even aware how we are being treated and yet [they say] we are to blame for the dire state Britain is in, not the policies of decades by both main political parties.”
Another migrant giving evidence for the survey said, “It’s obviously quite frightening and difficult to have essentially no safety net to fall back on. We had some issues in the past where we could not pay our rent or purchase groceries, but we were not entitled to any support at all despite having a history of paying tax.” [Most migrants are covered by a policy called ‘no recourse to public funds’, which denies them the ability to get state support.]
Commented another: “It was a slap to the face when they
announced a new threshold increase for family visas.”[From April 2024 the minimum income threshold for a UK family visa rose from £18,600 to £29,000 per year.]
“It sends a strong message that the UK is not tolerant of international, intercultural, and interracial relationships,” she continued.
“We felt penalised and targeted because of my visa situation despite the fact we are in well-paid employment and contributed to taxes and National Insurance etc.”
The usual defence for massive high visa costs is that offered by Seema Malhotra, the Minister for Migration and Citizenship: “Any income from fees set above the cost of processing is utilised for the purpose of running the Migration and Borders system”, thus reducing reliance on taxpayer funding.
Yet visa fees are set at 7-10 times the actual processing costs.
Migrant Voice has been campaigning for a reduction in these costs since 2020. Every day migrants face poverty and destitution as they scrimp and save for fees. Families have been ripped apart, children denied opportunities.
Migrant Voice’s campaign aims to change the system and ensure that migrants are treated fairly and with respect. We urge government to:
• introduce a quicker, simpler, less stressful visa application process
• ensure that visa fees are no higher than the administration cost, with no fees for children
• abolish the Immigration Health Surcharge
• cap all routes to settlement at 5 years
• cut waiting times and improve communication from the Home Office
From Birmingham rally at the National Day of Action Extortionate Visa Fees. Photo: Migrant Voice
The excessive price of being a migrant
Tennille Hannah Rolingson
Since moving to the UK in 2016 I’ve spent tens of thousands. of pounds in visa fees. That excludes my university fees and living expenses, which may run into six figures. This is a consequence of a choice I and my parents made to better myself and seize opportunities I could get only here.
I had been attending a British school, so the move made sense. But I started to be aware of the expense of being an international student. I didn’t have access to student finance or a student loan and scholarships were rare. Everything was paid by my parents, and visa restrictions meant I could not really work. But I had never contemplated spending a life in the UK after graduation, and had no reason to stay in the UK.
At the end of 2019, I met the love of my life and everything changed. My now husband, a Lithuanian who had lived in the UK for 10 years, made me envision a life here. My love for him grew along with my love for this country. I had no idea of the challenges that would face me in the quest to live with the one I love.
It’s 2020 and the Covid-19 pandemic is in full swing. I was nearing the end of my law degree and had plans of doing a master’s, potentially qualifying as a solicitor and securing another couple of years in the UK on my Tier 4 student visa. But the costs of extending my stay here were becoming out of reach. Anxiety over my looming visa expiry made me queasy. I couldn’t ask my parents, who had already
sunk their life savings into my education; I couldn’t ask my boyfriend, who wasn’t yet financially in a position to help. It became clear that I would need to give up my place at law school, along with continued life in the UK.
I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t go.
I succeeded in obtaining a two-month visa extension because, as a result of my parents’ own movements at the time, I had essentially nowhere to go. When eventually I was able to leave, I had to leave most of my belongings and along with them, my life.
I eventually made it back to the UK via the fiancé/partner/ spouse route — with delays, interrogation and expense. I
‘I couldn’t stay, I couldn’t go’
thought I had rid myself of the shackles of a hostile system. I could move on with my life and start to build my future.
However, in December 2023 the government declared that the Minimum Income Requirement (MIR) was due to increase from £18,500 to £38,700.
My life in the UK was again under threat. I cried, I screamed, I spiralled. I felt foolish, for letting myself believe that I could be allowed stability and a home here. I started frantically mentally preparing myself for the evitable, while my husband kept reassuring me that it would all work out.
In a bitter-sweet turn of events, things did work out. My
spouse visa renewal was recently approved for an additional 2.5 years when I hope I will be able to secure Indefinite Leave to Remain (ILR), which would provide an increased sense of stability.
However, I spent over £4,000, plus £200 for an appointment in London to complete my biometrics — essentially, the most expensive 10 minutes of my life. About £2,500 of the cost was the NHS surcharge payment that allows migrants access to the NHS, a service my 9 to 5 job already taxes me for.
Visa renewal took a huge chunk out of mine and my husband’s savings. Working hard, saving every penny, in hope of using it towards our future and instead having to use it to solidify my stay in a country that on occasion has expressed disdain for my presence, is painful. I have fondness towards this country and even dare call it home, but it has taken from me. I have sacrificed a lot to be allowed to live here, not just physically but financially.
Migrants are tired, exhausted. Yet visa fees, along with MIR, show no signs of being reduced. The pressures of trying to uphold the ‘model migrant’ persona while policies continue to withhold our humanity and keep us much further from having fruitful lives in the UK; needing to explain over and over to people the process we go through to simply have the pleasure of being here. No migrant deserves to have their life in the UKmade inaccessible because it’s been decided that thousands of pounds is a justifiable cost to having a home here.
The campaigner who likes to cook
Majeda Khouri is a foodie with a mission. Or, more precisely, an activist who likes to cook.
She combines the two in the London-based Syrian Sunflower, the social enterprise she set up as she re-made her life after fleeing civil war.
She was apart from her husband and two children, had nowhere to live and as an asylum seeker was barred from working. She spoke little English, and understood less — “people seemed to be talking so fast.
“So I would put earphones on for almost 24 hours a day until I got familiar with the British accent.”
She imported that determination, drive and energy from Syria, where she practised as an architect and, after the outbreak of conflict, became a rights activist. She was detained and witnessed and documented human rights abuses, especially against women and children.
In the UK an early breakthrough came when she met a woman from Migrateful (“In-person cookery classes in London: join us in a journey of flavour and cultural stories while mastering authentic global recipes”): “She asked me, ‘Can you teach me to cook?’”
That led to Khouri doing cookery classes for 15-20 women. But though she loves food, her real interest was the opportunities it opened up for conversations. She was
particularly concerned to challenge and change negative ideas about refugees.
“I told the British women attending the classes] about women in Syria, how they became refugees, how they used their skills, about their bravery, about how they took responsibility, especially those who fled with children after their husbands had been killed or detained.”
This food-and-talk tactic blossomed after she was
‘I translated Health and Safety rules into Arabic’
officially granted asylum: “I needed a job. Because I have these skills and people like my food, I did a lot of supper clubs and Sunday lunches”, introducing people to Syrian food.
Another group, Terrn (The Entrepreneurial Refugee Network], helped her acquire the know-how to establish a company, and switched her onto the idea of a social enterprise because “I wanted not just a business, but to help other women with a refugee background.
“At the same time I was hearing from Londoners and other British people that refugees were ‘taking our taxpayers
money’.” So later she was able to offer jobs to women in Syrian Sunflower. She taught women how to register their own kitchen business and translated Health and Safety rules into Arabic: “I had got the experience, so I transferred it to them.”
Syrian Sunflower now caters for corporate events and weddings. The events have included a meal for 2,000 in Italy (“I didn’t sleep for three days”) and party food for the reopening of the Museum of Migration in London.
She also gives refugee women tips on integrating into British society.
“I even trained them to take children to parks and to school — not to wait for their husband to do it — because they didn’t have the confidence to go out of the house or use transport. They were afraid to talk to people.
“It’s odd to think that as a child and before I married, I didn’t enter the kitchen unless I wanted to eat or drink.
“An interest in cookery only came when I had kids and I wanted them to be healthy and didn’t want to give them any processed food. It was never in my mind that cooking will be my job, until I came to the UK. But it was a good skill.
“Now, through cooking, I share my beautiful culture and tell the untold stories of Syria.”
And fortunately, she adds, “Londoners want to try everything, all kinds of food.”
Magda Khouri, left, with one of her feasts, and as one of the receipients of the 2024 Visa Everywhere Pioneer Award
Mind your own business - and help the country
Rafael dos Santos (pictured), an award-winning entrepreneur and senior university lecturer, looks at what it takes to be a migrant entrepreneur. He describes himself as “Brazilian by birth, British by choice”.
“Ask your God to help you, but if you stay on the sofa, he will not.”
Brazilian entrepreneur Rafael dos Santos has a way with words, even in English — a language he didn’t speak when he arrived here 23 years ago. He learned quickly. It’s the first thing to do as a migrant entrepreneur, he says: “Once you master the language, you are yourself again.”
After you grasp the language and at least some of the culture, which is an ongoing learning process, next on his list of barriers are lack of knowledge and of people who can help, which leads to fear, and fear paralyses people: “The people changing the world are those who are not scared of trying, not scared of failing.”
You need to be curious, he counsels, “and curiosity leads to knowledge, and knowledge leads to power — power in many ways. You become powerful so people can’t take advantage of you.”
He believes people are naturally curious, “but when you move countries, fear takes over and you become more frightened of doing things because you don’t know how people are going to react; you don’t know what’s going to happen. If you have knowledge, that kind of fear disappears. Knowledge is power.”
He recalls how frightened he was the first time he sued one of his clients: “I was scared to death to go into a courtroom.” Some time later it was his turn to be sued and he thought, “Oh, I’ve been there; I know what it’s like to stand before a judge. I had lost my fear of being in a courtroom.”
Similarly, after writing his first book, Moving Abroad One Step At A Time, he had to record a two-minute publicity video: “It took four hours because I was mortified at being in front of the camera. I cried. I didn’t like my voice. Because of the experience of being bullied at school, I felt people would laugh at me or wouldn’t like my voice. All those feelings came back. I was feeling the fear of judgement.
“When I learnt to get over it, I did the video in four minutes.
“Now my approach is, ‘If you don’t like my video, don’t watch it.’” Since 2018, dos Santos has recorded hundreds of videos and mentored clients on how to use Instagram and record themselves.
The lack of network and trust are also barriers.
Migrant entrepreneurs need to build a network of people “because if people don’t know you, they aren’t going to buy from you, and it takes time for you to win people’s trust.
“In your own country, that network is ready-made: your parents have built it, your grandparents have built it; you don’t even think about it. You are born into a network; everybody knows you. When you move countries, you have to build that network again.”
Another hurdle is learning local laws and following rules, guidelines, and protocols. For example, “It still baffles me that the UK financial year is from April to April, a system that started on 25 March 1752. Why can’t this be changed to follow most countries? Why not start on 2 January and end on 31 December?”
Despite the problems facing migrant entrepreneurs, he emphasises that the biggest barrier is mindset. Success depends on the individual and determination: “There’s no alternative to a positive outlook.
“I did all the courses available from local governments: accountancy, marketing, planning; I learnt about HR and how and when to pay tax. It opened the doors. Local knowledge should no longer be a barrier to starting a business.”
Positivity and a willingness to learn are how he built several businesses in Britain; how he recovered from a £70,000 loss when an investor pulled out of his company because of Brexit; how he created a successful tech PR company with 250 clients; how he established the Best of Brazil Awards for Brazilians abroad, which has been nicknamed the “the Brazilian Oscars”.
Dos Santos became an entrepreneur “because no one employed me in marketing, which was my aim, so I started an estate agency instead.”
He quotes research that “14 % of businesses are owned by migrants in the UK, and they employ millions of people, making a significant contribution to the UK economy.
“Migrants don’t steal jobs;” he points out, “they do jobs that locals don’t want to do. They aren’t more ‘entrepreneurial’: they start businesses to have a better life.”
The £25bn boost
Ethnic minority businesses contribute about £25 billion a year and a million jobs to the UK economy, according to the Centre for Research in Ethnic Minority Entrepreneurship.
The £25 billion figure is higher than the gross added value of a major British city such as Birmingham or an industry such as agriculture, In addition, migrant businesses are disproportionately engaged in exports and innovation, which are regarded as priority areas for the economy.
This huge and often overlooked contribution of migrants to the economy could be four times higher – £100 billion a year – if changes recommended in the report were implemented, the Centre says.
The businesses that contribute to this often overlooked economic boost range from small to very large: of the UK’s 100 fastest-growing companies, 39 have a foreign-born founder or co-founder, according to Job Creators 2024, a report compiled by Fragomen for the Entrepreneurs Network.
“These immigrant founders come from across the world – with America being the most common origin country, followed by Germany and India,” it says.
“We believe this shows the critical contribution that international talent makes to Britain – without their effort and vision, our economy would be less dynamic and competitive … all of our research has found that immigrants play a disproportionate part when it comes to starting some of the most dynamic, promising and influential companies in the British economy.”
As the recent Museum of Migration exhibition, Taking Care of Business: Migrant Entrepreneurs and the Making of Britain, pointed out, “From the food we eat to the clothes we wear, the apps on our phones to the products in our homes, our lives wouldn’t be the same without migrant entrepreneurs.”
The exhibition, viewable online, tells the stories of some 70 pioneer migrant entrepreneurs, from Stelio Stefanou of Accord (born in Egypt to Greek Cypriot parents), through Michael Marks, born in Belarus and co-founder of M&S, to Trinidad-born Winifred Atwell, one of the biggest pop stars in 1950s Britain who went on to create the first Black hair salon in central London.
How a Ukrainian refugee built a Dream Cafe in London
When Yelyzaveta Tataryna left Ukraine after the outbreak of war, she had no idea her flight would lead to opening one of the most talked-about cafes in a fashionable central London area.
She spoke little English, knew no-one, had no idea about England, and had never heard of one of the city’s most popular shopping, eating and tourist spots, Covent Garden.
“I had no expectations,” says 24-year-old Tataryna. “I was raised on Jane Austen novels. I’d never been to the UK before. It’s so different from Ukraine — crazy different. Almost everything is different.”
Landing in London with her life packed into suitcases, the first few months were tough. “I didn’t have anyone at all. No friends. I was living in an Airbnb, far from central London, paying £80 a month for a mattress on the floor. To open the door I had to move the mattress!
“People didn’t want to rent to me. I didn’t have any UK credit or a local job. The landlord wanted me to pay a year upfront. Eventually, I paid six months in advance, thanks to my savings.”
As a pastry chef, she quickly realised there was something unique about London’s food scene. “Everywhere I walked I saw gluten-free options. My goodness, in Ukraine it’s hard to find that. But in London, it’s everywhere. I thought, maybe there’s something for me here.”
The eye-poppingly pink and flowery Cream Dream Vegan Pastry Cafe (“every dessert is a labour of love”) was on the way.
She made a bold move.
“I Googled how to open a cafe in London and started from scratch. It said, Make a business plan and find a location near the Thames. So I made a business plan and I found that Covent Garden might be a good venue. I just followed a map
and got off the tube. The first time I saw the cafe space, I thought, ‘This is it.’”
It wasn’t smooth sailing.
“I had to build it up from nothing,” she remembers. “The space needed a lot of work. I did it all myself. I couldn’t afford to hire anyone. But then, through Instagram and TikTok, a group of girls and women with kids, none of them professionals, came to help. They were incredible.”
Tataryna opened the shop on Valentine’s Day 2023.
‘They were queuing down the road.’
“On the first day, hundreds of people came, they were queuing down the road. I had posted every step of the journey online, and people were so excited to see it come to life.”
She smiles as she recalls the chaos. “We didn’t have enough pastries ready, and I even forgot sugar for the coffee! But the British people were so friendly and supportive. We had a sign: ‘English is our second language. Please speak slowly’. The customers were patient, explaining what they wanted. It was amazing.”
She encountered the usual online snarkiness. “I got a lot of negative comments online. People said things like, ‘Oh, she’s a refugee, but she has more than me. She’s taking taxpayers’ money.’
“That’s just not true. I’ve paid £30,000 in taxes already and haven’t earned any money from the business yet. My teenage sister [who followed her from Ukraine] helps manage the place, and we employ 15 people, almost all Ukrainians.”
Tataryna works 12 hours a day (“I got burnt out, so I’m doing yoga”) but remains positive. “There will always be haters, but I focus on the good. People who come to my cafe are so supportive.”
Originally, she says, she wanted just a coffee and pastry shop, “but I quickly realised it wasn’t enough. People wanted sandwiches and hot food, so I expanded the menu to include vegan sandwiches, potato pancakes, borscht, dumplings and even chicken Kyiv — vegan-style!”
The cafe has become a hotspot for Ukrainians in London: “Every month we host charity events to raise money for Ukraine. We donate food and sell lottery tickets for cool prizes like UK wine. It’s our way of giving back.”
It’s not a cheap cafe, but Tataryna offers cut-price coffee for health and social workers, road sweepers, mounted police and others serving the community.
Her sister, a budding filmmaker, is social media manager and does a score of other jobs: “She’s incredible. She was in Ukraine when the war started, and despite the bombings, she was posting on Instagram for me. I wouldn’t be here without her.”
Tataryna is already looking ahead.
What’s next? “Work work work. I want to open a ‘dark kitchen’ [a commercial kitchen that prepares food exclusively for delivery or takeaway]. We don’t have enough space right now. I’d love to bake bigger orders, like birthday cakes, in a separate space and deliver them to the cafe. It’s a big plan, but I’m working towards it.”
Does she hope to return to Ukraine? “I want my business to be independent here, but I want to return home someday.”
Photo: Kristina Sälgvik
Migrant tattooists make their mark
Fernanda Silva de Almeida Nunes
Tattooists are not high on the list of migrants to the UK, but several have made their mark here.
“It opened many doors for me,” says Dean Gunther, a 36-year-old Manchester-based tattoo artist from Cape Town, South Africa, about his decision to move to the UK in 2017. A self-taught artist, Gunther has been tattooing for more than 16 years. Since coming to the UK he has developed his style, using realistic elements in vivid colours, gaining international recognition.
In June 2024 he applied for British citizenship, which he describes as an expensive, lengthy process, though he emphasises, “I mean, I love the UK. it has good opportunities, you can make a decent living.”
A bonus of the new location, he says, is proximity to Europe: “There’s conventions every weekend in different towns. And you can just fly half an hour and you’re in a different country.”
Since his arrival he has stopped drinking, which he says was holding him back during his years tattooing in South Africa.
“All that attention that I’d put into drinking all that time, I’ve put now into my work, into my art, and that really elevated me”, he says.
He sees himself staying in the UK.
But his connection to his homeland influences his work, and he often draws on his knowledge and memories of South African fauna when clients ask for nature-inspired designs.
“I know Cape Town [the landscapes of] Table Mountain and Lion’s Head and the proteas [a South Africa plant] like the back of my hand,” he explains.
London-based Ann Chang, a 31-year-old tattoo artist from Taiwan, is also deeply influenced by where she grew up. Her tattoo pieces are “mostly about the scenery and plantations
of Taiwan, where I came from. My mom has a beautiful garden that has a beautiful pond … and it rains a lot as well.”
For Chang, staying in the UK came with visa challenges.
She moved to the UK in 2016, initially with a Youth Mobility Visa. Two applications for a Global Talent Visa were rejected.
The Arts Council, responsible for endorsing artists applying for talent visas, does not recognise tattooing as an art form. Chang put on a traditional art exhibition, Temporary before permanent, which featured temporary stencils, placed on the body to guide the permanent tattoo. The show and the accompanying media coverage helped meet the visa criteria, which was given in 2021.
‘the tattoo chair can be an intimate space’
Although a few tattoo studios are registered as able to sponsor workers, no visa is specifically designed for tattooists. An Arts Council England spokesperson explained, “We would not be able to consider an application from a practising tattoo artist that works in a studio tattooing their designs on people. This is not an area within our arts and culture remit, and there are health regulations, policies and licensing requirements to operate as a tattoo artist which are not within our scope.”
Like memories of hometown scenery, the tattoo chair can be an intimate space: clients share personal stories while artists work on permanent alterations to their bodies.
“It’s like a memento,” says Chang. While she may not remember the face of a client if they meet on a pavement, she’ll instantly remember their story once she sees the art on their body.
Similarly, this feeling of proximity motivated Gunther to
create a podcast that he records while tattooing.
“I find it quite easy to speak to people from all backgrounds,” he explains. He mentions a magician, exprisoners, and a bare-knuckle fighter.
For Oksana Demidova, 28, it’s the personal connection that makes each session different. “Sometimes it gets a bit repetitive, just technical work, right? Because the process is kind of the same thing, if you think about it.”
Originally from Ukraine, Demidova lived in Berlin for two years before coming to London, because it felt like “the right next step”, five days after the outbreak of the war with Russia.
“When you connect on something like art, it’s a feeling that you share, that you both can relate to in some way … it makes me really want to get to know [clients] better, to understand what we have in common — and there’s always something. That’s the most exciting part of every session,” she explains.
Working with linocut techniques that use carved linoleum blocks and ink to print on paper, she creates intricate designs that are then recreated on skin. Demidova says that her early career in Kyiv as a printmaker was formative. The Kyiv art scene, she says, “gets very experimental. You didn’t have anyone to tell you how to do it. So people just go in really interesting, different ways.”
“People are multifaceted,” as Demidova put it when talking about clients. “I’ve tattooed lawyers, software engineers, a quantum physicist. And they’re all very creative themselves. I guess people narrow what people are like, because we can’t really imagine how one person could do so many things.”
Art and creativity transcend borders or visa status, and tattoos can serve as a permanent reminder on someone’s body – regardless of where they’re from – that human connection can be rich, complex and often unexpected.
Oksana Demidova
Dean Gunther
Ann Chang
‘With music there’s no language barrier’
As artistic director of Hear Me Out, Johanne Hudson-Lett was experiencing all the usual worries ahead of one of the organisation’s gigs: “Will it be well organised and all possible scenarios covered?”
But unlike most music promoters she had other, bigger worries, too: “Will The Unknowns band be here to play on the night? Will an instruction arrive from the Home Office to inform them that they are to be deported or moved from their accommodation to a different part of the country?
“Now, that is fear,” she admits. It arises because the band members are asylum seekers.
They met and formed a band (“We picked the name because there are a lot of talented people out there who are unknown, as we are now”) in an asylum hotel in central London during Hear Me Out workshops. They mix musical styles from the Middle East, Europe and Africa and their songs speak about their homeland, family and hopes for the future.
About 28,000 people a year are locked in UK immigration removal centres and similar settings with no end date. Their lives are stopped while authorities decide their fate. Hear Me Out helps by taking music into the centres — “because music can be freedom”.
‘Will
the band be here to play on the night?’
“We want to give people a voice and to feel human and to feel like they are being treated with respect,” says HudsonLett.
“It also shows there is somebody who cares, because a lot of asylum seekers, wherever they are, whatever places they are in, are so lonely.
“What we want to do with our music is make them feel somebody is listening to them and we will do what we can.”
Band member Kidu agrees about the organisation’s importance: “Honestly speaking. I was desperate, I knew no one. Then through the group I found people.”
The organisation works in two hotels housing asylum seekers in London, at Napier Barracks in Kent (which has been used since 2020 as “temporary accommodation” for those seeking asylum), runs music workshops, and has “two phenomenal bands that we really want to push into the public eye because they’ve got such an important message to tell.”
Helping inform the public about the asylum system
and about the stories of asylum seekers and refugees is important, says Hudson-Lett, “because people only know what they hear on the news, and therefore they are getting only one side of the story.”
Music is a great way to communicate, she adds, “a great way to use your voice, whether through the lyrics you are writing or a song you are singing. So for Hear Me Out it’s a wonderful art form that enables us to bring people together to enjoy at the same time.
“We believe music is a way of people connecting with each other and with their emotions.
“With music there’s no language barrier and music is such an effective way of communicating with people of all ages and different cultures.”
And the Unknowns gig? Was it a success?
Hudson-Lett gives a definite thumbs-up: “It was a true celebration of their incredible talent, their cultures and homelands, and the uniting power of music.”
Hear Me Out: hearmeoutmusic.org.uk The Unknowns full performance
Photo: Hear me out
‘Surely that is not how my life was meant to be’
Daniel Nelson
“Detention is the worst thing you can do to a human being, especially one who’s trying to survive. It is cruel.”
That’s Stella Shyanguya speaking. One experience of cruelty is bad enough; it’s twice as bad when you are detained after your life has already been disrupted and you move to what you thought was a safe haven.
It’s triple cruelty if, like Stella Shyanguya, you are detained because of a Home Office mistake.
The France-born, Kenya-raised and legally naturalised British citizen was wrongfully imprisoned in Yarl’s Wood Immigration Removal Centre.
If you are unclear about the difference between prison and detention, she will explain: “It feels the same - except that in prison you have a date for release.
“In a prison you are counting down the days, in a detention centre you are counting up.”
Personal restriction, discomfort, constant surveillance, lack of decision-making opportunity, the failure of the Centre to provide the special diet that was needed for her health: it’s all distressing, and as she describes it, the suffering replays in her mind.
But perhaps worst of all is not knowing when you will be released, how long the horror will continue: “Fear of not knowing what is going to happen. You can’t even answer that basic question.”
It started when, in a deliberately-used policy (“I don’t know if it’s designed purposely to break you”), she was taken to the Centre at 2 o’clock in the morning: “Your mind is confused. You’re bewildered. You’re terrified.
“You feel somebody locking the door behind you: it’s a terrifying concept. You feel captured.”
After the capture, “You wake up every morning, waiting for a word.”
You are supposed to be given a monthly report that reveals whether you will continue to be detained or whether you will be released: “For four months I didn’t get that report.”
Your anxiety mounts. It starts to play with your mind.
The custody officers were intimidating, unsympathetic: “They’d make remarks like ‘Where are we deporting you to?”
In more than nine months of detention, she says she attempted suicide four times and ended up in hospital.
“Hopeless” is the word she uses to describe what it is to be locked up. ”It’s daunting. There were times when I thought, Surely this is not how my life was meant to be.”
Other detainees tried to help, “telling me ‘It’s not the end. One day we’ll be out of here’. But you can’t imagine the ‘one day’. It’s a perpetual life of uncertainty. You can’t even plan for a week ahead, let alone a month or a year. All you can do is make a little plan for the next hour.
“It’s cruel.”
But this is Stella Shyanguya. Despite the hardships, the hopelessness, the cruelty of the system, she emerged as a fierce advocate, helping others fight their cases even while detained. Her story has been described as “a David-andGoliath tale of survival, solidarity, and the human dignity at stake in the government’s new immigration strategy.”
How did she do it?
First, “You adopt a thick skin. Then “I made the library my friend. I read every legal book on detention, immigration law and every book geared to education.”
She quickly earned the trust of the other detainees: “The sense of other ladies depending on me gave me purpose. I aligned myself with helping people get out of detention.”
Organisations monitoring detention reckong she helped at least 60 women with their cases.
Finally, she herself went to court and won her appeal. But even when the court ordered her release “they left me for another five days.and then I was given bail conditions. I couldn’t leave my home. I lived in Huddersfield but had to report in Leeds; I was not offered any transport and had to rely on a friend.”
She lost a lot of friends, because as she says, “It’s hard for people to distinguish prison from detention. When people see you’ve been in prison, regardless of what for, you become a pariah.”
In detention
Immigration detention is the practice of locking foreign nationals in detention centres while their immigration status is being resolved. It is an administrative process, not a criminal justice procedure.
The UK is the only country in Europe where there is no limit on how long people can be detained. Nearly 20,000 people entered immigration detention in UK in year ending September 2024.
More than 50 people died in Home Office accommodation, including detention centres, in 2024, up from 11 in 2023.
Immigration detention is a proven cause of significant mental health issues, including anxiety, depression, and post-traumatic stress disorder.
Most people detained in immigration are, eventually, released, demonstrating the levels of unwarranted detentions taking place.
Detention left other marks, too.
“It still affects me day to day. I have missed so many milestones in my life [not only from detention but because of years of battling the Home Office]. I have got grandchildren I’ve not seen. She was unable to fly to Kenya for the funerals of a brother and her mother. “I’m allowed to study and work but I have not been given any travel documents so haven’t been able to leave the country for 20 years.”
Last year the Home Office accepted she had been wrongly detained and compensated her, “but no amount of money can replace all the things you’ve missed in life. You cannot put a price on taking away a chunk of somebody’s life.”
Photo: Immigration removal centre in Gosport by Gordon James Brown, CC BY-SA 2.0
Stella Shyanguya
Reframing the debate: Beyond the politics of illegality and deservingness
Nando Sigona
The UK’s migration debate has long been dominated by a binary narrative of legality versus illegality, a framework reinforced through media coverage, political rhetoric, and civil society discourse. A new report written by Dr Stefano Piemontese examining how irregularity features in the British public discourse on migration between 2019-2023 highlights how this dichotomy serves not only to justify restrictive policies but also to constrain possibilities for a more informed and humane discussion on migration governance.
The report from the I-CLAIM research project on irregular migration in Europe underscores the urgency of shifting the debate beyond the transactional justifications of economic contribution and humanitarian need towards a more nuanced understanding of migration as an inherent feature of human mobility and social life rooted in British society and history.
One of the most striking findings of the report is what the report terms the ‘media coverage paradox.’
Despite a media landscape that includes both conservative and centre-left outlets, much of the migration discourse aligns with the narratives of the right-leaning UK government narratives, particularly on the issue of irregular migration. Media reporting heavily relies on imagery of Channel crossings, which frames migration primarily as a border control issue.
This focus not only dehumaniSes migrants but also distorts public perception, making irregular migration appear as an external threat rather than a structural issue shaped by policy choices. As the report notes, “migration discourse in media and politics heavily relies on quantification, particularly concerning small boat crossings and asylum applications. This numeric framing creates a
spectacle of control while overshadowing the complexities of how migrants become irregular (e.g., visa overstays, bureaucratic obstacles).”
The political discourse, on the other hand, strategically constructs ‘illegal migrants’ as a counter-image to ‘legal’ and ‘skilled’ migrants. The creation of ministerial and administrative roles explicitly focused on countering illegal migration and the 2023 Illegal Migration Act have enabled the government to justify a broader set of restrictive policies affecting all migrants and often also racialised citizens. The report shows that this framework operates in both geopolitical and moral domains.
Geopolitically, irregular migration is framed as a sovereignty issue requiring strict enforcement measures. Morally, irregular migrants are positioned as undeserving, contrasted against ‘desirable’ legal migrants who contribute to the economy and society.
This rhetorical structure, left unchallenged by media and political narratives, sustains a system where migrants’ rights remain conditional upon their perceived utility or vulnerability. As the report states, “Political discourse strategically constructs ‘illegal migrants’ as a counter-image to ‘legal’ and ‘skilled’ migrants. This framing enables the government to justify restrictive migration policies for all.”
Civil society narratives, while offering counterpoints to restrictive policies, remain largely reactive and limited in scope. The report identifies a dual strategy among migrant rights organisations: advocating for irregular migrants through economic contributions or humanitarian concerns. While these arguments have some success in shifting public opinion, they ultimately reinforce a state-centred neoliberal logic of ‘deservingness’—one that privileges certain categories of migrants over others. The ‘economic contribution’ argument, for example, has been instrumental in advancing discussions about regularisation initiatives, but it risks creating a hierarchy of deservingness based on
productivity rather than rights. Similarly, humanitarian narratives, while essential, often reinforce a victimhood paradigm that limits broader discussions on migrant agency and inclusion.
The report calls for a more transformative approach—one that reframes migration through an ‘unapologetic lens,’ one that recognizes human mobility as a historical and natural phenomenon rather than a crisis to be managed. In practical terms, this would mean shifting advocacy efforts away from transactional justifications and towards arguments that acknowledge migrants as integral members of society. For instance, labour rights discourse could serve as a powerful alternative to migration-centric narratives, focusing on protections for all workers regardless of status rather than reinforcing the distinction between ‘legal’ and ‘illegal’ migrants.
The findings of the I-CLAIM report make it clear that current migration discourse does more than reflect political realities—it actively constructs them. The challenge ahead is to reimagine migration governance in a way that moves beyond punitive frameworks and towards policies that recognise the fundamental rights and contributions of all migrants, regardless of status. This requires not only a shift in media and political rhetoric but also a strategic recalibration in how civil society engages with the public debate. Only then can we create a more just and sustainable approach to migration—one that is not dictated by fear and exclusion, but by an understanding of mobility as a fundamental aspect of human society.
Nando Sigona is professor of International Migration and Forced Displacement at the University of Birmingham and Scientific Coordinator for Improving the living and working conditions of irregularised migrant households in Europe (I-CLAIM), a study funded under the Horizon Europe programme.
Flower-power brings Brummie smiles
A Pakistani migrant has used flower power to overcome loneliness - and to brighten up her Birmingham neighbourhood.
“No flower grew in my area,” when Mah Jabeen Bano arrived in the city in 2003. Now, she’s winning horticultural and community awards.
Her first years here were achingly lonely. She felt isolated because of her lack of confidence in speaking English. She was fearful of travelling alone, having never done so in Pakistan. But she enrolled in an English class, then in several arts groups and when her two children were born she talked to mums on the school run.
Her confidence increased. And when she thought about the drabness of the area where she lived, she began to consider how she could spice up the public spaces around her. The answer was flowers.
“I wanted to do something for everybody in the community,” she says. “You cannot go wrong with flowers.
“I feel that flowers bring smiles to people’s faces. I saw flowers in other areas, and thought, ‘Why don’t we have them?’”
She started with her own front garden, hoping that if she set an example, others would follow and brighten up their front gardens.
Slowly, her initiative has grown, she has broadened her sights and, with two other women, set up Khawateen (Womankind) Creative Minds, a community organisation that specialises in recycled materials.
Khawateen’s first artwork was, fittingly, The Flower Queen, a lavishly garlanded woman’s face. Its first public
work, Rainbow Peacock, an equally colourful life-size creation made of paper, plastic and cloth, went on display at the Blakesley Hall Museum.
Even Covid-19 could not stop her: Bano started running classes online.
She joined others in creating the Hay Mills Art Trail, designed to bring the community together “and make our living space more welcoming through the creation of public
‘Don’t wait for someone to bring you flowers’
artworks co-designed by residents and businesses.”
Making the trail drew widespread community involvement. The local Acock Green Men’s shed group made the painted wooden planters. Flowers were donated by Acocks Green Village in Bloom. Khawateen volunteers took on painting and planting. A burst of vibrant colour lit up the high street.
Voluntary labour and donations remain at the heart of the work (“We rely on community support with people willing to use their time to beautify their communities — everyone brings one thing or another”), but Bano and the group also learned how to apply for funds. Khawateen used a £1,000 National Lottery grant to finance an indoor beautification scheme that saw it donating free seed packets to residents
to plant in their homes.
Khawateen received a certificate of commendation from the Heart of England in Bloom, a campaign that encourages local communities to care for their environment. Every subsequent year the campaign has recognised Khawateen’s activities.
A supermarket donated compost, flowers and hanging baskets to support Khawateen’s work. The Royal Horticultural Society made a grant from a programme supporting community groups who use gardening to increase social connections. In 2023 Khawateen was part of a River Cole restoration project that included the transformation of public spaces in derelict areas of east Birmingham.
Flowers really have changed Bano’s life, and that of scores of neighbouring residents.
Reflecting on her two decades in the UK, Bano, now 44, recalls, “With time, I became very confident, a peopleperson. Because my background is coming from another country, I understand the problems that other women can face, and I tell them that as a new person in this country, don’t wait for anyone to come and save you; get out of your house, get involved, learn the culture, learn how the country works for Muslim Asian women, go to art classes, learn painting, gardening … these are the ways I try to guide them.”
And she advises: “Don’t wait for someone to bring you flowers. Plant your own garden.
“Don’t wait for anyone to rescue you, you are the only one who can rescue yourself. Trust yourself.”
Photo: Femi Amogunla
Undocumented workers trapped in limbo
One of Migrant Voice’s top targets for 2025 is to see government action to take the estimated 745,000 undocumented workers out of the untaxed, unregulated economy and regularise their immigration status.
“This government needs to focus on what will benefit the country as a whole instead of playing with voters’ minds, using the issue of undocumented migrants,” one undocumented worker told Migrant Voice.
That worker, like hundreds of thousands of others, is not undocumented by choice: he wants a proper job, free from exploitation, to support himself and contribute to the country’s economy.
People are often undocumented through no fault of their own. Causes include the fall-out from policy changes, errors in paperwork, large increases in visa fees, spurious denial of asylum claims,and official confusion in dealing with modern slavery.
The problem has been growing, and last September more than 80 non-government organisations signed up to a Migrant Voice initiative to demand government action.
In an open letter to Home Office minister Yvette Cooper they said that being undocumented puts people at “increased risk of exploitation, and of mental and physical stress.”
These problems could be changed with a policy of regularisation, which the signatories said would also increase tax revenues for the government, increase the formal labour force and help create more cohesive communities.
A few weeks after publication of the letter, the Spanish government announced plans to regularise the status of approximately 300,000 people, which would “serve to combat mafias, fraud and the violation of rights.”
Nazek Ramadan, the director of Migrant Voice, has said: “Rather than penalising people for becoming
undocumented, this government must take a new approach and create simpler routes for them to regain a documented status.
“It is time for the UK to stop looking at people as statistics on a spreadsheet and start looking at them as human beings.”
Living in the shadows for 15 years: ‘My life as an undocumented worker in the UK’
X’s story is one of thousands, but each one sheds light on a system that has trapped people in limbo, forcing them into lives of uncertainty, poverty and fear. Fearful of further complications from the Home Office and the police, he spoke on condition of anonymity.
“I came here as a student in December 2009,” he explains, his voice heavy with the weight of years spent navigating the murky waters of an immigration system that has rendered him invisible. “I remember the date because so many people have asked me, maybe 100 times, in many places.”
He arrived in the UK with a bright future. Enrolled at a London college, he was pursuing a master’s degree, “but after just five or six months, the Home Office revoked my college’s licence, and that was it. Everything fell apart.”
With his college shut down and his visa linked to his studies, he was left in a precarious position.
“They told me if I wanted to continue, I’d have to enrol in another college and pay all the fees again. But I had no money. I’d already paid my tuition once and was surviving on a loan and money borrowed from a friend.”
The friend eventually moved to Portugal, leaving X with a £2,000 debt and nowhere to turn.
“I was homeless. I stopped going to college because I couldn’t afford it. I told my parents I needed to repay the loan, and they managed to scrape together some money, but nothing changed.”
He drifted between friends’ houses, restaurants, anywhere that would give him a roof over his head for a night: “When you have no status, people take advantage of you. They don’t want to pay you for work, and they abuse you because they know you have no power to complain.”
For years, he survived in the shadows.
X’s story took a new turn in 2019 when he was living with a friend who owned a pub. He helped out around the place, answering phones and occasionally serving drinks.
“I felt so good during that time. It was the first time in years I felt like a normal person,” he recalls.
It didn’t last. The Home Office raided the pub: “I was behind the bar helping the staff. They surrounded the place — there was no chance to flee. They found two other guys in the garden and came for me.”
He was taken to a police station, terrified about what would happen next.
“I was scared out of my mind. I didn’t know what was going to happen, but I told them everything. I had no support, no family, no money.” Escorted to a detention
‘I have potential but they won’t let me use it’
centre overnight, he was interviewed by the Home Office the next morning.
Subsequently he found himself homeless once again, this time under a bridge in London, surviving on food from a local food bank: “It was winter. Cold. Terrible. They wouldn’t even let me sleep in the doorways. All they gave me was a sleeping bag.”
He spent nights riding the bus just to stay warm. “The driver asked me, ‘Why are you always on the bus?’ I told him, ‘I have no place.’ He said, ‘It’s not my problem.’ That’s what it’s like — nobody cares. You’re invisible.”
The system, as he puts it, is “killing” him. “I’ve been through so many nights, so much cold, so much hunger. The system takes everything from you. It breaks your spirit.”
Occasionally he has found temporary accommodation with a charity, but it was always fleeting. “They give you a bed for a few nights, but it’s never permanent. You’re always waiting for someone to tell you to leave.”
His mental health was affected, and his situation became increasingly dire: “I can’t sleep at night. I must take medicine. My brain is deteriorating because I haven’t been able to work. When I talk too much, I become dizzy.”
Today he still lives in limbo: “I could have done something for this country. I could have worked and contributed. But they’ve kept me in this prison. I have potential and education, but they won’t let me use it.”
His story is not unique. Thousands of undocumented workers like him are trapped in the UK, unable to work, unable to return home, unable to build a future.
“I’ve been in this country for nearly 15 years,” he says, his voice breaking. “I don’t know what I’m going to do for the next 15.”
He remains hopeful, but barely: “I’m isolated. I don’t talk to anyone. My father has died, and my mother is under stress back home. I’ve lost so much time.”
He waits, still checking in regularly with the Home Office. “Every time I am due to report I get a kind of flashback at night and I wake up suddenly, worried about missing the appointment. When I go I fear I might be detained — it’s so horrendous. They check my papers, five seconds, that’s it. They say nothing. They’re sadists. They enjoy watching us suffer.
“When they started digital reporting as well, I asked at the counter ‘Why am I doing double reporting?’ They just replied, “You have to.”
X’s story highlights a harsh reality: the UK’s immigration system is failing those who have slipped through the cracks. For many, it has turned into a nightmare of survival, exploitation, and despair.
“But I still have a little bit of hope left,” he adds. “Maybe, one day, they’ll let me live.”
Migration ‘likely to be a hot topic for years’
Immigration in the UK has gone through seismic shifts in the last two decades, says Madeleine Sumption, director of the Oxford Migration Observatory, as she explains how Brexit and global trends have reshaped the country’s immigration patterns.
“For decades, non-EU migration was the main source of immigration to the UK,” she says. “Things started changing around 2004 when the EU expanded. By the 2010s, EU migration had overtaken non-EU migration.”
The tide turned again after Brexit, with non-EU immigration surging back to prominence.
As a result, Poland has been replaced by India as the top source country for migrants to the UK, “particularly in sectors like health care and higher education.”
However, Sumption stresses that migration statistics from the early 2000s are not always reliable.
“We don’t have perfect data from that time,” she acknowledges. “Non-EU migration may have been the majority even back then, but it’s clearer in the data from 2010 onwards.”
Sumption notes that while Brexit policies have significantly impacted EU migration, the shift from EU to non-EU migration began before the referendum because of “exchange rates, economic changes, and geopolitical factors.”
After Britain voted No in a referendum on whether to
stay in or quit the European Union, she points out, “several things happened at once.
“Free movement for EU migrants ended, which significantly reduced the flow of EU migrants to the UK,” she says. “On the other hand, there was a liberalisation of policies towards non-EU migrants, particularly for international students and care workers.”
The introduction of the “graduate route,” allowing international students to stay and work in the UK after completing their studies, had contributed to the growth in numbers.
‘The impacts are smaller than people think’
At the same time, UK universities were aggressively recruiting overseas students, especially after Covid-19, to make up for their own financial shortfalls: “We ended our lockdowns sooner than some competitor countries, like Australia, which made the UK more attractive.”
There was concern about care sector staff shortages “so the government opened up its care visa — and … Zimbabwe became a major source country.” There was also quite a lot
of abuse, she adds, with a considerable number of workers being exploited: “It was not a well-managed process.”
The third group of migrants consisted of Ukrainians (granted 200,000 visas) and HongKongers (particularly in 2021 and 2022), “though the biggest drivers of immigration are still workers and students, rather than those who came on humanitarian routes.” People seeking asylum account for about 10 per cent of migrants.
How long migrants stay “depends heavily on the type of visa they come in on,” says Sumption. “Refugees and family members tend to stay permanently, while workers and students often leave after their visas expire. We expect that more health and care workers are staying permanently now, though.”
British emigration also has an impact on the overall migration figures: “Between 30,000 and 80,000 Brits emigrate each year, which lowers the net migration figures. Without that outflow, the numbers would be even higher.”
Sumption anticipates a slight decrease in the number of migrants, but probably not to pre-Brexit levels of 250,000 to 350,000 a year. “We’ve already seen a decline in work and study visas. However, the numbers are still likely to remain higher than pre-Brexit levels, especially in sectors like health and care.”
She also points to the influence of non-immigration policies. “The care sector, for example, struggles to recruit workers because of poor pay and conditions. That’s a policy issue in a publicly funded sector, leading to higher demand for migrant workers.”
Overall, Sumption emphasises that while Brexit and global events such as the war in Ukraine have re-shaped UK immigration patterns, migration remains a complex, evolving issue: “Non-EU migration has taken centre stage again, and the UK’s immigration landscape is now influenced by a mix of policy changes, economic needs, and global dynamics.”
She foresees that migration will continue to be a hot topic for years: “It’s an issue that affects every part of society, and we’re likely to see further shifts as new policies and global events unfold.”
+ Sumption on the national debate on migration: “Media coverage can be quite polarised. Often we see debates in which one side says immigration is bringing down the economy and the other says immigration is keeping the economy alive. The reality is more boring: that migration has costs and benefits, and the impacts are smaller than people think.
“There are countries, like Japan, with much lower levels of migration and they do fine, and countries like Australia that have much higher levels of migration and they do fine, too.
“It’s often not the determining factor, at least from an economic perspective.”
The Migration Observatory at the University of Oxford provides independent, authoritative, evidence-based analysis of data on migration and migrants in the UK, to inform media, public and policy debates, and to generate high quality research on international migration and public policy issues.
London has the largest proportion of migrants among UK regions, with over 40 per cent of its residents born abroad
Compared to people born in the UK, migrants are more likely to be of working age and have a university degree
Source: Migration Observatory
Madeleine Samption
Photo: Oxford Migration Observatory
A bigger picture
Exhibition photos: Karen Gordon
Migrants have really put themselves in the picture in Scotland: an exhibition of photographs by and about migrants at a Glasgow museum has attracted more than an estimated 150,000 visitors.
The 60 portraits at the Kelvingrove Museum and Art Gallery are vivid proof of the many ways that migrants contribute to Scottish life.
They also help ensure that migrant heritage is documented and recognised as part of Scotland’s past and present.
Migration is not a one-way movement: a previous government estimated the worldwide Scottish diaspora (emigrants and their descendants) at between 28 and 40 million.
Sir Geoff Palmer, the first black professor in Scotland, who is featured in the exhibition, has pointed out that “three-quarters of the surnames in the Jamaican telephone book are Scottish, so many Jamaicans have some Scottish blood or history in them, whether they like it or not.
“So as I tell many Scots, your ancestors were not in Jamaica doing missionary service alone!”
At the opening of the Kelvingrove show he also pointed out that a Jamaica Street has existed in Glasgow since 1763: “So when we talk about “our city”, [if] we look back far
enough, a lot of people have contributed.”
The two-way traffic is also illustrated by another person featured in the exhibition, Louise Falconer, principal policy officer at Glasgow City Council: her Edinburgh parents migrated to Australia before she was born, but after deciding to work overseas for a while, she responded to an advertisement for a post in South Lanarkshire in 2005, married, and stayed.
As Professor Alison Phipps of the University of Glasgow commented at the exhibition opening: “Glasgow is a UNESCO City of Music, and sometimes that music is the sound of a shutter clicking.
Putting Ourselves in The Picture, runs at the Kelvingrove Museum and Art Gallery in Glasgow until September. It is part of a wider Migrant Voice project funded by the National Lottery Heritage Fund.
Sir Geoff Palmer
In 1948 I was told that my mother was going to London and I was to live with my aunts. When I was 14, my mother sent for me. My aunts got my passport, a ticket, a suit, and a small suitcase, which I still have. Before I left, my grandaunt wrapped me in newspapers
because she said London was cold. That the trip by plane and ship took nearly two weeks was not considered by her...
The day after I arrived in London, my mother woke me early and told me to get ready. As we were leaving, a man at the door asked where she was taking me, and she said, “To work”. The man told her, “You can go to work, but he can’t, because he’s not 15.” I had to go to school. I was 14 years and 11 months: one month changed my life.
My mother was upset because she had found me a job in a grocery shop. It had cost her £86 to bring me to London and it took her seven years to save that money.
Later I got a job as a junior technician at Queen Elizabeth’s College in London. One day Prof Chapman called me into his office and said, “I don’t think you’re as stupid as you try to make out. I think you should go to university.” So I went to Leicester University to do a botany degree.
I’ve learnt that no matter how able you are, it is the people you meet that determine what you achieve in the end.
What people need is a cup of kindness. When somebody asks you to take a drink with them, that is an act of kindness. How many migrants have been asked to join in such a drink?
If somebody is not prepared to eat or drink with you, you’re not part of the system. You get that relationship of kindness in a society if somebody sees you as equal. I retired in 2005 as professor of grain science in the
Sir Geoff Palmer
Louise Falconer
Robyn Marsack
Ms Mushaka
International Centre for Brewing and Distilling at Heriot Watt University. I am proud that many of my students have made successful careers in the malting, brewing and distilling industries worldwide.
I still do experiments at home in my kitchen! However, I now spend most of my time on the boards of various charitable organisations and give lectures to the community on Scottish/Jamaican/Caribbean history. This history is outlined in my book, The Enlightenment Abolished.
Hing Fung Teh
I was born in Malaysia, of Chinese ancestry. When I was 12 my dad had a stroke. A relative came to teach him tai chi and the whole family joined in. I was not a very healthy child and not at all sporty. But after I started learning tai chi my health improved tremendously.
I came to the UK in 1973 as an accountancy student at Birmingham Polytechnic.
On one of my many trips around the country I met my future husband, Leong, in Glasgow. We have been married 37 years and have two grown up children, Han and Ying. We have lived in Kirkintilloch for 28 years.
In the late 1980s, Linda, a lady in Kirkintilloch, became my first tai chi ‘student’. She fell in love with this slow, gentle exercise while she was abroad. Soon I had a few more ‘students’ who were friends. That is how I started tai chi teaching.
I am pleased that the students have benefited physically, improving their health, balance, confidence and reducing stress and high blood pressure. There is usually a relaxed atmosphere in class and we often have a good laugh, too.
I have taught many different groups of students: primary and secondary school children, middle-aged adults, retired people (my oldest student is 91), a deaf and blind group, nursing home day care clients. I feel privileged to meet so many interesting and amazing people.
Most of my students are interested in the Chinese way of life, our culture and philosophy. Through exchanging stories, we learn of each other’s culture. Many students have become my friends and part of my Scottish family.
Deep inside we are all the same and I am honoured to be accepted by most Scots I meet. I consider myself an East/ West Chinese person and have learned to adopt Scottish humour and friendliness in my everyday life.
Overall, I consider myself lucky to live happily in this beautiful and peaceful country.
Ms Mushaka
I was born in Uganda, married in Zimbabwe and came to the UK in 2001. I am now a naturalised British citizen. In Africa I worked as a senior community development worker and as a consultant for disability and development NGOs. When I first came to Scotland I was stuck in the asylum process and not allowed to work for seven years, but volunteered with a variety of organisations. Once you’ve recovered from whatever made you leave your country, you want to be part of the new country you live in.
It was not easy to find full-time employment having been out of the labour market for so long.
Now I am a fieldwork development officer with Poverty Alliance, Glasgow. I work with community groups raising awareness about poverty issues and social exclusion. Scottish people are generous, friendly and welcoming. Our main obstacle to belonging is negative coverage of migration in parts of the media, which feeds on the stereotypes. Challenging media portrayal of migrants has to be part of our work.
I would like to support a political system that acknowledges the contribution I’m making to this country, and I want to feel and behave like a citizen. I am still not sure that everybody who sees me on the street think I’m Scottish, let alone British.
Many still label me as a migrant, a refugee, an asylum seeker, or sometimes even as an overstayer from Africa. They don’t see a human being, a woman with skills, qualifications, and experience to contribute like anybody else.
So gaining a real sense of belonging is another journey
that we still have to work on.
Louise Falconer
My parents are from Edinburgh and migrated to Australia before I was born. They are both teachers, went out for a couple of years, but stayed, although my dad still has a real longing for Scotland. Being Scottish was part of my identity growing up.
I graduated in law and Asian studies, spent time in Japan teaching English and worked as a lawyer before moving into the Australian civil service, for the Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet.
Having decided to work overseas for a while, I responded to an advertisement for a post in Blantyre, South Lanarkshire in 2005 with Oxfam, working on gender and poverty. I wasn’t really expecting to stay any longer in Scotland. But then I met my husband...
I then worked in the legal research team at the Scottish Parliament, before moving to my current post with the Glasgow City Council.
Ivan Petrov
I’m 25, from Kazanla, a small town in Bulgaria. I wanted to study abroad and picked Glasgow because there I could take advantage of the cultural scene and all the events of a city. My first impression: it rained for the first three days so all preconceptions of Scottish weather and Glasgow came true at once.
My university experience was positive. I studied psychology, doing part-time catering work to support myself. I also volunteered with a telephone helpline offering emotional support to people in distress and feeling suicidal.
It took me a year-and-a-half to find permanent work after graduating. Knowing someone at the organisation, supporting people with special needs and disabilities in their homes, helped me settle in. It is very personalised support to enable individuals to live independently and have happy lives.
It is very rewarding to become part of somebody’s life. You develop a personal connection, which motivates you. Even on my days off I still think about things at work. You can’t completely shut off.
The job makes me feel more part of the community. I’m a
lot more involved with the local people and I get to see more of their everyday lives.
Robyn Marsack
I was born and grew up in Wellington, New Zealand. I left in 1973. Passing the half-way mark, when you realise you’ve been longer in the country you’ve come to than in the country you were born in, is a significant moment. You have big questions, such as What do you call ‘home’. I still refer to Wellington as home. But, of course, home is where my family is, and my family is here. So what you call home is a loaded decision and the answer can vary depending on whom you’re speaking to.
When I went to England, I was steeped in English literature, English landscapes, English art, English buildings, English history. When I was about to leave Oxford, I met the person who became my husband, who is Scottish. It was a very fortunate crossover.
I saw the advertisement for the position of director of the Scottish Poetry Library and I thought, ‘That’s an extraordinary job. I won’t have a chance for it, but I’ll try.’ And I was appointed! I’ve been there since 1999.
I feel passionately that I need to be an advocate for Scottish literature and Scottish poetry.
The Poetry Library’s sessions for care homes are a combination of storytelling, reminiscence and poetry. People have a lot of poetry buried in their minds.
If I say “Here’s a poem by Wordsworth about daffodils and I’ll read it for you,” they’ll say, “Oh, I remember that my mother grew daffodils,” or, “I remember that we learnt that poem when I was 7.”
Migrants are always going to be in a difficult position because when times are hard, as they are now, people look for others to blame, or say that the country is not big enough to contain them.
I was heartened by the example of the Glasgow Girls who banded together and went to Parliament and said You can’t deport our friend who’s an asylum seeker.
And when my daughter was in primary school I was struck by the fact that she never identified somebody by their skin colour, which would not have been the case when I was a child. My mother would ask “Who is your friend?” and I’d say, “She’s an Indian girl called so and so.” I don’t think they do that now, and that seems to me a hugely positive change.
Hing Fung Teh
Ivan Petrov
Lack of support for freed victims of modern slavery
One of the current government’s first announcements was a promise to clear the inherited backlog of 23,300 modern slavery casesand help get the victims’ lives back to normal.
But even if their status is confirmed (and some of the other estimated 100,000+ modern slavery victims identified), survivors are not guaranteed support, such as counselling, safe housing and legal advice. This is because new laws allow the government to decide on a ‘case-by-case’ basis whether support is ‘necessary’ in each case. As a result, some survivors go through the whole decision-making process without ever recieving help.
Another major cause of concern is the slowness and incompetence faced by many people who have been freed from enslavement in accessing government support.
A House of Lords committee said recently that the previous government had restricted support for survivors. A specialist giving evidence to the committee reported survivors’ claims of being told they could be deported if they complained about their treatment.
The organisation After Exploitation says politicians “refuse to match the rhetoric with guaranteed support”.
The organisation’s director, Maya Esslemont, explains that “survivors have the worst of both worlds: those who need support aren’t guaranteed it, whilst survivors who want to maintain some semblance of normality by returning to work often can’t because of immigration restrictions. Many need some form of support and the right to work in order to recover, but get neither.”
Campaigners say every victim must be able to access support, especially long-term support — which is not the case at present, despite the rhetoric.
Government, they argue, must look at the legislation covering survivors, because “services for modern slavery survivors often exist on paper, but not in reality.”
A survivor’s story
After escaping modern slavery, Didi [not her real name] thought her life would turn a corner. But four years after being rescued, she’s still battling for basic security and dignity.
Though she’s out of the hands of her traffickers, life in the UK is far from simple, and her future remains uncertain as she negotiates with the Home Office.
“People talk about trafficking and modern slavery every day,” she says. “They pump a lot of money into fighting it, but we survivors don’t see much of the benefits. It’s like we’ve been freed, but not really. We’re left in a limbo.”
Didi’s story is one of survival — both from the trafficking that enslaved her for over a decade and the system that’s supposed to help her rebuild her life.
“It’s more like a trap,” she explains. “They [the government] want to know who’s in the country illegally or just make up the trafficking claim to get rid of us. Their policies create jobs for people who work in charities, but what about us, the survivors?
“Their policies are not based on our needs.”
The National Referral Mechanism (NRM) is meant to support victims of human trafficking and modern slavery, but for Didi, it has brought little relief.
“I’ve been asking myself, what’s this NRM really about? They tell you you’re free, but then what? You’re left unable to get a job, you can’t go to college, and you don’t get much help. It doesn’t take you anywhere.
“You just sit in a safe house without working, and then people say ‘Go and work’ and accuse you of being lazy.”
The process is confusing and restrictive, she says.
“After years of trying, they told me I could apply for discretionary leave to remain, yet many restrictions exist. You’ve already been declared a victim, and then they make it so hard for you to move forward. It feels like I’m being punished again.”
Didi’s first step into the system began in 2020, just before Covid-19 lockdown. “After I gave a witness statement to the police, they referred me to the Salvation Army and social services.
“I didn’t know what was happening. I didn’t even know about the NRM. I wasn’t documented. I was severely depressed.
“They moved me to a safe house in the West Midlands, but conditions were so bad they only added to my trauma.
“When I got there, the bed was filthy, the sheets were stained. I had to buy my own bedding. It was horrible, especially for someone who’d been trafficked for 11 years. I had mental health issues, and it just triggered everything again.
“There was one woman and six men in the house before I moved in. One of the boys had been in prison for stabbing. He wanted sex from me. I told him No. I said I was old enough to be his mum, but he didn’t care. He got violent. He’d go out, leave the door open, come back at 3a.m. It triggered all the bad memories.
“There’s no security in some of the ‘safe houses’, anyone can do anything.
“It was a living hell,” she says. “I couldn’t even go downstairs to cook food because I was scared. So I started eating junk food in my room. I ended up in the
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Care workers call for action against racism
We clapped for NHS staff during the Covid-19 epidemic and there is widespread understanding that “our NHS”, as politicians like to say, and our social care service are dependent on migrant workers.
So it’s all the more shocking that so many migrant health and care workers face abuse and discrimination on a daily basis — both from administrators and clients.
“As a caregiver, I was once called a Black bitch,” Benedicta told Migrant Voice. “Another time I was called a Black bastard by the person I was caring for, and though those words hurt, crawled through my skin, I cried in silence, reassuring myself that sticks may break my bones but not words.
“One day as I lifted my head after lacing the shoes of an elder, he punched me in my left eye. I stood there holding my eye, hoping in my pain to hear my white colleagues who bore witness to rebuke the act, but none did. Rather they apologised on his behalf.
“One even suggested I might have laced his shoe wrongly to warrant such action.
“I reported it to my boss. Despite the policies of the company, nothing happened.
“I got home that day, and when I saw my little son and daughters, I cried. I do this job to take care of them.”
Another woman who prefers to remain anonymous said: “My two years working as a caregiver hasn’t been pleasant, for the most part. I had an experience when a lady I was caring for spat on me. I wiped my face and flashed her an ambivalent stare, and she said, ‘Go back to your country’.
“Upset, I stepped out and reported to the nurse on duty. The nurse returned with me, and with a gentle voice, informed the lady that I was her friend and not to act towards me in such a manner again. The lady responded
in a kind manner, but as soon as the nurse left the room, slowly, the lady gave me the middle finger and whispered ‘Leave our country’.
“I reported to my manager, who advised forgiveness when patients act in such manner as they suffer dementia — hence their misbehaviour. I cried so hard on my husband’s lap that night.”
Emily says that “in my visits as a support worker I am always paired in twos. Any time I am paired with a White support worker, the woman we care for never lets me touch her or converse with her. If I even make an attempt to assist my colleague, she insults me and my skin colour.
“When I report it, I am often cajoled to return there knowing I will be treated like sh*t again. I think migrant caregivers continue to be abused because the people we work for do not necessarily care about us as a person, but only the service we can offer.
“Perhaps if our employers changed the way they see us, then they would actively find ways to limit or ensure a total stop to how we are abused.”
In a submission by the Homecare Workers Group to MPs last September, ‘Kate’ reported, “I’ve been hit, spat at and sworn at, had things thrown at me.”
There are many similar testimonies from all parts of the health and social services. They are painful, but not new.
In 2024 a report by the equality organisation brap found that 71 per cent of UK-trained staff from global majority ethnic backgrounds complained of race discrimination, and that many NHS organisations’ response was to challenge or ignore the allegations.
Joy Warmington, CEO of brap, the equality organisation, told Migrant Voice: “We’ve heard from many Global Majority NHS staff who have experienced racism and felt completely unsupported by their managers.
“There’s a pervasive culture of avoidance, defensiveness, and minimisation of racism in the NHS, which leads to inadequate responses when concerns are raised. Many managers simply aren’t equipped to recognise, address, or even talk about racism effectively.
“As a result, staff often feel discouraged from speaking up, fearing their complaints will be ignored. Unfortunately, raising concerns about racism can still be a career staller.”
She said that although some healthcare organisations were taking the matter seriously, “there’s an urgent need for comprehensive training and systemic change to give managers the skills and confidence to deal with these issues properly and to create a more inclusive and supportive workplace culture.”
Shanna Wells, head of marketing and events at the Care Workers Charity warned that “the sad reality [is] that care workers across the sector experience abuse, and this is too often dismissed as simply ‘part of the job.’
“This abuse — whether verbal or physical — can come from people drawing on social care, family members, or colleagues. Many care workers tell us they feel helpless when faced with such situations, particularly if their employer fails to take appropriate action.”
Adis Sehic, senior research and policy officer at the Work Rights Centre commented: “Our recent research documented shocking instances of racism towards migrant care workers.
“All workers should be free to speak out against racist abuse, but sponsored care workers are often denied this right in practice. Many workers feel too scared to speak out in case their employer cancels their visa in retaliation.
“We need urgent reform of the work sponsorship system to enable migrant care workers to speak out against racism and all forms of abuse.”
Gap year misery for refugees
Gap years conjure up images of pre-university students leaving their childhoods on the beaches of Bali and in the bars of Bangkok, enjoying those hedonistic worry-free months before their first undergrad essay.
But for many asylum-seekers and refugees — desperate to contribute and be part of the society in which they have sought refuge — gap years can mean a cruelly frustrating period when they are barred from working and their lives slip away.
The wait can be protracted. Even if finally they get the right to stay, the gaping gaps in their CVs often mean that possible employers shun them.
“I worked in radio and enjoyed being a news anchor in Malawi before coming here,” says Stephina, “but getting stuck in the asylum system in the UK for four years has robbed me of my passion for radio.
“Even after receiving papers [being granted the right to stay], after four years of not working all I can do is work as a health care assistant. I’m now doing things for survival, not passion.
“I lost the opportunity to work in a field I loved even after getting papers because my qualifications from back home are not recognised here.”
She is now re-training, hoping her circumstances will change after graduation. Four wasted gap years because of Home Office dilatoriness.
For J.D., the waste is even greater:
“I came here when I was still young. I thought I would continue with my education and train as a lawyer. Instead, I have lived here for over 20 years as a homeless man.
“Even though I now have status I am struggling with my mental health. I can’t sleep. I wanted to be a solicitor. I’ve lost hope and capacity now.”
Dr Habibur Rahman Niazi’s life and career have also been on hold, as he waits for his asylum claim to be processed.
“When I left Afghanistan I thought I was coming to a place where I could use my skills, contribute to society, and keep my family safe,” he says. “Instead, I’m trapped. I’m stuck in limbo.”
He is prohibited from working, even though his skills are desperately needed in the UK’s strained healthcare system. “I’ve been a doctor for over 20 years. I’ve trained thousands of healthcare workers. But here I’m not allowed to do anything.”
For someone used to saving lives and making a difference, the enforced inactivity has been devastating.
“I can’t work, I can’t study. I feel like I’m wasting away,” he says. “The UK needs doctors, but they won’t let me contribute.”
He has received unconditional offers to study postgraduate public health and management courses at several UK universities, but without the right to work he cannot afford the tuition fees: “I’ve applied for scholarships, but so far, nothing. Every door feels closed.”
He volunteers with organisations like Doctors of the World, trying to keep his skills sharp and give back to the community. But it’s not enough.
“Volunteering is good, but it doesn’t pay the bills. I need to work. I need to feel useful again.
“I’ve lost years of my life, years of my career,” he says. “I feel like I’m falling behind, like I’m losing everything I worked for.
“The system is broken. It’s as though they don’t want us to succeed.”
For Dr Niazi, the enforced gap years are a cruel irony. Even if he is eventually allowed to work, the gaps in his CV will make it difficult for him to find employment in his field: “I’ve been out of practice for too long. Who will hire me now?”
Or listen to Noorulla’s story: 15 years in limbo as the Home Office dilly-dallied over his case, and three years of bureaucratic hell.
He fled the Taliban in Afghanistan, arriving in the UK in 2012. Like many asylum seekers, he hoped for a swift process that would allow him to build a new life in safety and eventually reunite with his family. Instead, years of delay nearly broke him.
Case studies from RefuAid
E is a doctor from Rwanda. Re-qualifying to enable him to work for the NHS has already taken two-and-a-half years and he does not have rights to work, despite being on the shortage occupation list.
M from Sudan works in cyber-security. He has been waiting 18 months for a decision on his asylum claim. He has been offered a place at a top UK university, but is ineligible for student finance as an asylum-seeker, and so has been unable to start his masters programme. He cannot progress in his career and does not have a right to work.
“I wasn’t permitted to work, and had no financial support,” Noorulla recalls, describing his mental health struggles during the eight years he waited for refugee status.
During this time, he was detained twice, for three months on each occasion. His mental health deteriorated rapidly; a psychologist’s recommendation for release went unheard.
“I was sent to the airport to be deported back to Afghanistan,” he recalls. His deportation was halted as he was about to board the aircraft.
Years of health problems and hospital visits followed, but in 2020 he was granted refugee status, sparking the hope that he could finally be reunited with his wife and three children, who were still in Afghanistan.
But his application for family reunion turned out to be the beginning of another long and painful journey.
Today, Noorulla’s family is trying to adjust to life in the UK. His children are starting college with dreams of becoming doctors and engineers. They live together in a
U is a human resources manager from Iran. She has a qualification level that is the gold standard for HR professionals and more than a decade of experience. She also has rights to work but has not been able to get a job because her status is insecure — she has been waiting for over a year for her asylum decision.
M is a mechanical engineer from Turkey. He has not been able to afford registration with the Institution of Mechanical Engineers and therefore complete the necessary ‘top-up’ courses, and does not have rights to work. He has been waiting for over 18 months for his asylum decision.
single room in temporary accommodation but finally feel safe.
“There are lots of opportunities in this country. I want my sons to be educated and to have a good life. If they are educated, they could help with the peace and development of Afghanistan one day,” says Noorulla.
Yet he still struggles. He has no job and remains reliant on the kindness of friends and organisations like the Refugee and Migrant Centre.
“After all these years, I still feel like I don’t belong anywhere. But I am grateful to be with my family. We are happy now, and this is a good time in our lives.”
Nazek Ramadan, the Director of Migrant Voice, says: “Policies which make it simple to gain a recognised status have been used across Europe and elsewhere. It is time for the Uk to stop looking at people as statistics on a spreadsheet and start looking at them as human beings”.
Dr. Niyazi
Poetry on the move
Amir Darwish
Migration is such an upheaval, a life-changing decision, such an emotional experience that it is not surprising that mtany migrants write poems, many read them. Here are two/three
In and out of trouble
Poetry got Amir Darwish into trouble (“They asked me: ‘Where do you get your ideas? Where did the inspiration come from?’ It was scary. Then they took me into prison and tortured me”). Later, it helped him get out of trouble.
His love of literature was fuelled by his brother’s book collection, particularly those secreted in the attic from where Darwish junior would surreptitiously take a volume, read and carefully return it to its original spot.
In his mid-teens he began to wonder why there was no country of Kurdistan.
He began conjuring up the imaginary land in poetic words, which might have gone unnoticed had he not shown his work to his brother’s friend — who turned out to be a government spy.
Flight from Syria to Dubai, and later to the UK, followed. It’s been his home for 21 years.
For the first decade or so he lived in the north-east, which was, he recalls, “a hotbed for the far-right … and I gradually started to understand that racism is going to be part and parcel of my journey.”
But he felt he was growing stronger and some of the anti-migrant pressure diminished when he moved to more multicultural London.
Réfugiée prière
If the ocean swallows me today, let it be known that I fought for my country, I bared myself, wringing her off of every water, leaving her out to dry in the cold harmattan.
Let my soul take refuge in imagined cities, filled with mosaics hanging above its walls and the flickering lights at night and salt bread and mashed potatoes.
Not drowning in my tears before the rising turbulent takes the leftovers of my body.
And if the universe pleases, may she grant me passage to this place, where I might call home, may our broken vessel in these turbulent waters fight for us who have lost hope and give us peace.
Three poems by Amaka Obioji
“Racism and anti-migrant feeling is still here, of course,” he says, “and the recent riots affected me majorly. But now when it occurs I respond creatively. I write a poem or a short fiction and that makes me feel much better, because it’s cathartic.”
Though he has been British since 2009 he admits that “the feeling internally of being British only happened about or five or six years ago,” because home can be a slippery concept. Which is why his job as poetry editor of the other side of hope magazine is so appropriate and fulfilling.
In the words of City of Sanctuary UK: “At long last a serious publication dedicated to the voices of people who have moved, the other side of hope reaches across divides,
Homecoming
Home calls me everyday, in between dusk, reminding me of love. The glory I left behind, mocking my taste in places where I chose to settle.
Home calls me in my mother’s tongue saying, do not settle for less.
For immigrants with tears for breakfast
This is for the sad mother on the train who left her 5 months old, fleeing, to provide her a future
The cleaners in opera theatres with chiseled hips but hide them well to stay on the job
The black taxi man hums to the rhythm of the African drum playing from his radio
The young girl who drags her feet from work to work to walk through med school
The little boy in a turban who turns up on a boat on the border fleeing the war at home, hoping to find a new life away from his people. With every struggle comes renewed hope
and platforms the voices that urgently need to be heard, bringing us together as neighbours — as humans.”
Written and edited by migrants, it is not surprising that exile, home, belonging and the search for identity are common themes in the hundreds of submissions to the publication.
“Every time I read a poem sent to me I can relate to that and I think, ‘This person is at a stage I once was at. I went through the stages of being an exile and then gradually
Amaka Obioji
Amir Darwish
getting used to the place and to the culture, the search for identity and for the meaning of where home is now.’
“Now I call London my home,” he says, “but there is that piece still missing, which is where I came originally from and where I was first born as a poet.”
Amir Darwish has published two books of poetry: Dear Refugee and Don’t Forget The Couscous.
Established in 2021, the other side of hope is a migrant-led, independent, non-affiliated, not-for-profit publication.
‘Writing was like therapy’
Amaka Obioji says her poetry has changed in her three years in the UK.
“Yes, it has changed greatly, because most of my poems right now are from the angle of migration.”
As a child in Eastern Nigeria, she says, she didn’t talk much but read and wrote a lot: “I was a shy little kid while I was growing up. I loved reading.”
Like all her siblings, she attended boarding school:
“Writing was like therapy, a place to find joy, to be myself.
“The only way I could communicate was through writing. It was, is, my safe place. I experimented with a lot of styles. At the end of the day, poetry was the style I was looking for.”
She wrote about herself, her emotions, how her environment affected her. She calls her work “mindfulness poems. It’s the poetry of the heart.”
Now “I write from the angle of someone in a foreign place, an outsider, in London.”
Migration, she says, has good and bad sides. Some of her siblings live in the UK, but she misses her parents: “I’m spending so much credit calling home … I’m missing so many activities.”
I am fifty I feel I have arrived the biggest battles hopefully behind me
Loraine Masiya Mponela
She points to the many difficulties migrants face.
As a student, for example, she and others were for a time blocked from attending classes and using facilities such as the library because the university said it had not received tuition fees on time as a result of delays in money transfers from several countries.
“I wrote so many emails as the student leader for my class. The university insisted, ‘This is the policy.’ Many students were affected. Ultimately, the ban was lifted when the money came through, but there should be a little more understanding in such situations, especially from a university to which individual students have already paid over £10,000. It was very ugly.”
And though Obioji says that “when I’m writing it is my soul. I don’t know what else i would do if I wasn’t writing”, she also has a day job working for an organisation that finds accommodation and help for asylum seekers and has co-founded Diaspora Africa, which documents African migrants’ stories and publishes policy papers on immigration issues.
Whatever comes next in her life, Obioji will continue writing. So there may be a sequel to her first poetry book, Mother, Did You Call My Name?, published in Nigeria in 2024. And Britain may be in the spotlight.=
‘50 is a miracle’
As Loraine Masiya Mponela’s poem says, the biggest battles may be behind her . But that doesn’t mean she has stopped fighting.
Her first poetry book, I Was Not Born A Sad Poet, was focussed on the struggle for refugee status, for herself and for others.
Her second, Now I Sing, reflects the battle won, the acceptance of her asylum claim as well as other aspects of her life, reflected in the sub-title, “50 poems to celebrate 50 years”.
Hitting 50 is a landmark for Mponela.
“It’s a miracle”, she says, because of the comparison with others in her family. Her father died at 32, her mother at 51, her sister at 6, her brother at 41.
Happily, her son is alive and living in Malawi, and she now has an as yet unmet granddaughter. The cruel years of slow asylum decision-making mean she has seen her son only once since he was 14. There’s no immediate prospect of a reunion flight when you have been living in poverty.
Even official refugee acceptance does not end your difficulties. Mponela works as a community network worker in Migrant Voice’s Birmingham office, but struggled to sort out stable accommodation. After years of living in a glass bottle (where I wear a tag/ that says, I can’t get a job/ a life, a relationship, or just be happy/ because the bottle has rules) there are no savings to fall back on.
She has escaped from the glass bottle in which she was trapped, but admits that the subsequent wave of relief has slowed her down: “I guess it’s the exhaustion. I’ve watched my tyres get ripped.”
The mental and emotional stress has been enormous. She says there have been weeks of tears and therapies, which further complicate the process of adjusting to new circumstances.
Nevertheless, Mponela continues to campaign: “Still fire is burning in my head and heart,” she insists.
“I’ll go on writing and working with asylum seekers. I definitely haven’t stopped and I’m not stopping” — a commitment that will come as a relief to the hundreds she has helped: “An incredible activist and a voice for the voiceless,” according to Alphonsine Kabagabo, director of Women for Refugee Women.
Mponela is secretary of a Malawi women’s group, Daughters of Nyasa, in Coventry, where she lives, and attends and helps run Writers At Play.
Encouraged by her editor, she is thinking about fiction writing: a short story, perhaps, or children’s stories. “I always wanted to write something for children… I need to write a book for my granddaughter.”
She wants to improve her life, to go on learning, but “we still have people who are suffering. I can’t turn my back.
“I haven’t stopped and I’m not stopping.”
Loraine Masiya Mponela’s two poetry books are I Was Not Born A Sad Poet (2022) and Now I Sing (2024)
Just one song at a conference in Manchester I saw emotionally drained faces of migrant women suffering from past and ongoing traumas starting to dance in many years forgetting the pain of living in destitution and homelessness one by one they each rose up from their chairs wiping their tears to dance
joy, laughter and relaxation lit the room
Loraine Masiya Mponela
It’s back to school at the weekend
There are between 3,000 and 5,000 weekend (or complementary) schools in the UK catering for people from a specific nationality.
Organised through cultural groups and associations, they offer supplementary education in core curriculum subjects, languages, culture and religious topics to children in mainstream education.
Emma Padner, a Glasgow-based freelance journalist who specialises in migration and gender, visited three of them.
Saadi Glasgow Iranian School
Eight years after coming to Scotland as an asylum seeker, Shahnaz Kaiedpour jumped at the opportunity to be back in a classroom, teaching young people in Glasgow at the Saadi Persian School.
“I am pleased that I have a chance to help Iranian children to learn about their family’s culture and about the different traditions from Iran,” she says.
Kaiedpour taught maths in Iran for 17 years. She fled In 2008 with her two young sons. Now she teaches children between the ages of 3 and 13 on Saturdays.
The school is one of many ethnic minority schools in the city sharing the goal of teaching culture, language and traditions from countries of origin to young migrants or children of migrants. Many cultural schools hold classes on Saturdays and function as a small community hub for migrants.
The children come from Persian or mixed families, though a number of Scottish adults take Persian lessons, too, online or in-person.
The Iran-born population in the Glasgow City Council area was 2,647, according to the 2022 Scottish census. After protests erupted in Iran following the death in police custody of a young Kurdish woman, Mahsa Amini, in September 2022, the number of Iranians seeking asylum in the UK and other countries rose.
“Being a part of Saadi Persian School is not only rewarding for the students but also for me as a teacher,” says Kaiedpour. “The joy of seeing children learn, grow, and express themselves in their mother tongue is truly fulfilling.”
They learn to read or expand their vocabulary, she says,
and “between each lesson they have fun and also take books home. Sometimes we watch Persian movies.”
Marzieh Dastjerdi says her two children, now aged 17 and 15, benefitted academically and socially through attending the Glasgow Saadi School for four years.
“It was always important to me that my children know what their motherland is like. Unfortunately, I have never had the chance to take them to Iran, where they would get to know their culture and traditions,” she says. “I decided, therefore, to introduce them to reading and writing Farsi in Glasgow.”
“My children have not only learned their mother tongue, but they have also gained a greater understanding of the customs of our culture and made friends with other Iranian children,” says Dastjerdi. “Without the support of my children’s kind teacher, this would have been much harder to achieve.”
The school runs special events for festivals such as Yalda night, celebrated on the winter solstice; Nowruz, the Persian New Year; and Christmas. Similarities and differences between cultures are explained at these events, which also help students appreciate their heritage.
Kaiedpour says such celebrations “not only teach cultural traditions but also foster a sense of community and belonging among the students. To gain more understanding of culture we ask them to draw, write and talk about the events.”
St Mary’s Ukrainian School Glasgow
St. Mary’s Ukrainian School (left) was established in London more than 60 years ago, catering for Ukrainians who came to Britain after the Second World War.
Now a sister school in Glasgow is helping educate some of the 25,000 Ukrainians offered sanctuary by the Scottish government after the outbreak of war the Russia-Ukraine war.
One of those refugees, Nataliya Lyalyuk, is putting her 18 years teaching experience to work at the new school.
She arrived in Scotland in 2022 with her two children, her mother and their dog. Her husband stayed behind, and her children have not seen him for more than two years.
Lyalyuk noticed that Ukrainians were struggling in Scottish schools because of language difficulties.
“Glasgow welcomed a lot of families from Ukraine, especially with children, and school helps them carry on with schooling from Ukraine as well as learning the language,” Lyalyuk says through her 17-year-old son, Nazarii, who translated during our interview. “It’s very helpful to adjust in a new society, to communicate in our native language.”
Ukrainian schools abroad are also cultural hubs: “They perform an important mission, which is to transfer knowledge about the history and traditions of Ukraine, and contribute to the formation of the cultural identity of students.”
The school is run by a team of 10 Ukrainians, three of whom are volunteers.
“The most important part in our job is that we can see the children smile,” says Lyalyuk. “Their smiles persuade us to do our best, to provide the best educational services.”
She points out that many Ukrainian refugees suffer from war trauma, and a specialist school enables pupils to talk to people their own age and feel more comfortable in their new home.
In addition, some Ukrainian students at the school were born in Scotland but want to learn their parents’ language.
The school is “like a small Ukrainian community between children and their parents, helping them to be more comfortable in a new country, communicate in their native language and remember traditions from home,” she says.
“We are happy that we were able to unite into a single school community to celebrate all Ukrainian holidays together. We are also happy to see the Scots at our Varenika holiday, celebrate Christmas together and paint Ukrainian wooden toys.”
Nazarii studied English when he arrived, has a place at The University of Edinburgh and is the first Ukrainian member of the Youth Parliament of Scotland.
General Sosabowski Polish School Glasgow
When Polish geography teacher Paweł Porański moved to the UK in 2005 he struggled to find teaching positions because his English wasn’t up to scratch.
He improved his English through college courses and in 2012 heard about job opportunities at the Polish School in Glasgow.
He is one of the three teachers who re-established the school in that year and is now the deputy head and supply teacher for Polish geography and history.
The 300-pupil school has 18 teachers and 12 volunteers. Demand is fairly constant, because in 2020 there were 92,000 Poles living in Scotland, making them the country’s biggest non-British nationality, according to the National Records of Scotland.
Poles are more widely spread than most other minority groups in Scotland, with more than half living outside the four city council areas.
The school, recently renamed after a famous Polish General, teaches Polish language for students aged 5 and above and Polish history and geography for the over-10s. It hosts cultural and community events for Polish holidays and traditions.
Two of the current volunteers are former students of the school: one plans to become a teacher, says Poreński. This year’s GCSE students have been volunteering with younger students, too.
“Every teacher is extremely proud of their pupils’ achievements,” he says. “The most fulfilling scenario is when pupils progress to be a volunteer in our school and then go on to university to become a teacher.”
When three former pupils started a Polish Scouting group in Glasgow, he recalls having wanted to start such a group himself, but he had always been busy with re-establishing the school: “When your former pupil achieves what you fail to achieve yourself, that’ll certainly make your day.”
Alan Korzeniowski, 18, attended the school for eight years after his parents moved here in 2007. He loved the school because it gave him the opportunity to meet other Poles and talk Polish.
“History became my favourite subject and maybe that’s why now I love to deepen my knowledge of Polish history and World War II,” he says. “I have fond memories of the games I played with my friends, history lessons and the history club.”
He points to differences between Polish and Scottish education. While not wearing a uniform to Polish school made it feel relaxed, he found the teachers to be stricter than at Scottish schools.
Korzeniowski remembers the lessons as more interactive and team-based. It was more about using the Polish language to communicate than studying concepts, he says.
Later he learned about the culture, history, geography and “everything there was about being Polish”, he recalls.
As students got older, classes got smaller, he says, because some students became increasingly involved with Scottish school assignments, social life and extracurricular activities.
Nataliya Lyalyuk
The joys of volunteering
More than 14 million people in the UK volunteer through a group, club or organisation at least once a year, with women and 65-74-year-olds the most prominent groups. The voluntary sector’s total annual income is about £57 billion a year, according to the UK Civil Society Almanac. As with every other aspect of British life, migrants contribute to this vital resource. Four migrants in Scotland talk about their volunteering experience.
Oksana Borysova, Ukraine
After a year of war, I was forced to leave Ukraine - my home, my parents, my husband and my job in a publishing house. I was afraid of the rocket explosions in Ukrainian cities and missile strikes on Ukrainian nuclear energy. Electricity was available at hourly intervals and everyone who could do so bought gasoline generators, power banks and candles. Many people fled to bomb shelters or left the country to save their children.
I came to Glasgow with my daughter in February 2023. I was 41, my daughter 16.
Scotland greeted Ukrainians warmly. My daughter got the opportunity to go to school. She was safe and had a normal life. She can develop her talents and interact with friends. It helped her recover from stress and that was most important to me. I have also studied English at college here.
I was accepted as a volunteer at the charity shop Help 4 The Homeless in Clydebank. It is a voluntary non-profit community group supporting people experiencing severe poverty and homelessness. Everything it provides is free.
and fun conversations. Volunteers from Poland also helped.
I am still a volunteer there because I like helping people, being useful, meeting new friends and communicating with people. Many of the shop’s beneficiaries are migrants.
I am also happy to be a volunteer with Migrant Voice. It is a good team of professionals. In Ukraine I worked as a designer in a printing house and here I was helped to quickly learn a new graphic design programme. My main role has been designing monthly zines which share stories written by people from different cultural backgrounds.
I love volunteering because I get a great experience and it helps improve my English skills.
Yves, Cameroon
I’ve been in Scotland for three years. I sought security because my life in Cameroon was in danger.
One day I came to the Central West Integration Network (CWIN) food bank in Glasgow, and while in the queue I thought that maybe I could help others in the same situation by volunteering.
I pack food parcels, maintain order in the space, and help and guide people who come to pick up food. It’s something different every day: one day I’m at the till, another day I guide people, and every day I assist in cleaning the area. We also have training opportunities
Many people use the food bank. They are from all around the world — refugees, asylum seekers, but also Scottish people. We have old and
My favourite thing about volunteering is that it helps socialising. Sometimes you feel lonely when you live here alone, but in this space you can share experiences and socialise. People often ask me questions, and it’s great to help and advise them and feel part of something bigger.
Wafaa, Sudan
I came to Scotland over a year ago. I fled Sudan with my family because of war.
In Sudan I was a lecturer at a university, but here, as an asylum seeker, I don’t have the right to work. I started volunteering with Community Infosource as a teaching assistant in their English classes, and recently I’ve become a teacher. The organisation helped me get a teaching qualification.
students. In Sudan I learned standard English, so I’m always excited to learn new local phrases and share them with my students.
Anna Treder, Poland
Growing up in a Polish village surrounded by an abundance of creatures, big and small, I developed a love for wildlife. That love for nature led me to doing a master’s degree in environmental protection and management. I came to Scotland in 2012, for a couple of months to get some extra money that would enable me to better my career opportunities in Poland. I never thought I would stay for long but here I am many years later.
I have volunteered with several ecological, environmental, and nature and animal-oriented organisations. I was not only learning new skills and meeting interesting people, but also making valuable connections and, most importantly, I was helping organisations that care for nature.
I have participated in bird-ringing activities, and been involved in habitat management for reptiles and amphibians in central Scotland, where I dug ponds and caught newts and slowworms in Callander.
In 2020 I completed my master’s thesis on the use of rainwater as a non-potable water source. I strive to reduce my environmental impact by choosing packagefree products and by planting trees.
Additionally, I volunteer for a website that is a valuable repository of knowledge on Scottish wildlife and scenery.
In a paid capacity, I’ve worked as a bat technician, recording and observing bats in the darkness of churches and woods.
Today, I share my life with a charming yet bossy cat and a crazy, unpredictable dog.
Melody, the manager, and many others are very kind, cheerful, friendly people. My tasks were to iron clothes, put them on hangers and sort clothes, toys, books, dishes and more. During breaks, we got tea, coffee
I have students from Afghanistan, Eritrea, Iran, Sri Lanka, Sudan, Ukraine. I used to work with beginners, now I teach pre-intermediate.
I really enjoy learning new Scottish words with my
Yves
Music to British ears
Dance music from Kurdistan and the Middle East, Kora and Balafon from Gambia, guitar and song from D R Congo and Sacred Funk from Nigeria: Celebrating Sanctuary Birmingham has brought music from all over the world to Britain’s second-largest city.
Temitayo Olofinlua talks to three of the 1,500 musicians who have been helped by the organisation and who have set tens of thousands of feet tapping.
Karolina Węgrzyn
As a child in a Polish village, Karolina Węgrzyn was surrounded by music. Every celebration was accompanied by folk songs and dances.
“We would always get together to sing and dance. I later realised these songs are not known in the rest of the country.”
Her parents registered her at a music school, even though her mother had to drive her several miles to attend.
Węgrzyn’s childhood was communal. But she had dreams beyond her small village.
In 2011 she moved to the UK to do a fine art photography course at the University of Wolverhampton.
“My very first impression was ‘I am here, I want to meet new people’”, she recalls, and she did: “It was incredible, so multicultural. But after a while I started feeling homesick. I realised how hard it was for me to find a job, to find opportunities.
“I grew up in a village where we sang and danced together as a community,” she reflects. “I missed that deeply.”
So she began to look for a taste of home through music. She dropped off a note at a musical instruments shop in Birmingham saying that she was interested in connecting with musicians of Eastern European descent.
Her search led her to musicians in the Midlands from across the world, and she quickly realised she could be the bridge between her homeland’s music and her new life in the UK: “I met a Greek musician, someone from Spain, and others from Poland — everyone had a story and a song.”
Now she plays mostly with British-born musicians fascinated by the richness of Eastern European folk music: ”This feeling that I can teach English people something from my home is so precious to me right now. It makes me want to make more music and share.“
Music gave her a sense of belonging and opened doors to a new career. After graduating, she worked in art galleries
and at an auction house, but Covid-19 lockdown forced her to reassess her life. She took a teaching course and began work as an assistant at a special needs school.
“I never imagined I’d be teaching music full-time, but here I am, four years later, loving every moment,” she says.
During the day, Węgrzyn nurtures young minds as a music teacher; in the evenings and at weekends she makes music.
‘I bought a special seat on a plane for my dulcimer’
She has learned to play the accordion from YouTube videos and a neighbour, who introduced her to a group of accordion players.
She also has a dulcimer, bought during a trip to Poland.
“I bought a special seat for it on the plane because it is quite big. Then I learned to play it. I also found a dulcimer club in the UK. Their dulcimer is a quite different size but they helped me to understand the instrument.”
Her main interest is cultural preservation. So she continues to return to her village, to engage with aging musicians about the people and their music: “These songs are treasures. They’re at risk of disappearing because the younger generations don’t know them anymore.”
Occasionally she plays a traditional Polish drum with bells attached.
Her passion for preserving and sharing this music with diverse audiences has led to performances at the Symphony Hall, Moseley Folk and Arts Festival and the Midlands Arts
Audiences are often fascinated by her unique singing style, particular to her village. She sings “in a very old style like grandmothers would sing, in a very loud voice.
“At an event in Birmingham, British people came up to me and said, ‘We’ve never heard anything like this before.’
“Despite our differences, music shows us how similar we are at the core. We all sing about the same human experiences.”
Though she loves her day job, she dreams of practising music full-time and collaborating with musicians from different backgrounds.
“I want to take my music to the next level, not just in terms of performance but in terms of creating something meaningful that connects people.”
She is working on a debut album featuring folk songs and musicians from across Eastern Europe.
“I’d like to continue to stay in UK as I have for the past 13 years,” she says. “I studied here, I have my job and friends here. Going back to Poland would be like another migration.”
Millicent Chapanda
While studying for a music business degree in the UK, Millicent Chapanda interviewed master mbira player Chartwell Dutiro. He challenged her to learn to play the instrument that is traditional for Zimbabwe’s Shona people. “I cannot … be interviewed by somebody who is talking about things they don’t fully know,” he told her. “You have to learn to play the mbira, you have to know what you are
Centre, all in Birmingham, the Gobefest in Manchester, and the Migration Matters Festival in Sheffield.
Nifeco Costa (above); right, Karolina Wegrzyn (photo: David Shephard)
from page 18
A survivor’s story
hospital on insulin. I was admitted for five days. My diabetes got worse, my mental health got worse. I was back at square one.”
Even after leaving the ‘safe’ house, problems persisted. “I never felt like I was rescued. They just moved me around. I ended up in another place, but the support wasn’t there. If you try to report things to the authorities, they don’t do anything. You’re just left in the system, waiting.”
She has been subjected to several sexual attacks.
“When I was moved to a hotel they weren’t expecting me. I was sick, vomiting, sitting in the reception, waiting. Even when I got a room, conditions were appalling. There was no hot water, no heat. The room smelled bad. The ceiling was dripping water. I felt like I was being punished all over again. This is what survivors face after they’ve been ‘rescued’.”
Didi’s frustration with the Home Office and the system that’s supposed to help her is clear. “I’ve been in this country for over 15 years. When I applied to go to college, they asked for an asylum card. But I wasn’t an asylum seeker: I was a trafficking victim. So they said I didn’t qualify. It’s all a mess.”
She describes feeling constantly sidelined. “When you’re black, it’s even worse. I had to fight for everything. The support worker didn’t even know how to open a bank account. They told me I wasn’t entitled. I had to fight for that, too.
“If a support worker doesn’t know what they’re doing, it’s a mess. I didn’t even know my status. I had to research it all myself. I’m still in the system.
“Where is my recovery in all this?”
The battle with the system seems never-ending. “I gave a
talking about.
“I want you to know the culture and fully understand the mbira.”
That’s how she started learning to play the instrument.
For Chapanda, the mbira is more than music: it is her connection to her Zimbabwean roots, a symbol of cultural renaissance. Mbira music was demonised by the British colonial administration but some musicians helped preserve it by blending it with modern instruments.
“I love my traditional instruments because they are a way to communicate with our ancestors, who guide us when a child is sick, or we need the rains or a bumper harvest. It is the same as intercession in the Catholic Church.
“So mbira refers to the instrument, the music, and the genre. It is beautiful in that way.
“Heritage and identity inform what I do and that fills me with passion, gives me the courage to go on,” she says, “especially in this country where we are always ‘othered’ because you are never fully accepted, you are never fully British.”
For the same reason, she always sings in Shona. She sees music as a universal language that transcends linguistic barriers and can communicate at a deeper level: “We have millions of beautiful languages and language does not exclude anyone from singing. You can sing Pavaroti’s songs but you don’t understand what it means.”
She recalls her grandmother dancing to Michael Jackson’s ‘I Am Bad’ even though she didn’t understand or speak English.
The lesson? “If everybody eats jacket potato, this world would be so boring.”
Playing mbira and singing in Shona makes her music unique, yet allows her to collaborate with other musicians from around the world.
“Mbira music can collaborate with other instruments. Also, our different voices, we are on stage each one singing their language, it is melodic and so beautifully intertwined.”
Chapanda founded Afrikan Fusion, an arts education platform that was a response to an experience that occurred while driving in Zimbabwe: stopped by a British police officer, a much older authority figure, she looked down. “The British want you to look them in the eyes as a sign of respect and that you are listening but I had to lower my head as a sign of respect. They are two different cultures. I took it as a learning curve. I asked myself: how do I teach this grown man without undermining him or his position?
full statement to the Home Office in March 2022, but they said they never received it. I sent it again but then they said they had already concluded my case: they said I wasn’t a trafficking victim any more.”
Of the many possible improvements to the system in which she feels trapped, Didi says “the most important is to let us work or go to college. We were working before they freed us, and it is senseless to force people to sit around doing nothing.”
Even now, Didi feels like she’s fighting an uphill battle: “I’m living in a studio flat now, but it’s temporary. There’s no security, no support.
“They acknowledge that I was trafficked, but they still tell me I need to go home [to my country of origin] but I’m not safe there.”
Didi isn’t alone in her struggle. “I know people who’ve been in the system for five years, still waiting for interviews, still without support. One of my friends died — no counselling, no help. She was housebound, couldn’t read or write, and they just let her die.”
Despite everything, she remains defiant: “I’m part of groups fighting for change, writing to the government, trying to change the policies. I don’t want anyone else to go through what I’ve been through. I’m fighting for the people who come after me.”
Didi’s story is a stark reminder that freedom from modern slavery doesn’t guarantee a better life.
“We fight, we struggle, but it shouldn’t be this hard,” she says. “After everything we’ve been through, we deserve better.”
“They say catch them when they are young and that’s why I go to schools so that they would also understand my culture. That is how word spreads.”
Afrikan Fusion runs workshops in schools, young offenders’ units, hospitals, care homes and other institutions because she believes music is not just entertainment but a powerful educational tool that transcends traditional classroom settings.
Nifeco Costa
As she pedalled away on her sewing machine, Nifeco Costa’s mother sang and the young Nifeco would hum along. The whirring of the machine, her singing and his humming were a constant in the house in Guinea-Bissau.
So it was no surprise that when he finished primary school, he wanted to sing and play musical instruments.
He learned guitar and piano at a music school in the capital, and at the age of 23 formed a band, Mini Cobi, before moving to Portugal to study construction. In the evenings he played music, honing his skills and connecting with local musicians.
In 1993 he released his first solo album, Saudadi, and participated in a West African music show in Paris.
And it was music that carried him to the UK 16 years ago.
“I chose Wolverhampton because I don’t like big big cities. I prefer quiet places because they give me more inspiration.”
Performing in the UK was challenging at first, he admits. With no musical connections, it took time to find people who shared his passion.
But in 2016 he created his first band in the UK, Babock Djazz, made up of musicians with roots in different parts of the world. They have released two albums.
“The UK has opened the gates for me,” Costa says. “So many people enjoyed the songs.”
His most memorable performances include shows at the Symphony Hall in Birmingham, the Africa Oyé in Liverpool, and a festival in Cornwall.
Although Nifeco has been away from his country for over two decades, his roots continue to influence his music.
“We have so many ethnic groups … each with their own traditions and they all influence me.” This is one reason he continues singing in Manjako, his local language, as well as English and Portuguese.
21-year wait for a chance to start over
Asylum-seekers’ journeys to the UK can be arduous and dangerous — and very very long. One of the longest was by Tag Bashir.
He left Sudan for Lebanon in 1997 where he remained for almost a year until he took an overcrowded boat for Europe. Unfortunately, it started sinking. Fortunately, he and 74 others were rescued by a Lebanese fishing boat and scrambled to safety in Cyprus, home to a British military base.
He breathed a sigh of relief: a British base: he would soon make it to the UK.
“Soon” turned out to be 21 years, trapped in what lawyers described as “legal limbo”.
The British government doggedly argued that the rescued families had no links with Britain and could be resettled in Cyprus.
After lawyers batted around 74 lives like ping pong balls, the UK appeal court finally ruled that the survivors’ conditions were unacceptable and that the Refugee Convention should apply to the case.
Even after the verdict, their evacuation to the UK was not immediate. But they were on the way.
Bashir admitted at the time that the frustration of waiting had been great and “that anywhere in Britain is better than [the base]”. He was and is amazingly un-bitter.
Now in his 50s, Bashir lives in Scotland, with his wife and two children. “We were very happy to start our life again,” he says. His wife (a Filipina he met in Cyprus) works as a carer and will soon complete her nursing training. “The kids are doing great. They started school in Cyprus — they speak Greek too.” His oldest son lives in Newcastle.
Bashir was the first of the rescued group to get a job, after “going to many building sites in the hope of getting an interview.” He still works in construction: “I’m looking to develop it as well. I’m looking to buy some flats, and refurbish and sell them.”
The couple also run a small restaurant: it started with Middle Eastern cuisine but has switched to Asian food.
“I find Scotland wonderful. I met many people who are very good. We try our best to integrate. People are very friendly.”
He says he is lucky to have the chance to start over again: “I’ve waited all my life. It’s hard when you look back, it’s hard to get over it, but I reached my goal, made a family, started a new life, and became happy.”
Last Christmas he became British.
Do the children know about his amazing story? “We keep them away from that. They are at school, we don’t want them much involved with the past.
“But,” he admits, “I’m looking forward to writing a book about my journey.”
Getting in on the act
Through theatre, migrants can become active storytellers, actors, directors, shaping the narratives that define them.
Two theatrical pioneers reflect on their visions for putting migrants and migration on stage.
Lara Parmiani, founder/artistic director, Legal Aliens
I moved to the UK from Italy in the late ‘90s, where unemployment was sky-high, and misogyny rife. From the outside, the UK looked open, international, and multicultural, so I assumed theatre would be the same. But the reality was different.
British theatre hardly reflects its diverse communities. And although things have slowly improved for British artists of migrant descent — although women of colour, for instance, are still massively underrepresented, especially in positions of leadership — the industry is still ignoring firstgeneration migrants. It’s like we don’t exist.
Migrants on stage are either portrayed as funny foreigners, a series of cliches with comedic accents, or as powerless victims.
Very rarely stories about migrants, foreign countries or events that happened outside Britain were written, directed and performed by people with direct experience. There is always a “British gaze” that everything is filtered through.
For years I knocked on theatres’ doors. I would get small jobs but I felt like an eternal beginner. So I took matters into my own hands and started a company of migrant artists, to create theatre that speaks about migration and could bring a different approach to storytelling.
Having migrant and refugee bodies on stage is itself a political act.
Yes, we have accents. Yes, we use a style of theatre that might be different. Come and experience it. For me, it wasn’t just about the artists. It was also about migrant and refugee communities. These demographics hardly ever go to the theatre. They think it’s too expensive, too posh, with too much text they might not understand.
Many companies run “workshops” for migrants and refugees as part of their projects. But disenfranchised individuals, people who maybe have gone through trauma, feel lonely and lost, don’t just turn up for a weekend class. So we created a regular weekly space open to anyone
identifying as a migrant. We are always there. And we are migrants like them. They can get to know and trust us. Some develop such a passion that they never stop coming. Some have joined our facilitators team. This has been a great joy. I am proud we have been pioneers. When we started in 2012, nobody talked about “migrant theatre”. Nobody understood what we were doing.
Our first show puzzled people. It was an Italian play in translation, about a working-class family in Bergamo. Industry people and critics didn’t understand why everyone in the cast was Italian. Why didn’t you set it in Sheffield and cast Northern actors? It would be more accessible! Yes, I could have done so and “adapted” to a familiar environment, but what is the point of taking a story from somewhere else only to turn it into a British story?
Audiences loved it. They said they felt transported somewhere else. I am really proud how many people, from demographics who would never traditionally go to the theatre, come to our shows; the enthusiasm at finally seeing their voices, their point of view, represented.
Slowly the industry has started to take notice. People have stopped asking me why there should be migrants in British theatre.
+ 2025: free weekly classes for refugees and migrants in north London continue into their sixth year. The most recent production, Tugging At The Sea, a parody about the current obsession with boats, will be staged again; an international co-production, The Flowers of Srebrenica, will open in Sarajevo in July and a UK tour is planned for later in the year. The cast have direct experience of war and/or displacement in Bosnia, Rwanda, Sudan, Syria and Ukraine.
Christine Bacon, co-artistic director, ice&fire
Two audience responses:
“I saw the Asylum Monologues over a year ago now. It completely stirred me. As a result, I got involved with Sheffield Conversation Club, and even wound up welcoming a sweet woman from Uganda into our home, who has now become one of our dearest friends.”
“I had spent years telling a certain person about what was going on in our country, without any success whatsoever. But after attending just one performance her
attitude changed to such an extent that she too is now spreading the word. Until seeing and hearing these stories for herself she would not believe what is going on.”
ice&fire was set up in 2003 by playwright Sonja Linden who had spent several years volunteering as a writerin-residence at Freedom from Torture. Inspired by her friendship with a woman who had been through the UK’s asylum process, she wanted to use theatre to engage, educate and activate British audiences about the deficiencies of the UK’s asylum and immigration system and the human impact of forced migration.
We have expanded to embrace a broader human rights focus but a large part of our core work has remained connected to the original mission through our Actors for Human Rights project, a network of professional actors who perform rehearsed readings to audiences across the UK. The scripts are made up of first-hand accounts of people who have been deeply impacted by the UK’s immigration and asylum laws and policies.
Taking our work to British audiences, we have consistently been met with responses which demonstrate that many of the truths of the issues we raise have been hidden or deliberately obscured from the public. Even in 2024, audiences are still shocked to hear we have immigration detention centres, or that asylum seekers are prevented from working, how restrictive the immigration rules are and how exorbitant the visa fees are.
Actors for Human Rights performances have been seen by over 120,000 people. After each performance we facilitate a discussion with the audience and local campaigners and supporters, focussing on engaging audiences in ways they can get involved.
With the harsh and dehumanising media coverage of the Channel crossings and the continued scapegoating of immigrants in general, the mission of challenging attitudes and creating a powerful space for lived experience to be heard remains as important now as when it started, if not even more so.
+ 2025: continuation of podcast series, ‘I am an Immigrant’; production of a new presentation, Papers, which looks at punitive immigration rules, such as the 10-year route to settlement; our annual Queer Migrant Pride Festival.
Legal Aliens photo: Kuan Jin Chou
Working hard and still dreaming
“Generally people don’t tend to move and they don’t want a mansion. We all work hard. Migration paints stories of courage, love, and ambition – diverse journeys uniting us all.”
Dr Menaca Pothalingam knows what she is talking about. She was raised in a happy, successful family and had no thought of leaving Sri Lanka. She also worked hard: “I was one of those kids who, if I got nine out of ten, would cry.” Unfortunately, civil war erupted and she comes face-toface with horror.
In her autobiography, Resilience Learned, she relates an example of the horrors: “I look down at myself wondering where the blood is coming from and realise it is not from me. The teacher who was walking beside me a few minutes earlier, Saratha, lies flat and motionless on the ground.”
With life increasingly feeling “like walking on a tightrope”, the family raise the possibility of Menaca migrating to the UK. She rejects the suggestion: “It’s too far away from you.”
But as the civil war drags on, she moves to India in 1990 to begin qualifying as a dentist and experience her first taste of migration.
Studies, graduation, accidents, work experience follow, along with new friends and experiences, and as told in her book, almost imperceptibly, marriage (“You’re marrying into a tall family”, five-foot-four Menaca is told “as I sign my life away”).
More significantly, her husband – who she sees in person for the first time three days before the marriage – lives in the UK. She takes on a new role, as a wife, in a new town in a new country, where she is conscious of her accent: “I am happy only when I feel fully integrated.”
A fresh chapter opens. Overall, it’s highly successful, but it’s not straightforward. The difficulties include requalifying for work in Britain (around 30 per cent of dentists registered to practice in the UK qualified overseas),
motherhood, divorce, depression, a slew of necessary courses, to say nothing of running her own dental practice only to discover it has been brought to its knees by embezzlement.
Yet she triumphs over all obstacles, and even finds time to train and mentor others, take on public speaking engagements, and run a weekly online talk show.
With the work comes awards, including Iconic Woman at the Women’s Economic Forum in Delhi; Migrant Business’ migrant service entrepreneur of the year award in the UK; the Dr. Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan Award for contribution towards India’s development; the Woman Award of Honour in India; and the UK Tamil Women Development Forum award, Inspirational Mentor.
How has she managed to recover from serious setbacks and notched up so many achievements?
“My life has been a rollercoaster ride. I would never say it has been easy. I firmly believe that there are opportunities in every country, that you must make the most of what can be. Embrace challenges, for in every country lies untapped opportunities waiting to be seized.
“In migration’s intricate tapestry, turn language barriers into bridges, embrace cultural shifts, and sculpt challenges into stepping stones leading to a brighter, fulfilling, and successful future.”
Her long-term dream is to build training centres and a holistic centre, combining medicine and therapies such as mindfulness.
After her early brushes with death she feels she has had a second lease of life: “Embrace resilience – surviving neardeath moments fuels an unwavering pursuit of boundless aspirations,” she counsels. “Forge futures with hard work, turning humble dreams into resilient realities.
“I have a lot more to achieve.”
Helping build Britain, brick by brick
If you want an example of how migrants are helping build Britain today, look no further than Abdulrahman Ali.
He is helping build Britain, brick by brick, wall by wall, roof by roof.
That he has building skills is not surprising, given that his father was a successful builder, and every school holiday young Abdul would help his dad and learn more skills.
That he is in Britain is more surprising because in the 1980s the family lived in Iraq with good prospects for the future. A British businessman took a liking to his father and a respect for the way he ran his business, and proposed a joint company in which the two men would send British kitchen and bathroom equipment as well as machinery to Iraq.
Then politicians and politics intervened, and the IraqIran war erupted.
Conflict transformed the family’s world. The proposed venture between Abdul’s father and the British businessman crashed to a halt.
“That’s why I left my country. Suddenly there was no future,” recalls Ali, now living in south-west London. “I came here to look for my future”, choosing Britain partly because of his family’s friendly links with visiting Brits and because he was accustomed to dealing with British equipment suppliers.
He arrived as an asylum-seeker in 2012. Asylum was not as controversial an issue as it is now. He secured permission to stay in two months and immediately started looking for — and finding — work.
He was a labourer in a construction business, and for several years “I pushed myself every day to work hard, painting, laminating, laying carpets.”
Always at the back of his mind was the thought that one day he would set up his business. Finally, he did so, becoming the eponymous man with a van.
But he had more than a van. He had skills and experience and a contacts book full of bricklayers and other craftspeople with whom he had worked and on whom he could call when he needed qualified workers to help him on jobs.
His client list expanded steadily, mainly by word of mouth from satisfied customers recommending him to friends and neighbours, “because on every job I get it done in the time I promised and making sure everything is good quality.”
Personal recommendations from customers remain important, but now ARN Building Construction Ltd also advertises on Instagram and other social media.
“I am happy here. I have spent a big part of my life here. I am married and my kids are here.” His son supports Arsenal, his daughter’s Arabic is not so fluent. They will have a chance to choose from “the best universities in the world”.
But there may be another twist to the tale of the unexpected migrant’s success in building a life in a new country.
He has a sister and brother in Iraq and maybe, just maybe, Abdul might seek contracts for supplying equipment to Iraq’s oil and gas industry - which would be another economic gain for Britain.
Photos of Menaca Pothalingam and Abdulrahman Ali: Hampar Narguizian
Heritage on the catwalk
“We Wear Heritage” was a fashion show with a difference that brought a new dimension to the most recent London Fashion Week by highlighting traditional garments from some of the hundreds of communities who enrich British life. Eleven groups identified themselves as or coming from Brazil, Afghanistan, China, Goan Indian, Caribbean, Iraq, Africa, Romania, Somalia, Tamils and Dominica.
All the groups are based in the London borough of Brent and are researching social and cultural aspects of traditional textiles, clothing, or costumes, “from the embroidery of Afghan dresses to the vivid textiles of Somali attire … These garments carry each community’s stories, traditions, and cultural significance.”
The show was organised by Rafael dos Santos, director and CEO of Best of Brazil Community (www.bestofbrazil.org). Brent is home to about 35,000 Brazilians.
The research groups include:
Afghan Association of London Afghanistan’s traditional womenswear is often adorned with handmade embroidery on the body and sleeves. The combination of vibrant colours, made famous during the 1960s, highlights the creative expression and know-how of garment makers.
Best of Brazil Community
The fabrics are natural materials found in the Amazon. They include bark trees, palm leaves, paint from jenipapo fruit, and fish scales, worn by the Mundurucu tribe.
African
The aim is to preserve the heritage of African fabric, by engaging young people and the wider community. This project aims to explore the vibrant history, artistry, and cultural significance of African fabric.
WOB Dwiyet, Dominica
Caribbean creole style is rooted in a blend of English, French and African traditions created by 18th century women of colour. Madras fabric plays a significant role in heritage wear, teamed with broderie anglaise and ribbons. The Wob Dwiyet is an elegant gown created and still worn today as a symbol of stature, popular in the French creole speaking islands; the Jip outfit is a less formal alternative.
Goan Traditional Clothing
Traditional attire blends indigenous traditions and Portuguese colonial influence. The project connects the costumes worn with specific cultural events of significance within the Goan community. Some Goan costumes relate to specific music and dance performances.
Brent Chinese Association
Clothing worn by the diasporic Chinese communities, such as the Cheongsam and Hanfu for women and the Tang suit for men. Worn for special occasions.
Iraqi Welfare Association
Folklore clothing and costumes represent the area’s ancient cultures and beliefs and facilitate a bridge of communication between different communities around the world. The organisation plans to organise heritage festivals to bring diverse communities together.
My Romania Community
The project examines Romanian garments’ unique characteristics and cultural significance, highlighting craftsmanship and symbolism. There’s also a royal UK-Romania connection through Queen Marie of Romania.
Hido iyo Dhaqan
Focusing is on the intricate beauty of Hido iyo Dhaqan wear, which embodies the essence of Somali culture, reflecting its history, values, and identity through its textiles and designs.
The Tamil Association of Brent
The association is creating records of traditional clothing through photography and video. Oral histories are collected from Tamil elders and dubbed and subtitled in English. The transcriptions will be used to produce an electronic book. The project will also film a Tamil wedding showing how rituals have changed over the years.
Volleyball — more than a sport
Marzanna (Mana) Antoniak, who coordinates the Migrant Voice network in Glasgow, is captain of Holy Volley!
You never know what might happen when you play volleyball in a Glasgow park. One day, it will be a playful dog who’ll snatch and destroy your pricey professional ball; another day an unassuming passer-by you let onto the pitch turns out to be a seasoned Argentinian player who ends up coaching your team.
Several groups and clubs play in city parks and venues. The biggest, Glasgow Outdoor Volleyball Club (GOVC), brings together more than 150 players of different ages, backgrounds, and abilities.
My own experience began several years ago when I joined friends playing for fun in Kelvingrove Park. In 2021 I helped form Outdoors For You, an organisation that supports Glaswegians, especially refugees and asylum seekers, to improve their mental and physical wellbeing.
The GOVC’s first official competitive team was called First Gen. On the opening day of the Scottish Volleyball League’s 2024/2025 season members sold T-shirts they’d designed themselves and home-made cakes. Sales help buy training equipment and pay league fees.
“First Gen has taught me that being in a volleyball team means more than just playing a sport together; it’s about trust, unity, and firm support,” says 14-year-old Sehr Baig, “It’s the laughter and tears shared in practice, the encouragement during tough matches, and the bond
formed through every receive, set, and spike.”
Born in Scotland to a British Pakistani mother and a father who arrived in Scotland from Pakistan in 1998, Baig emphasises that each player’s unique talent and effort are essential to the team’s success: “Together we rise, we fall and rise again. A volleyball team is a family where every moment, every effort and every cheer counts, reminding us that we’re never alone on or off the court.”
There’s a strong sense of community and sky-high aspirations, she adds: “Our volleyball fundraising for First Gen was more than just raising money; it’s about coming together as a community to support a shared passion. It’s an opportunity to ensure that every player has the resources they need to succeed.
“Together, we are not just funding a sport: we are investing in dreams, growth, and a brighter future for all.”
Fellow team member Natalia Smętek, 19, was born in Poland and moved to Scotland aged 2 with her parents and sister in 2007. She says volleyball has made her fitter, stronger and more agile, and has been a huge confidence booster and stress-reliever.
“Overall, playing volleyball gives me a sense of belonging and identity. It isn’t just a sport for me — it’s a journey of personal growth, learning and connection,” she explains.
Volleyball is also great for adults, whether to stay fit and make friends or as a lifestyle. That’s the case for Matias Marceca of Holy Volley!, the team I captain, which was formed in Spring 2024 by players from Argentina, Ethiopia,
Iran and Poland, plus some guest players. Marceca happens to be that unassuming passer-by I let onto the pitch one sunny day last May. He grew up in a family of volleyball players in Argentina; his parents met playing volleyball; his father is a coach and referee; and his sister played professionally for several years.
“I joined my first league team aged 8, and I led a volleyball-rich life playing in countless tournaments until pandemic came,” he recalls, “but it was only recently that I met a group of people playing volleyball in Victoria Park. They immediately invited me to join them at tournaments, and we’ve won several.
“I feel so lucky to have found that group”.
Razgar Hassan, the founder of Outdoors For You (OFY), came to Scotland as an asylum seeker in 2001. His love of the outdoors combined with his experience of the asylum process, which left him stuck in limbo for almost 10 years, led him to set up a charity to support asylum seekers, refugees and other migrants, who are more likely to face health inequalities. He says volleyball is the charity’s most popular activity.
“What started as a small gathering has blossomed into a spirited group where friendships are forged, skills are honed, and a love for the game is shared by all, creating a sense of belonging for everyone involved,” he says.
“We’ve had Afghanis, Algerians, Americans, Argentinians, Ethiopians, French, Georgians, Greeks, Indians, Iranians, Kurds, Pakistanis, Poles, Romanians, Salvadorans, Scots, Sudanese, Syrians and Ukrainians.
“It’s great to see cultural diversity at its best when we play for fun and more competitively.”
Hassan organised a volleyball tournament as part of Refugee Festival Scotland. He hopes it will become an annual tradition celebrating refugees and Glasgow as a city of sanctuary where those who have fled wars and persecution can feel safe and that they belong.
“The best teams have a special chemistry. It doesn’t matter where you come from and how well you speak English. It’s all about unyielding teamwork and cohesion that manifest themselves in anticipating each other’s moves and adapting to what’s happening in every moment of the game.
“It’s about mutual support, encouragement, shared joy of playing, and pride in collective achievements.”
left, Outdoors For You Volleyball Tournament. Photo: Chris Bell right, Matias Merceca. Photo: Marzanna Antoniak
A level playing field for everyone
In which part of British life do you find the highest concentration of migrants?
The NHS? Crop pickers? Care workers?
Perhaps the answer is: Premiership football.
About 375 overseas players of 60 nationalities play in England’s top-level league, and about 50 in the league in Scotland, with its far smaller population.
And there are British migrants playing abroad. Harry Kane topped Germany’s Bundesliga goalscoring charts last season.
Migrants have made their mark in cricket, too. Players born in Barbados, Guyana, Jamaica, Trinidad and Tobago, St Vincent and the Grenadines, Dominica, and St Kitts and Nevis have played for England.
In recent years, the England team has been boosted by at least 14 players born in South Africa.
Some migrant athletes are refugees. Says Bilal Fawaz (right), of mixed Lebanese and Benin heritage, who came to England at the age of 14: “I’m a refugee and professional boxer. I’ve boxed for England on several occasions. And I’m a British champion.”
Cindy Ngamba, a British-based female boxer from Cameroon won bronze at the 2024 Paris Olympics, making her the first athlete to win a medal for the Refugee Olympic Team.
‘With migration Britain is a stronger country’
figures but the public don’t think of them as migrants.
“Talking about sports’ stars is a way of drawing people into conversations with us, and when people listen to us, hear from us as people, they change their view of us as migrants,” she says.
Ged Grebby, chief executive of Show Racism the Red Card, a partner in the campaign, emphasises the importance of videos and other educational materials in combatting an increasingly hostile and racist world and showing the benefits of a world where people are free to move from one country to another.
At the other end of sporting endeavour — in leisure centres, school halls, parks and odd patches of land all over the country — tens of thousands of migrants are playing, organising, coaching and cheering on families and friends. That’s why Migrant Voice has decided to box clever, go for gold and campaign for a level playing field for everyone who lives and works here.
The aim is to dispel myths and misinformation surrounding migrants, and use sport to tell positive stories about migration and challenge racism and xenophobia.
Migrant Voice director Nazek Ramadan points out that football and other sports stars from abroad are popular
His organisation’s Education Hub provides free resources to tens of thousands of UK teachers and schools and “reaches over one million young people a year with our anti-racism education resources.”
In a video message for the inauguration of Migrant Voice’s sports campaign, Gary Lineker described football as “a real credit to harmonious existence because within the dressing rooms you get people from all parts of the world, you get people from various countries of different colours, different religions and they all come together. Nobody thinks along those terms. They are just basically a fellow human being….“ Lineker, the only player to have been top goalscorer in England with three clubs (Leicester City, Everton and Tottenham), also played for Barcelona in Spain.
Garry Lineker
That perspective of seeing people as individuals rather than as migrants is true of all sports, from table tennis to badminton, from javelin to padel.
Participants at one of the campaign’s meetings in Birmingham included a Cameroonian asylum-seeker who plays football and loves watching motor-racing; an Iranian woman who said she had no sporting ability but then casually mentioned a fascination with mountaineering; an Iraqi Kurd, Koyar Kurdi (photo below), who has won “love and respect wherever I go in Britain” for his mixed martial arts (MMA) skills.
Another sports campaign meeting was told by Razgar Hassan, originally from Iraqi Kurdistan, that it’s “great to come to a country, be part of a run and feel you belong to the city.” Mahnoor Sultan Campbell, from Pakistan, founder and coach at Women on Wheels, told the meeting:
“I became a ride leader and a cycle trainer in the space of a year. The more I did, the more passionate I became. I even started commuting to work by bike and my life completely changed.”
“A lot of people,” says Lineker, “don’t realise how much immigrants bring to the country, both economically and in terms of diversity. Migration if done correctly is a really good thing for the country. Sometimes we get clouded with so much information so I think it’s really important to get the truth out there.”
Or in the words of cricketer Monty Panesar, the England spinner whose parents migrated here from Punjab. India: “With migration, Britain is a stronger country.”
The Migration: Making Britain Great campaign is a collaboration involving Migrant Voice, Show Racism the Red Card and IMIX.
Imolele keeps running into new people, and a new life
A chance conversation got Coventry-based Moses Imolele into parkrunning, a sport that is helping him deal with some of the stresses of being a refugee. His journey from Nigeria to Derby has been as long and circular as his runs in the park.
He originally left home in 2002 and reached Italy, where he spent 11 years. He returned to his homeland but a year later had to flee again. After a spell in Italy he moved to France, but conditions were rough and he felt unsafe. Finally, in December 2020 he arrived in Birmingham.
Initially, it was tough there, too, rough-sleeping until he made contact with the Home Office, which despatched him to Derby and introduced him to Derbyshire Refugee Solidarity — an organisation “with over a half of our volunteers being from the refugee and asylum seeker communities”.
For the first time, he felt welcome.
“There were always different activities to keep people engaged,” he recalls. “They were trying to make us happy. I was always doing something and I also started volunteering, sorting clothes that came to the organisation which were then loaded into bags and boxes and sent to other volunteer
organisations in Derbyshire and other places.”
He soon became a deputy manager and storekeeper. One day the organisation’s chair, Steve Cooke, told him about parkruns, five-kilometre events for runners and walkers that take place at more than 2,000 locations in 22 countries on five continents.
‘There is no time-limit and no one finishes last’
Created in UK, parkruns have become a regular feature of British life. The organisation’s website describes them as “positive, welcoming and inclusive, there is no time limit and no one finishes last.”
Imolele hasn’t managed to find opportunities to play his favourite sport, football, but he says park circuits have helped his persistent waist pain. In Italy, he says, he was on medication for the pain; in the UK, a doctor advised him to consider exercise rather than medicine.
“The more I ran, the pain in my waist began to come down. Sports made me fit and strong. It is good for my health.”
It has other benefits, too.
“I also know whatever city I am running in I meet new people,” he says. “You never know who you will meet at the next parkrun, and that is exciting in itself.” Many have given him gifts of shirts and running shoes.
“They are friendly, they are lovely. I am one of the luckiest people on earth,” he says enthusiastically.
Meeting people has opened doors for him.
For example, when he told the administrator of a Jobshop in Coventry about his parkruns, “the man was surprised about how much I did in such a short time and asked if I was interested in sports coaching.
“He connected me with a sports coaching academy,” as a result of which he started a course at the Aptitude Training Academy in Coventry.
He has been learning English, too, which is necessary if he is to fulfil his aim of getting a full coaching qualification that he hopes will increase his ability “to go anywhere life takes me.”
Photo: Femi Amogunla
Snytsina’s journey from sport through acting to activism
Olga Golubko
Katya Snytsina has moved from the sporting stage to the theatre, from basketball to activism, and from Belarus to UK.
The former Olympic player’s name has been in lights again in February, when she starred at London’s Barbican theatre in a play about her life.
The title, KS6: Small Forward, is made up of her initials, the number on her team shirt and her position on court.
She has been on the move since she was two months old, when her parents – both basketballers who met at a match in Moldova – moved from her mother’s Kazakhstan homeland to her father’s home in Belarus.
She was destined to be a player. Dad was her first coach and she attended sports school in Minsk.
She made her professional debut at 15, her international debut at 17. She clinched bronze at the European Championships and played in the Beijing and Rio Olympics. She has lifted club trophies in Belarus, Poland, Turkey and France.
Her national team career skidded to a halt in 2020 when she added her signature to an open letter by a group of athletes claiming election fraud and calling for a halt to violence against protesters.
The following year she hit the headlines by announcing
‘When you’re winning, you love where you are!’
that she had declined to sign up for the Belarus team as she did not want to represent the regime internationally.
“I couldn’t stay silent,’ she recalls, “so I spoke out publicly against the regime. It was clear to me: if I returned, I’d either have to take back my words or go to prison. So, in the summer of 2021, I chose freedom and decided not to return to Belarus at the end of the season.
“In 2022 I signed with London Lions and moved to the UK. Now that I have retired from the sport I consider myself a migrant and have chosen the UK as a place to live.”
She cannot return to Belarus, where the authorities have branded her Instagram account “extremist”. Subscribing to it could result in imprisonment.
Establishing herself in London proved easy.
“When you’re winning, you love where you are!” she laughs. “London exceeded my expectations – I had the most successful season ever, winning every trophy we competed for. It’s never happened in my career, and nobody has ever done that in England, either. So I found the city just fabulous.
“I’ve travelled everywhere, from Beijing to New York, but the energy here is on another level. It’s a fast-paced city
where everyone’s always rushing somewhere, but no one ever feels alone. People are always ready to help.”
Many Belarusians in London supported her as a player and have become friends and supporters. “I try to give back and take part in their events. They’re not just spectators –they’re my people.”
In addition, she has found a wife, Nadia Brodskaya, who also fled from Belarus to escape political persecution.
Now 39, Snytsina has retired from basketball, but another door has opened. She has played herself on stage in New York and London in KS6: Small Forward, in which she shares her life story and sheds light on rights abuses in Belarus.
The play is produced by the Belarus Free Theatre, which is banned in Belarus and works in exile in London. The theatre’s founders, Natalia Kaliada and Nicolai Khalezin, introduced Snytsina to Brodskaya, who is a Belarus Free Theatre executive director.
They also adapted Snytsina’s personal story to the stage. “It invites audiences into Katya’s world, “ said the Barbican publicity, “tracing the stratospheric highs of twenty years on the court, and the dramatic events that set her on a new path as an activist, political dissident and ‘extremist lesbian’.”)
Snytsina explains: “From the start, the whole idea was that I would play myself. It’s my way of helping our protest. “I’m not acting,“ she insists, “I’m fighting.”
Barbican production photo by Mikalai Kuprych and Darya Andreyano