In 2011, at the age of 19, I fled my home in Soran, northern Iraq, after powerful individuals threatened to kill me. Believing the UK to be a safe haven for refugees, I journeyed across Europe by lorry and arrived in October of that year. I claimed asylum, feeling fortunate to be in a peaceful country. David Cameron was prime minister then, and five others followed. To me, they were indistinguishable—all causing immense stress.
A Decade of Uncertainty
My hopes of rebuilding my life in the UK were dashed when my asylum claim was refused a few months after arrival. A lengthy appeal process ensued, and I spent over a decade in Home Office accommodation across the country. I learned barbering, but my primary duty was regular reporting to Home Office centres—a terrifying experience, as each visit could end in freedom or detention.
Initially, I reported every three months, then monthly, and finally weekly. I love the UK and consider it my home, having spent nearly half my life there. Yet I never felt treated as an equal or shown humanity. Asylum seekers are barred from working or opening bank accounts. Fear consumed me; I knew detention and deportation to Iraq were imminent.
The Desperate Escape
To avoid deportation, I decided to smuggle myself out to mainland Europe. An acquaintance arranged for smugglers to take me out of the UK in a lorry for a few hundred pounds. In January, I met them in Dover with another man. We were ordered into a box inside the lorry and told to lie still until France. The box could not be opened from within; death was a real possibility.
I have never been so terrified. Crammed into that tiny, freezing space, I struggled to breathe and lost feeling in my feet. Smugglers care nothing for your life once they have your money. I carried a small backpack with a spare T-shirt, trousers, shoes, and a phone to call for rescue if the box remained unopened. I feared dying undiscovered. We were locked in for about 12 hours.
Time crawled. We could not eat, drink, or urinate. When the lorry stopped in Calais, the driver unlocked the box. I felt near death, my feet completely frozen. I vowed never to hide in a lorry again. The driver urged us to flee. The other man went to relatives, but I feared France due to smugglers linked to my Iraqi threats.
A New Struggle in Italy
I walked to a train station, reached Paris, then took another train to Italy. I heard that in this region, it is easier to obtain papers for legal work—all I desire. Since my arrival, my home city has been attacked by drones amid the Iran-Israel-America conflict, making return even more perilous.
Life remains hard; I suffer from depression but cherish being alive. Without a work permit, I struggle to survive. My dream is to return to the UK, open a barber shop, pay taxes, and take my first holiday—to live a safe, legal, and normal life.
