Gap year misery for refugees

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.

"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 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”.

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.

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.

R is a pharmacist from Sudan who has been waiting for an asylum decision for over a year, so cannot begin the rte-qualification process. With refugee status, she would be able to enrol on the £15,000 course, which has a waiting list of up to three years.

Photo credit: Dr. Habibur Rahman Niazi