A place for second chances – Saba's story  

I was born in Peshawar, Pakistan. My parents were Afghan refugees there. They met, married, and raised all four of us, my three siblings and me. I am the middle child, with an older brother, an older sister, and a younger sister. 

Most of my childhood, though, was spent in the United Arab Emirates, in Dubai. That is where I went to school, sat my exams, and lived what felt like a fairly normal teenage life. But my life was never rooted in just one place. My family is originally from Afghanistan, and we travelled often to Kabul, where my dad worked. Movement was always part of our reality. 

For family and personal reasons, I did very poorly in my A levels. By the time I finished school, I knew I did not want to stay in Dubai. I wanted independence and a fresh start somewhere new. I started searching online for universities that would accept me, and two came up. One was Swansea. The other I genuinely cannot remember. Swansea offered me a place on a foundation year, regardless of my grades, with the chance to continue into a physics degree afterward. I accepted without really knowing where I was going. 

When I arrived, I did not even realise I was in Wales. I thought England was the UK. It was my flatmate Rachel, a very proud Welsh woman, who corrected me quickly. She made sure all of us international students understood where we were and what that meant. 

I am grateful she did. I started noticing the bilingual signs, hearing Welsh spoken, seeing the language exist openly and proudly. It reminded me of growing up with Arabic and English side by side in Dubai. I loved learning how to pronounce Welsh place names properly, like “prifysgol,” because it felt important to show respect. When I learned about the history of the Welsh language and the attempts to erase it, I felt a deep empathy. Coming from my background, that history resonated strongly with me. 

Wales slowly began to feel like a place where I could belong. 

My first years were full of discovery. People felt kind and grounded. I made lifelong friends at Swansea University. The weather was hard at times. Weeks of rain left me restless and desperate to get outside. But even then, I found myself embracing soggy walks to lectures and soaked clothes. It had its own strange charm. 

I left Swansea for a few years and lived in Edinburgh, but eventually I found myself back. I returned to start a PhD, something I never imagined I would do. I struggled during my master’s degree, especially during COVID, and assumed I had missed my chance. Still, I applied, just to see. They said yes. Wales, it turns out, is a place that believes in second chances. 

This time, my experience feels deeper. My sister is now here too, working with the Welsh Refugee Council. I feel more connected to the wider community. Swansea has changed since I first arrived. There is more diversity, more languages, more people like me choosing to build a life here. I hear it in the streets, see it in the shops, and taste it in the food. 

Some of my strongest connections come from my PhD research group, my sister, and my partner. Academia can be isolating, but I am lucky. These are the people I would call if I needed anything. They are my family in every way that matters. 

There are moments I will always remember. Walking beneath waterfalls in the Brecon Beacons. Paddleboarding at Three Cliffs Bay. Decorating my first place on my own. These things mattered because they marked independence and belonging. 

One especially powerful moment was attending the Nation of Sanctuary Awards. I cried the entire time. It was not about knowing everyone in the room. It was about knowing they existed. About realising I was not alone in my experience as a refugee. 

People often ask what I miss about home. The answer is complicated. Dubai was home for a long time, but our life there was small and contained. Kabul felt different. Fuller. Rich with extended family, language, markets, colour, and warmth. I miss the smells of spices, handmade fabrics, jewellery, and hearing my language spoken everywhere. 

Strangely, I sometimes feel echoes of that here. There is a quiet warmth in Wales. A generosity that says, “What’s mine is yours.” Friends like Rachel and Ffion have shown me that kind of hospitality, and it feels deeply familiar. 

Looking ahead, I want stability. I want a safe base to return to, the ability to travel, and the chance to support the people I love. I want meaningful work and a life shared with my partner. I want to give back to the communities I have moved through. 

I also hope for something bigger. Less hostility toward refugees and migrants. A Wales that continues healing from its own colonial wounds. Better systems built on compassion and justice. I believe that change starts at a community level. 

If there is one thing I want people to take from my story, it is that second chances are real. Even when it feels impossible, sometimes reaching out anyway changes everything. 

We are more than documents. More than grades or degrees. Migration does not look one way. Being a refugee does not mean one thing. Every story is different. This is mine, and I am proud of it. 

I want people to see the beauty of a multicultural, multi faith society. Life becomes fuller when your community includes people of different cultures, religions, abilities, and identities. Migration does not weaken culture. It expands it. 

Welsh Afghan music. Welsh Brazilian food. Welsh Chinese traditions. These are not replacements. They are new, living expressions of belonging. 

That is what I believe Wales can be. A place that becomes more, not less, through openness.