Between Borders and Beginnings 

My name is Sidra, and my story began long before I was born. 

My family’s journey started in Afghanistan, in the province of Farah near the Iranian border. We are Pashtun, and like Afghanistan itself, our history has been shaped by conflict, resistance, and movement. 

My paternal grandfather was part of the resistance during the Soviet occupation. Because of this, my father had to flee Afghanistan as a teenager. At just 14, he escaped to Iran with his family and worked as a labourer to survive. Life was harsh, and loss followed him. Two of his siblings died, one during the war. 

At the same time, my mother’s life in Kabul was collapsing. She had worked as a teacher but refused to teach Soviet propaganda. Soon after, she was pressured to sign a false confession. One night, she fled on foot with her younger brothers, crossing mountain passes into Pakistan while helicopters dropped bombs below. 

My parents met in Pakistan, where I was born with my three siblings. I am the daughter of two people who lost almost everything, yet never lost their strength. 

Being born a refugee means never feeling fully secure. In Pakistan, we were always outsiders. The word muhajir, meaning refugee, was often used as an insult. My parents wanted something better, so when I was three, we moved to Dubai, where I grew up. 

Dubai was a city built by migrants. I was surrounded by languages, food, and traditions from everywhere. I spoke English at school, Pashto and Dari at home, and Urdu with friends. I learned Arabic, loved Bollywood films, and later studied Spanish at university. 

But even there, there was no permanence. You cannot become a citizen unless you are Emirati. Our visas had to be renewed every few years, and uncertainty was always present. 

Still, I thrived. I attended British schools and studied international relations at the American University in Dubai. At 21, I secured an internship with UNHCR. It felt surreal to work for the organisation that had once supported families like mine. 

Then, on my first day, on 15 August 2021, the Taliban took Kabul. 

I sat in the office watching the news unfold. Province after province fell. Then Kabul. My world shifted in hours. 

My father was in Afghanistan at the time. My mother and sisters were already in the UK. I was in Dubai, realising how fragile everything was. 

There is no safety net in the UAE and no path to permanent residence. I had to leave. I came to the UK seeking sanctuary. 

The transition was frightening. I first lived with my sister in northeast England, then in temporary accommodation with my mother. We were rejected repeatedly by landlords for not being “local” before finding somewhere to live. 

For nine months, I was not allowed to work. I had no routine, no independence. I felt isolated and disconnected from the life I had built. 

But I was not raised to give up. As soon as I received refugee status, I applied for dozens of jobs. Nothing came back. 

So, I changed direction. 

The lawyers who supported my asylum claim treated me with dignity and kindness. Their impact stayed with me. I decided to apply for a master’s degree in law, hoping to help others the way they had helped me. 

I knew I had privileges others did not. I spoke English. I understood systems. I had an education. That gave me a responsibility to help others. 

After finishing my dissertation, I came to Wales to visit my sister. I also hoped to volunteer, having previously worked with the British Red Cross. 

While signing up to the Welsh Refugee Council mailing list, I saw a job advertisement for a Community Engagement Officer. It felt as though it had been written for me. 

After so many unsuccessful applications, I doubted myself. But I applied honestly, sharing my story. 

A week after arriving in Wales, I was invited to interview. Soon after, I received the call offering me the job. 

I was on a train when they told me. That moment changed everything. What was meant to be a short visit became the beginning of a new chapter. 

Wales feels like home in a way I did not expect. The work and the people helped me reconnect with myself. When you become a refugee, you lose parts of who you are. Here, I have started to find those parts again. 

There is something familiar in Wales. I hear different languages, including Welsh. It reminds me of the multilingual worlds I grew up in. 

Wales has a strong sense of community and a real aspiration to be a Nation of Sanctuary. I see it in everyday kindness and in people who make space for others. 

I still miss my homes deeply. I miss my grandparents in Afghanistan and my childhood friends in Dubai. Those places will always be part of me. 

But my dream now is to stay in Wales, build a life here, and contribute to the country that gave me safety and opportunity. 

People often see one word when they look at me: refugee. That word carries history, loss, and survival. It is part of my story, but it is not all of me. 

I am also someone who loves books, films, poetry, languages, and culture. I am someone rebuilding her future. 

We have more in common than we think. 

Yes, I am a refugee. But I am also a daughter, a student, a professional, and a person with hope. 

And like millions of others, I am more than one word. 

In Pashto, we say: Dir dir manana. 

Thank you very much.