From the Tigris to Tawe – Tahir's Story 

I was born in 1961, just a stone’s throw from the River Tigris in Baghdad. The fifth of seven children, I grew up in a comfortable, middle-class family. My father was a glass trader, importing glass from Belgium and cutting it to size for local customers. Life was stable, until everything changed. 

I was six when my father died. In our society, women didn’t work, but my mother had no choice. She fought to keep the business going, putting a temporary manager in place. By the time my eldest brother was 14, he was forced to take over. Responsibility arrived early in our lives. 

I, however, had a different dream. I wanted to study abroad. I loved learning and wanted to see the world beyond Iraq. Even as a child, my horizons stretched further than the Euphrates and Tigris. 

That opportunity came through a cousin studying in Swansea. With his help, I was accepted into Gregg High School. At 18, I left Baghdad. 

I stepped into a completely different world: strong accents, bitter cold, and very unfamiliar toilets. I still laugh when I remember a flatmate, unfamiliar with Western plumbing, sitting backwards on the toilet. It was bewildering, but unforgettable. 

Language was the biggest challenge. I knew English grammar, but real conversation was another matter entirely. I would practise a sentence again and again just to buy a bus ticket, only to freeze when the driver asked, “Single or return?” One Iraqi student I knew accidentally bought dog food, mistaking the word “beef” for tinned meat. One bite was enough to teach him otherwise.  

Despite the challenges, there was a freedom I had never known. Back home, everything was watched: how you dressed, who you spoke to, what you believed. Here, we had choices. Some students went wild with nightlife, gambling, and debt. I chose discipline. I budgeted, studied, and focused on mastering the language. When I finally spoke English with confidence, something shifted inside me. It was my first real victory. 

After my A-levels, I moved to Southampton to study construction. That’s where I met my first wife. When my studies ended, we returned to Swansea, but it was the early 1980s and work was scarce. Rejection letters arrived one after another. Still, I kept knocking on doors. 

One day, a construction firm told me they weren’t hiring. “Let me work for free,” I said. 

They laughed. “Who will pay you?” “I will,” I replied. 

For ten months, I worked unpaid during the day and earned tips in an Indian restaurant at night. When they finally offered me a job, I was overjoyed. Persistence had paid off. 

Life, however, is rarely straightforward. The late 1980s recession hit hard. A divorce followed, along with financial strain and long drives to see my children. Then a friend asked me to help out at his kebab shop for a few nights. That’s when a new path opened. 

Before long, I had my own restaurant, then another. For nearly a decade, I ran food businesses, built a second family, and eventually returned to Swansea to be closer to my daughters and to work again in construction. 

Now, more than forty years later, many of my childhood friends are doctors, engineers, and professionals. Others were lost along the way. In Iraq, only those considered academically strong were sent abroad. It was an investment. I didn’t waste it. 

I made it. 

Over time, though, I’ve grown distant from Iraq. I struggle to remember the names of all my nephews and nieces. The distance isn’t just physical. It’s memory, time, and change. What we share now are childhood memories, precious but fading. 

Wales, on the other hand, slowly became home. Not all at once, but gently and firmly. One day, I realised I was no longer a visitor. Every time I sing the national anthem, I feel deeply emotional. 

There have been difficult moments. In the past, people might have noticed your skin colour quietly. Today, they say things openly. My British-born children have faced it. Playground insults. Silent judgement. My youngest daughter, Tamara, felt it most. Her skin is as dark as mine. 

I could have become bitter. Instead, I chose determination. I fought back with work, love, and quiet defiance. I belong here too. 

Not all memories are painful. Some are beautifully strange. I remember my first wife’s grandmother, a traditional Welsh woman with soft white hair and hands always busy with knitting or tea. She believed it was lucky for a dark-skinned man to enter her home. “It brings blessings,” she’d say. I didn’t question it. After everything I’d been through, I accepted it as a welcome. 

Wales became more than a home. It became something I wanted to give back to. I organised community events, volunteered at park runs, helped raise over £2,000 for children with cancer, and supported mental health through MIND. Giving back isn’t just charity. It’s connection. 

I often say, “You have to invest in your people.” You plant roots by giving, not taking. 

I haven’t forgotten Iraq. I carry it now through stories I tell my grandchildren. My daughter even bought me a notebook to write them down. I’ve fallen behind, I admit. Life has a way of pulling you everywhere. But I will catch up. 

Looking ahead, my hopes are simple: compassion, fairness, and opportunity. 

I don’t understand why a country rich in resources, and in need of workers, would stop refugees from contributing. Let them work. Let them stand on their own feet. It’s not only moral, it’s practical. 

For me, life comes down to three values: respect, integrity, and humility. 

When you arrive in a new country, you respect it. You learn its ways. You don’t force your customs on others. You offer your culture gently, like a gift. You integrate. You contribute. You listen. 

And in return, the country gives you something priceless: belonging. 

That’s my story. I came to Wales as a guest. I stayed as a citizen. And today, I’m not just someone who lives here. I am someone who belongs, not by birth, but by choice, effort, and heart.