Stories

 

Marjorie’s story: In Uganda I was active in opposition politics at a grassroots level: working in my village, helping women to know their rights and teaching them reading and writing. I was imprisoned twice. The horror that I experienced in there, you wouldn't wish that on anyone, not even your enemy. I was tortured, I was raped, I was burnt with cigarettes, I was cut with razors, electric shocks: all the horrible things you can think of to get information from someone.

Eventually I escaped and came to England. It was scary but I'd been in this torture for some time, and I just wanted to be able to breathe fresh air again. I was refused asylum. It took 6 long years to fight my case through the courts until I was finally given leave to remain.  I would like the Home Office to say sorry for getting it wrong and putting me through that long period of waiting; the anxiety and the fear were so terrible.

Herlinde Lokkuke by Aliya Mirza

Herlinde’s story: When I came here I thought I would be safe, but it has been so hard. I have spent a lot of time living destitute. That means that I am not allowed to work but also I am not allowed to claim benefits and I am not given anywhere to live. Being destitute made me really desperate. The first time was in July 2005. I was destitute for nearly a year and a half until October 2006.  I felt like I was falling into a bottomless pit. I felt like I had lost everything; it felt like there was no one to help.

In 2009, when the Home Office rejected my case again,  I became destitute for the second time,  for 15 months. When you are destitute you come across people like you with many different stories. Women like myself who have nowhere to go, and spend their nights in shelters. Sometimes those shelters are full, and women are forced to spend the night on the streets.  One woman told me how she had been raped on the streets because she was sleeping rough.  Some women go to Heathrow airport  to sleep. Or they take a night bus, going around and around the streets of London.  Some women become prostitutes to survive.

Being destitute affects your whole wellbeing; your mind, body and soul.  I found when I was destitute that I couldn’t plan my life. You feel useless and down. You are not steady, you become like a child.

Although I have now been given leave to remain. I still find it hard to accept how my life has turned out to be in the UK. I feel sad all the time knowing all those years have been lost. I can’t believe this has happened to me, that I lived like this, like a beggar. This was never meant to be my life.     

photo by Isabelle Merminod

Saron’s story: One day I went to the reporting centre in London. They took my papers in through the window and checked them on the computer. Then they told me to sit in a corner. Almost two hours later an officer came and called my name. They took me into a small room and took my picture, searched my pockets, shoes, everything. I had to take off almost all my clothes. It was December. I was standing almost naked in a cold room. They took my keys, the bus pass, everything I had, and sealed them in a small plastic bag. And they took my phone. I asked if I could make a call. They said, ‘This is not prison, this is immigration detention. If you were in prison you could call.’ So I couldn’t even call my lawyer. Because it wasn’t a prison, they said. A van came for me. It was a long journey – from Old Street to Bedford. When we arrived I could just see buildings. There was a long corridor, with beige walls and a shiny blue floor with a tiny dotted pattern. It all looked very clean and very solid. In the reception, some women were waiting for me. They said, ’Welcome to Yarls Wood Detention Centre’. One of the officials said ‘You are going to stay with us for some time.’ She asked if I wanted some sandwiches. It was nearly eight in the evening and I hadn’t eaten all day. But when I’m upset, I can’t eat. Even if I eat, it has no taste, no life in my mouth. Then she continued, ‘Now we need to search you.’ That was the third time I’d been searched that day. I did what they told me to do. I took off everything except my pants. They checked every single thing. After a couple of minutes a man came. He said, ‘I am going to take you to your room. Follow me!’ We went along a very long corridor with a lot of doors. He didn’t say anything; the only sound was his keys in the endless doors. My room was a little way along. It was small and square, with two beds and a toilet and shower, white walls. I saw a girl lying down on one of the beds. I asked her if she came from Ethiopia. She said, ‘No, I’m from Eritrea, my name is Azebe.’ She said she’d been here in the country for five years. ‘I came when I was under age, and when I became eighteen they wanted to deport me. I’ve been taken to the airport three times, but each time I shouted and screamed, so they brought me back’. Her story scared me. I felt shocked, all over again. She added, ‘Next week I have another flight. I don’t want to go back.’ A week later, six guards came to the room. It was nearly midnight. Azebe said, ‘I’m not going, I’m going to die here!” She said to them, ‘I want to use the toilet’. They waited, sitting on the bed, watching the locked door. Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes passed. They called somebody to open the door. She’d drunk the shampoo. She tried to stop them touching her. They pulled all her stuff from the cupboard, put it in a black bin bag, then they started dragging her out of the room. I was sitting there, watching her flailing arms as she tried to stop them. I didn’t know what to do. I just watched. It was like watching my own future. After a few minutes I started to vomit, and then my bowels went. The next day, Azebe came back. Her face was bruised. I was happy to see her, but I couldn’t talk to her. I couldn’t eat. I was afraid of the security guards. The white shirts and the black trousers reminded me of violence. I felt nobody was safe in that place.