I still remember the day we landed at Heathrow in September 2011, stepping off the plane with my two young children, unsure of what lay ahead. My husband and I had made the painful decision to leave Syria in search of safety. We didn’t know where we were going or who would help us, but we had no choice but to keep moving forward.

Before the war, life in Syria was stable and comfortable. I worked in a bank for over a decade and had IT qualifications. We lived in a small town in the Kurdish region, surrounded by family. Life was good—until everything changed. The war forced us to leave behind our home, our jobs, and our sense of security.

Our journey took us from Syria to Turkey, then South Africa, and finally to the UK. We didn’t want to come so far, knowing no one and nothing about the country, but fear and lack of options left us no alternative. It wasn’t an easy decision—it was the only one.

Arriving in the UK was overwhelming. We had no passports, no understanding of the system, and no idea where to go. I tried asking for help at the airport but felt invisible. My children were exhausted and crying as we wandered around Heathrow until we were finally directed to the asylum seeker department. After hours of waiting, we were given an interpreter and taken to safety. I was exhausted, frightened, but relieved, we had survived.

Life in Wales was hard at first. We lived on very little money and struggled to afford basics. I remember spending almost everything in the first week and worrying about how we would buy milk for our baby. My husband washed cars for cash just to get us through. But the hardest part wasn’t the poverty, it was the loneliness. We had no support, and at times were treated without dignity. That was deeply painful.

Eventually, we received refugee status and a small flat in Cardiff. It was damp and affected my son’s asthma, but it was a home. Slowly, things improved. My husband found full-time work, and together we learned how to survive, adapt, and rebuild.

Over time, I realised we weren’t just survivors, we were a family given a second chance. We built a life from nothing, and that experience changed me. Whenever I see someone newly arrived or struggling, I help, because I know how much that kindness can mean.

There were also moments of warmth that stayed with me, like Alan, an 88-year-old man who became like family. He offered advice, support, and kindness without judgment. He still sends birthday cards to my children. He reminded me that compassion exists everywhere.

Wales has become home. Life isn’t easy, my husband and I both work full-time, and financial pressures remain—but we are proud of what we’ve built. Two years ago, we bought our own house. Despite the challenges, the community and culture here helped us heal.

I miss Kurdistan deeply, my family, my old life, the sense of ease. But my children belong here now. This is their country. We didn’t come for money or comfort; we came for safety, peace, and a future for our children.

Through everything, I’ve learned that home isn’t just a place—it’s what you build, what you protect, and who you help along the way. And today, I can finally say that Wales is home.