Wales: Where Ghofran’s Future Begins 

I still remember the night we fled Syria. We left with only the clothes we were wearing, a few bags, and the fragile hope that somewhere life could be different. 

It was 2012. Our neighbourhood had become a frontline. Under cover of darkness, my family crossed into Lebanon. Hours of walking, resting, walking again, and sometimes lifted along by strangers who asked no questions. I was 12. My brother was 10. 

In Beirut, relatives found us “shelter”: a windowless basement room, given in exchange for maintaining an apartment building. We cleaned stairwells, carried shopping, fixed whatever needed fixing. It wasn’t employment. It was a deal with desperation. 

The room was barely three by two metres. Four of us slept there at first. Later, when more relatives escaped, eleven people lay shoulder to shoulder on the floor. A utility space with exposed electrical panels became our kitchen. It was dangerous, but when you have nothing, danger becomes normal. 

School slipped out of reach. Lebanon couldn’t absorb the numbers arriving from Syria. I dropped out. So did my brother. My parents worked, and I stayed home to care for him. Then my mother had two more children within a year. I became a second mother. My childhood didn’t end with a bang; it faded. 

I still wanted to learn. I had a phone and internet access, and that small screen became my classroom: YouTube, films, music. I learned English through Peppa Pig and Justin Bieber. My younger brothers grew up with cartoons in different languages; one started speaking English, French, even Spanish. 

We never expected to leave Lebanon. When we registered with the UN, it was for food vouchers. Then they asked if we would relocate if selected. We said yes, without believing it meant anything. 

In 2014, we were told we matched the UK’s resettlement criteria for vulnerable families with health issues. My father had been ill for years. We thought our lives were about to change. Instead, months became years of silence. We watched others leave while we stayed, trying not to hope too loudly. 

Then, four years later, in 2018 we received confirmation. We were going to the UK. Our first flight was cancelled because my father’s oxygen levels were too low. We had already said goodbye and given up what little we had. We went back to Beirut with nowhere that truly felt like “back.” 

Finally, in May 2018, we boarded the plane. 

We landed in Birmingham and drove for hours without knowing our destination. When the van stopped, they said, “Welcome to Aberystwyth.” 

It was sunny but cold. Then we opened the door to our new home and froze in disbelief: beds, bedrooms, a real kitchen, a bathroom with a door that closed. Privacy. My little brothers ran through the house, claiming rooms like pirates discovering treasure. For the first time in years, I felt safe. 

At first, everything was unfamiliar, especially food. When the tastes and smells of home disappear, you feel it in your bones. Back then there was no tahini, no flatbread, nothing that tasted like us. Today, I smile when I see them on shelves. 

People welcomed us before we even spoke. They waved, stopped to say hello. We had grown up with stories that painted people here as cold or racist. Instead, we found warmth. 

My parents struggled with the quiet. In Lebanon life had rhythm. Morning coffee with neighbours and conversations in the street. Here, once we children were busy with school, silence settled in. My younger siblings cried for weeks, missing cousins and noise. But over time they flourished. Now they learn Welsh, sing songs, and dream freely. 

For me, the path took longer. I wanted university, but I didn’t know the steps. At 19, I was placed in basic English classes. I searched online, travelled for courses, completed a certificate through the Open University, and eventually enrolled at Aberystwyth University to study international politics. 

Around that time, my mother and I started a food project called Syrian Diner. We wanted to support women in our community who struggled to find work. We began with pop-ups and fundraisers, and when I saw a shop for rent, I took the leap. 

Not everyone came with me. Some women feared losing benefits and stepped back. I respected that. But after I moved forward, I lost parts of my local Syrian community. It hurt. I chose peace over conflict and kept cooking. 

Building the restaurant was brutal. We had no money and no experience. I made costly mistakes: buying the wrong equipment, signing contracts I didn’t understand, pricing dishes so low I couldn’t pay the bills. I was close to quitting. 

Then my partner joined me. He had years of restaurant experience. Together we rebuilt the menu, priced it properly, and things began to work. We took loans and renovated fully new electrics, proper kitchens and toilets, a bar. 

Then came Jay Rayner’s review. After that, we were fully booked for months. People travelled across the UK to eat our food. That review didn’t just lift the business. It validated years of struggle and stubborn resilience. 

Wales gave me safety and opportunity. I was born in Syria and shaped in Lebanon, but Wales is where I belong. 

I still dream sometimes of being trapped again, of losing my future. But those fears have softened. Now I dream of growth: owning the building, living above the restaurant, studying culinary arts, perfecting one place. 

More than anything, I hope people look past stereotypes like headscarves, accents, unfamiliar names, and see why we came. Not for comfort, but for safety. We left because we had no choice. 

Wales gave me a second chance. It’s not just where I live. It’s where my future begins.