Almas’ story - Formed Under Pressure 
 
 

My name is Almas. It means diamond in Arabic. I think that fits, because diamonds are formed under pressure, and pressure has shaped my life. 

Before coming to Wales twenty-four years ago, I was a teenager living in Iraq. I was seventeen, on the edge of adulthood, with my whole life ahead of me. I lived with my parents, my two brothers and my sister. We were a close family, living what I would call a normal, happy life. I was in school, surrounded by friends and kind neighbours, and preparing to start university. I had dreams for my future. 

Then the war began, and everything changed. 

Violence was no longer something we heard about on the news. It was outside our door. Family members began disappearing. Cousins, uncles, people we loved were taken and never returned. In 2001, while Saddam Hussein was still president and the country was already unsafe, my parents made the decision that we could not stay. 

My brother and I left Iraq together and came to the UK, where we had extended family. I remember arriving first in London, then Burnley. It wasn’t glamorous, surrounded by factories and far from the city centre, but the people were kind and welcoming, and that mattered more than anything. From there, we came to Cardiff. 

The asylum process was surprisingly quick. It took just four months. Looking back now, knowing how long people wait today, it feels almost unbelievable. We were fortunate. At that time, Iraqis were considered high priority because of the regime. 

But even with papers and safety, my heart was broken. My father had passed away before we left, and my mother was still in Iraq, alone. Every day I worried about her. Every bomb, every headline made my chest tighten. This was before video calls or messaging apps. My mother didn’t even have a phone. I would call her neighbour, wait sometimes ten minutes just to hear her voice for one minute. Every minute cost a pound. It wasn’t just expensive; it was emotional torture. 

At night, I hugged my pillow and cried silently. I had to be strong. That’s how we’re raised. Especially as a young woman, alone in a new country, you don’t show weakness. 

I worked and studied constantly to distract myself from the pain. I lived far from Cardiff city centre, cycling forty-five minutes each way. My days started at seven in the morning and often ended at eleven at night. Sometimes I was so exhausted I fell asleep in cafés between shifts and classes. Cardiff became my second home, and later Swansea. I cycled everywhere. I still laugh remembering how I couldn’t do shopping because I couldn’t carry bags uphill. 

My siblings joined me later, one by one. But it wasn’t until six years ago that the deepest wound finally began to heal. My mother was able to join me. That moment changed everything. I felt safe for the first time. I could sleep without fear. Now I care for her, and she is safe. I am living again. 

I’m studying psychology part-time because I want to understand the mind and help others like me. I’ve been involved in charity work for over a decade and I’m an ambassador for the Voices Network with the Red Cross and City of Sanctuary. I support newcomers, especially Arabic speakers, helping them navigate life in the UK and feel less alone. 

Swansea is where I truly feel at home. It’s welcoming, warm, and alive. There’s always something happening, from community meals to dance classes. I once attended a formal legal meeting and ended up dancing salsa afterwards. That’s Swansea. I’ve made many friends here, often through helping others. I know how overwhelming the system can be if you don’t speak the language or understand your rights. That’s why I keep showing up. 

Even though I love Wales, there are things I miss deeply about Iraq. I miss my friends, my father, and my people. When I visited a few years ago, I was struck by the resilience in people’s eyes. Their bodies carried scars of war and torture, but their faces held smiles and hope. It broke my heart and inspired me at the same time. 

People were incredibly generous. I was rarely allowed to pay for anything. That hospitality reminded me of who we are as a people. Sometimes I think we are too generous, but maybe that generosity is why Iraq still stands. The more you give, the more you receive. 

Returning also showed me how much had changed. As a teenager under Saddam’s regime, life was terrifying. Women could be taken and disappear. People were arrested for nothing, tortured or killed based on religion, family, or bad luck. Fear was constant. Now, I could walk alone safely. That freedom felt like heaven. 

I’ve always been fascinated by politics and history. Even as a child, I asked difficult questions. I wanted to understand power and injustice. I learned about young people imprisoned at eighteen, tortured for years, and released decades later with nothing left. They survived but lost their futures. I believe they deserve justice, even if nothing can truly repair what was taken. 

Iraq is safer now. There are emergency services, more security, more peace. But there is still work to do. I love my country, but I’m not sure I could work there. I speak my mind. I can’t ignore injustice. And in some places, honesty is still dangerous, especially for women. 

That’s why my dream is to work at borders with the Red Cross, meeting people when they arrive, when trauma is fresh and support matters most. I’m studying counselling and research to specialise in refugee wellbeing. I want to make a difference. 

I also dream of building bridges between countries like Iraq, Syria or Afghanistan and the UK, creating early mental health support, not years later, but from the beginning. 

And yes, I’m a poet too. I was nominated for an award last year. I didn’t win, but I felt seen. That matters. 

What I want people to understand is this: your heart is where you belong. Mine was with my mother. Until she joined me, I couldn’t fully see the beauty around me. When she arrived, I began to heal. I began to live again. 

Now my mission is simple. I don’t want anyone to go through what I did. I work on family reunification, legal cases, and advocacy. From a human rights perspective, it’s simple. Everyone deserves their family. Everyone deserves to feel whole. 

Even if it takes years, I believe we’ll get there. And Inshallah, we will.