A week in the life of a young asylum seeker

Isaac likes to shower when the bathrooms are quiet at night.

He blasts Tems’ Love Me JeJe on repeat from his phone. ​“The stalls are huge and I can dance for like a whole hour before I go to sleep,” he smiles.

When I meet the 20-year-old Ugandan on a drizzly day at the start of June, he has been at Napier Barracks – a disused army enclosure turned ​“contingency asylum accommodation” in Kent – for 39 days. He came here following a three-month stint at an asylum hotel in Gloucester.

At Napier, men are housed 15 per room. All have claimed asylum. All are awaiting a decision that will entirely dictate the rest of their lives.

In these conditions, Isaac and his fellow residents are resourceful. Each will figure out their own coping mechanisms to make it through a waiting game with no clear finish line. They will hunt for moments of joy where they can find them – bathroom skanking included.

In the general election, phrases such as ​“illegal immigrant” and ​“small boats crisis” became a constant thrum. Less dog whistle, more racist muzak. With far-right fervour on the rise, asylum seekers find themselves at the focus of daily discourse. Placed front and centre in a country where, in reality, they exist at the margins. When’s the last time you saw an asylum seeker on a debate panel, let alone met one in real life?

You cannot claim asylum from outside the UK, so the asylum process begins with an application, either at port of entry or at a processing centre. This is usually followed by a rudimentary ​“screening interview” and the completion of an evidence form. From this point, the waiting game begins: first, for the ​“substantive interview” where case details are raked over, usually for several hours; then, for its result. Both stages can take anywhere from a couple of months to multiple years to arrive. Official immigration statistics show that at the end of March 2024, there were 120,000 UK asylum applications awaiting an initial decision, up from 27,000 in 2018.

In the interim, asylum seekers are prohibited from working and housed in dedicated accommodation: shared housing, repurposed spaces like the Bibby Stockholm barge and Napier Barracks, or the Daily Mail’s favourite, asylum hotels – now firmly in the public consciousness due to the recent riots. Those in catered accommodation are given an allowance of £8.86 per week; for independent living this goes up to £49.18. The result is a perpetual either/​or lifestyle, a hostile and limbo existence by government design.

Circumstances can change at any given time. The most extreme example of this was the recently axed Rwanda scheme, announced by Rishi Sunak in 2022 and then ramped to frenzy-point this April when parliament passed the bill, leaving asylum seekers terrified that they would be put on a plane to Africa without warning. But these headline grabbing plans hide the fact that moves to new locations happen on a less dramatic scale daily – often arbitrarily and with one day’s notice.

I meet Isaac alongside a group of young people currently housed at Napier Barracks. Journalists aren’t permitted on-site, so we converge in a large carpeted room at the back of a local church. The boys automatically lift chairs from a tower in the corner, creating a seating area for us. I get the feeling they spend a lot of time in rooms with stacked chairs.

Napier Barracks is, objectively, a dive. The formerly disused army barracks was panic-filled in 2020 to house asylum seekers as a stop-gap solution when Covid hit. Privately-owned and operated for profit by the billionaire ​“asylum king” Graham King – who entered the Sunday Times Rich List for the first time this year – it’s been marred in controversy but full ever since. His Clearsprings business empire currently receives £3.5 million a day in taxpayer-funded government contracts to transport and house asylum seekers in flats and other accommodation across the country.

At Napier, low brick buildings are home to vast dormitories where narrow cast iron beds are partitioned, hospital style, with curtains. The majority of the showers are in porta-cabins. I tell the boys that I’ve seen the reams of negative press: from overcrowding and lack of healthcare to a massive fire. With wide smiles, they assure me that it’s actually fine. Yahyia, a 22-year-old Jordanian, hands me a phone filled with videos and photos – taken to show his family – to see for myself. I think instantly of his mum, who is unlikely to find much comfort in the content. But, without exception, every young man says that they are happier here than at their previous hotel accommodation. The main reason? There’s a meeting space.

A little like a clubhouse or sixth form common room and run by local charity Napier Friends, here there’s books, tea on tap, a hairdresser who drops by from time to time and a variety of lessons, from official English classes to courses put on by fellow residents.

“It’s practically open all the time,” Yahyia explains. ​“And it’s always filled with people”.

Everyone at Napier introduces themselves in days chalked-off, like inmates or parents of newborns. Yahyia’s friend Odai is at ​“three and a half days”, while Rehan – a 23-year-old Pakistani man – wears the air of authority that comes with having 78 days under his belt. Unlike all other asylum accommodation, there’s a strict upper limit of 90 days at Napier. In other words, there’s an end in sight. This brings with it a wartime spirit and drive. Rehan’s taken up photography; taught computing classes to fellow residents; cooked at a dinner series for Folkestone residents; litter-picked on the beach (against a backdrop of racist abuse from locals); and started writing a blog.

Ever wondered why you’ve never met an asylum seeker at the pub? If you have an allowance of £8.86 to last the week, you cannot go to the pub. You can’t hang out at Nando’s or sit for a few hours nursing sundaes at Creams. A trip to the cinema would blow your entire budget. Life becomes one endless No Spend Challenge, no days off.

The result is that almost every activity employed by asylum seekers to fill their days is wholesome – almost like a head boy’s CV. As the boys speak, J Hus bars loop in my head: ​“Even when we never had a penny, we always had spirit.” They make it work. Bed, board and toiletries are provided for them. They get a bus if absolutely essential. But, in general, if they need to visit a doctor, the library or wherever they volunteer, they walk. There’s lots of walking. They’ve noticed that some of the guys in the camp pool their money. ​“If they put their money together, they can get like eight cans and some cigarettes on a Monday,” Isaac explains.

And how about Isaac? He saves every penny of his £8.86. ​“What for?” I ask, struggling to mask my shock at the uphill struggle he’s embarked upon. ​“For a rainy day,” he smiles, enigmatic.

It’s fitting that Isaac’s favourite song is Love Me Jeje. He represents its essence in human form – glowy and bright, with the delicate lightness of a bubble you’d do anything not to pop.

Before arriving at Napier, the only other person in the UK he told he was gay was his reporting officer at Heathrow Airport. ​“My country is extremely homophobic,” he explains, his tone characteristically breezy.

In April, a bill was upheld by Uganda’s Constitutional Court that means identifying as gay now comes with a 20-year sentence and possible death penalty.

“When I came out it was very dramatic,” he continues. ​“My mum was like, ​‘You can’t function, you can’t thrive.’ So she came up with a plan.” They flew to Heathrow together, Isaac claimed asylum and as soon as he had accommodation, she flew back home.

“In the hotel I felt so alone. I was always in my room,” he says. ​“I would never interact, because I was afraid of everyone around me. I prefer the barracks, because here I see more people with my story and I feel safe.”

On paper, you’d assume staying in a hotel would be preferable. The notion of asylum seekers in hotels has been a never-ending government PR nightmare since their inception in 2000, when asylum seeker accommodation was opened up to the private sector. But connotations of room service and bubble baths are a far cry from the reality for the 35,000 people currently housed in 400 hotels across the UK, many of which are owned and run by the ​“asylum king”.

I meet up with Afghans Latif and Haroon in Croydon, at the end of a day organised by the Refugee Council to support young people who are interested in advocacy and campaign work. They are vibrant and giddy, clearly gleeful from time spent surrounded by other young people and shared experiences. So when Latif tells us he feels lonely, it is so matter-of-fact, so child-like, it’s as if all air leaves the room.

When Latif arrived in the UK from Afghanistan in December last year, 18 and alone, he was housed in a hotel on the outskirts of Doncaster. He found himself sharing a small room with a chain-smoking old man with whom he shared no language. He fell into the habit of staying awake all night and sleeping through the reality of daytime.

“I was worrying about my future, my family in my home country and seeing other asylum-seekers waiting so long for their decisions,” he explains. ​“Sometimes you lose your mind in the process of thinking and by the time you close your eyes, it’s almost morning.”

There were no outreach services in his hotel or the surrounding area, so Latif became his own support system: ​“I decided to be a natural human”. He gave up his vampire-like ways, learning in real time about the natural healing powers of vitamin D. ​“I started to spend lots of the day outside of my room,” he explains. ​“I went to the parks, taking in some sunlight. That’s how I got myself back.”

Haroon nods in recognition. Both of them are reluctant to go into too much detail about their ​“before lives”. But both are from Afghanistan, where human rights violations are a daily occurence and almost two-thirds of the population needed humanitarian aid in 2023. They talk with joy about being able to listen to music: ​“In Afghanistan the Taliban stop you and control your phone, like what kind of music you are listening to or even talking in a different language,” says Haroon.

The 21-year-old was also initially housed in a hotel five miles outside Doncaster. He was there for four and a half months with PTSD – ​“my doctor says I have it… I’m not sure what it stands for” – and zero distraction from the trauma. But, Haroon explains, he got lucky when he was moved to a city centre hotel in Sheffield. The difference in the two experiences is visible on his face. ​“When I got to Sheffield, my life started from there,” he smiles, his pearl necklace hinting at a cosmopolitan coming-of-age journey.

On arrival in Sheffield, Haroon was provided with a list of local organisations who might be able to help him find connections. ​“I went down the list one-by-one, going to the addresses and talking with them,” he explains. ​“I asked, ​‘What can I do? How can I spend my time?’” Within a couple of weeks he’d gotten stuck into Muay Thai, football, volunteering in a soup kitchen and making the most of his multiple languages by accompanying people to their GP and hospital appointments.

“It was amazing,” he beams.

When we first met on Zoom, Latif and Haroon’s screens framed the plasterboard units and sealed windows of typical ring road hotel bedrooms. But in the short time since, both boys have been unexpectedly moved to shared independent housing; different spots in Kingston-Upon-Hull. It’s too early to say what the move will be like for them both, but Haroon is already missing the activities he’d found to fill his days in Sheffield and struggling to find replacements. Plus, he’s had to give up his September college place due to the move.

Latif has now been in his new spot for two weeks, and is yet to speak to a single one of his eight housemates. ​“You know, I don’t know where any of them are from,” he says, surprised at himself. ​“Everyone comes into the kitchen then goes back to their room. I guess it’s that feeling of everybody waiting. Nobody wants to think that they’re going to be there for very long.”

Both Haroon and Latif have made a friend today: Motaz. He’s an 18-year-old who escaped with his family from Yemen to Saudi Arabia, Egypt and Greece before finally settling in Northern Ireland, which is where he’s travelled from to visit Croydon today. He now has his refugee status and is moving to Glasgow to start university in September. Confident and chirpy, he serves as the mascot for a light at the end of the tunnel: ​“I told them today, it’s gonna be you guys next,” he grins, slapping their backs.

Motaz understands the transience of asylum seeker life; the frustration of putting down roots only to receive a letter to say you’re being moved to a different style of accommodation in a new part of the country that you know nothing about.

“People like us, we want to contribute and take part in the community,” he explains. ​“We want to be there, thriving and giving back. But you can’t build a castle from cards.”

The more time I spend with these boys, the more I grow to understand that it is this sense of impermanence that is the most effective tool in keeping asylum seekers liminal to British life.

​“Don’t get too comfy” is the message, loud and clear, from every Home Office move. Its official guidance to caseworkers, for example, states: ​“The overriding principle when allocating accommodation is that it is offered on a ​‘no choice basis’”. The boys describe being transported in the back of a van in the middle of the night to new accommodation, waiting for their number to be called and fate to be revealed, as their van-mates are dropped off at various locations across the country.

“I was in the hotel when the news broke of the Rwanda scheme” says Isaac. ​“Everyone was scared, everyone was talking about it, but the staff didn’t care, they wouldn’t tell us anything.” The lack of communication led to conjecture. ​“That’s when the letters started coming to say we were being moved to Napier. We were like, ​‘Maybe this is just a ploy to get us out of the country.’ Because when you look at the camp on the map, Napier is next to the ocean.”

Despite all of this, every young man I speak to remains determinedly optimistic about their future. ​“It’s very hard for asylum seekers, after losing our lives in our country and starting from zero, to imagine reaching our dreams,” Latif says. ​“But dreaming is like the same as food and breathing. We won’t stop.”

He has been inspired to study medicine by the famous Afghani doctor, Waheed Arian. Haroon plans to follow in the footsteps of his father, who went to military school, and become a pilot. Yahyia would like to bag a place on an IT course so that he can get a car and a home, then he’ll think about marriage. ​“Step by step,” he says.

Isaac hopes to be in his next accommodation in time to enrol for college in September. He wants to study to become a mental health nurse. ​“I feel like personally I have struggled and I’m still struggling,” he explains. ​“I want to help others find their little ways of coping.”

Following our meet-ups, anti-immigrant sentiment ramps up across the UK. An angry mob targets an asylum hotel in Greater Manchester, then another in Rochdale, where they manage to break in and start a fire. The scapegoating has never felt so stark.

I check in with Isaac, who explains that the mood in the camp is nervous, but they feel safer than those living in hotels and shared accommodation. They make sure to ​“move in groups” when they leave the barracks, just to be safe. He has now done 64 days at Napier, so his own move – most likely to shared accommodation – is imminent. ​“I’m happy to leave, but I’m terrified about where I’ll be going,” he says.

But joy leaps from my phone screen one evening as he pops into my messages to tell me that he has just attended his first ever Pride march in Folkestone. He’s off to the afters at a local creative arts centre and will report back tomorrow. I wake to a WhatsApp update:

“It was beyond surreal

I danced until my feet hurt

Sing out loud till I almost lost my voice 😅

It truly was a night to remember”

I think back to something Isaac said the day we first met: ​“The day I was coming to England, I told myself that this day was my birthday,” he grinned, so full of optimism. ​“The day my life begins.”

Perhaps Pride succeeded where we, as a nation, have let him down.