I love buildings, I love beautiful houses, I wanted to study architecture but that was not open to me thirty years ago. I trained as a nurse, and I am still a nurse. I do it because I promise myself, I will not be a victim. To treat someone who is unwell, is somehow to give back, to give back to life.

In 1994, the genocide against the Tutsi happened in my country, Rwanda. I hid in a church that was attacked, somehow, they did not kill me. I thought all my family were killed. I hid for days, then I went to the priest’s house and found he had saved some of my family. Deep inside me I knew the only way we would survive would be if Guy, a Belgian soldier, the husband of my aunt came to find us. He did come, he found where we were hiding – my grandma, my cousin, my sister Alphonsine, her baby Ornella – and he took us to Belgium where we lived as refugees.

Unfortunately, in Belgium I felt racism a lot of the time. At work I was often the only black person. But when I visited London, I was just like everyone else. When I had my breakdown, my heart said ‘I know where I will go. London is where I chose to live’. When I applied for my first job in London, my English was so bad, but they gave me a chance. Since then, I love living here and I’m glad I raised my daughter here. She always tells me, thanks for bringing me to London.

Home is where my heart is, where love is.

To learn more about the current situation in Rwanda and UNHCR’S work there, please visit this page.

When I arrived here, I had nothing and starting over was overwhelming. As an asylum seeker, I wasn’t allowed to work for the first two years, leaving me in a state of limbo where the future was uncertain, and the past was ever-present. To cope, I volunteered, using my skills to help others facing similar struggles.

I’m from Khartoum, Sudan, where I worked as an architect and urban planner, also lecturing at the university. Life was fulfilling until I was forced to flee in late 2021 due to escalating conflict. Sudan had seen a glimmer of hope after the 2018 revolution, with a transitional government formed by military and civilian leaders. However, in 2021, the military tried to seize full control, leading to a devastating war in 2023 that drove millions into exile. It’s painful that this tragedy receives little attention in the media, the world seems to have turned a blind eye to our suffering.

Now, in a new country, I’m rebuilding my life, re-training in architecture and urban planning, and learning new skills. I dream of returning to Sudan to help rebuild when it’s safe. My family and friends are scattered as refugees, and though we long to return, we must embrace this new chapter while holding onto hope for the future.

To learn more about the current conflict in Sudan and what you can do to help, please visit the page below.

I work as a cinematographer in London. My big break was when I was asked to work on the film The Swimmers – to make sure the stories were authentic. I love filmmaking because I want to tell stories like mine and from others that are not being told. 

I was born in 1993 in Damascus, Syria, and spent my childhood moving around different cities because of my dad’s work. Life was beautiful until my mum passed away when I was 14. Then the Arab Spring hit, and things got difficult. I protested, got arrested twice, and almost died during a bombing. Eventually, I found myself in Turkey, where I studied dental prosthetics, but when I couldn’t get a work permit, I ended up in Europe, crossing countries by walking, dinghies, buses, and trains, eventually making it to the UK after a year in a refugee camp – ‘the Jungle’ –  in Calais. I put myself in a suitcase to make it here and nearly suffocated – I had no other choice.

I first went to Manchester and worked in a cafe – 12 hour shifts for £35 per day. I saved for a camera – a cheap one. I had a big passion for filmmaking and started filming my friends, teaching myself online and getting work experience at production companies.

I never thought I was a refugee – now I see it as a remarkable word, something that needs to be respected. Home, for me, isn’t just a physical place. It’s love, the smells, the light, the air, the people who make you feel like you belong. I’m 30 and started growing vegetables for the first time, this brings me peace – it’s what my mum used to do.

To learn more about the ongoing Syria crisis and what you can do to help, please visit the page below.

I feel very hopeful about the future now. I run a business with my business partner Mez: an International Shop, we totally transformed it. Working in business has taught me so much, sometimes life is the best education. It teaches you to solve problems in a different way. I was born in Darfur, and I learned from the street to be strong. I’m still using those skills now.

I had to leave Sudan because of the civil war, it still causes me great pain because my father and family are still there. My uncle passed away there last month. He was a very important person in my life.

What does home mean to me? It means many things, it means peace, safety and resting your head in your mother’s lap.

To learn more about the conflict in Sudan and what you can do to help, please visit the page below.

I came to London 15 years ago from Sri Lanka as a student to seek safety from torture, from persecution. I had to save my life…

Arriving in the UK alone I had the support of a therapist group called Room to Heal whilst I faced language barriers, PTSD and homelessness. I just received refugee status last year and I slowly, slowly feel free. So many opportunities come your way when you are a refugee, you have freedom and you can carry on your future. It’s very hard, but at the end of the tunnel, you will have light.

My big dream isn’t for money. It’s for a joyful job that brings happiness to people. I want to be a florist – I love flowers and I love nature so much. I hope to join a floristry course next year and in the meantime I’m enjoying reading, writing poems and going to choir.

Home, for me, is a place where you can keep your head. It’s peace of mind, joy and freedom. That’s home. That’s what I believe. And here in London, I can feel the peace.

To learn more about UNHCR’s work in Sri Lanka, please visit the page below.

Since arriving in London, I have worked in fashion for brands who have female empowerment as a core part of the ethos. I currently work for Maria Grachvogel, a British Fashion designer who champions slow fashion. 

My parents are idealists, and I come from a family of strong women. My grandmother was a judge in Chile and my mother, a nurse, worked in Nicaragua, Iraq, Egypt, Palestine, Lebanon, Sudan, and Chile. Having lived in so many countries, home is wherever I am. We were exiled from Chile after the 1973 military coup. People often ask, “Why Norway?” But as refugees, we had no choice. At fourteen, my mother and I returned to Chile – my father was still banned. Unfortunately, my mother was imprisoned and tortured, but thanks to pressure from Norway, Amnesty International, and the Norwegian Nurse’s Union, she was released 3 years later. I had to leave earlier as there were concerns for my safety. It was the second time I had to leave in a hurry.

Reading about the experiences of refugees these days makes me feel guilty. In comparison, it seems like we left so easily. We left on a plane, no sea to navigate, no mountain to climb, no desert to cross. But we too had to re-build our lives, adapt to a strange culture and find our way.

I am grateful we had the chance.

To learn more about UNHCR’s current work in the Americas, please visit the page below.

I love music and I’m a very passionate person. I love to get people together. I used to organise festivals, metal gigs, electro music. So I’m a networker, a natural networker. I gained these things from my dad, I think.

I spent all my savings on founding Wizme, which stands for wizard for meetings and events. I failed first time. I didn’t have anyone to help me. I was living without a salary. It’s been a crazy development story. I’ve recruited probably 30 engineers to date. I’ve made a graduate scheme.

Home means definitely Aleppo for me. It means a lot because it’s about memories, friends and people that I love. London feels home for me as well. It’s a big part of what I’ve achieved so far. I didn’t see my family in Aleppo for 13 years. When I went it was very crazy emotionally because I didn’t see my family for all this time, see the poverty in Syria, the destruction.

I chose to place my heart in the box because, to me, it’s the essence of who I am. I believe that having a big heart is what drives genuine connections and makes a real impact in the world. While the brain is important, it’s the heart that truly guides our actions, decisions, and the love we share. In the end, it’s about leading with heart -offering kindness, compassion, and understanding to others. This is what I wish to give to the world.

To learn more about the ongoing Syria crisis and what you can do to help, please visit the page below.

Life in Libya before I left was full of fear, there wasn’t clean food, you couldn’t go outside. I tried to leave Libya four times, and four times they caught me and took me back.

When they caught us they put me in jail where you can’t eat, you can’t wash, you can’t drink.

There was a boy in prison, in jail, in Libya, and he escaped. He stole the key from the guard, and he unlocked every door, and everyone ran. Maybe one or two hundred other prisoners escaped with him. He’s famous in Libya now because he helped nearly 200 people escape. It’s a crazy story.

In the end, lawyers helped me. The process took two years but in the end I came to England on a plane as a refugee.

To learn more about the situation in Eritrea and UNHCR’s work there, please visit the page below.

I work with UK for UNHCR, and a significant part of my role involves listening to the stories of people who have been forced to flee their homes. This work is deeply personal to me because I witness how these people continue to have hope and choose kindness, even though they’ve been through a lot. This has inspired me to stay hopeful and keep my heart open, even in challenging times. I believe that hope is a choice we make every day.

My dad was forced to flee Haifa in Palestine when he was just a newborn and spent most of his life as a refugee. In his later years, he wanted nothing more than to live in his homeland, so our family returned to Palestine. My father was born during the Nakba, the ‘catastrophe,’ and he didn’t have a recorded birthday. He taught me everything I know about Palestine and it’s because of him I get to be a very proud Palestinian.

Home is where I would feel safe. Safe to be myself and safe to share my story without judgment or labels. Home hasn’t been a physical place for me for so many years now. London has given me so much to be grateful for; the incredible people I’ve met, the work I do and my partner, with whom I’ve built a second home here.

The UN’s mandate for the protection of displaced Palestinians is led by UNHCR’s sister organisation UNRWA, the UN Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees in the Near East. To learn more about UNRWA and its work, please visit the page below.

I was born in Iraqi Kurdistan and lived there until I was 29. When I came to London, eight years ago, I was searching for stability and a place where I could feel safe and truly at home. When I was in Iraq I worked for UNICEF. I came to London to study – a course called Violence, Conflict and Development – and now I work with UK for UNHCR in private philanthropy and partnerships. My role allows me to contribute to a cause that’s close to my heart — helping people who, like me, have faced challenges and sought refuge in a new place.

I don’t like the word refugee – it comes with a bit of a burden because I have to always prove that I deserve to be here. A person is a person no matter where they are. I try to make everyone I meet feel that they belong – to a society and to a community. I create a space where people feel safe and accepted, where they can truly be themselves.

While I haven’t seen my family since 2019 I know I will one day. To me, “home” means stability and safety. It’s where I can be myself without worry. London has become that home for me—a place where I can build my life and help others find their own sense of belonging.

To learn more about the ongoing Iraq crisis and what you can do to help, please visit the page below.

My name is Ganimete and I escaped the war in Kosovo in 1999.

My town had been a refuge for loads of families at the time but we were forced to leave everything and we moved to a village nearby. Then, we took the overloaded train to Macedonia. When we arrived there, we stayed in a camp for 16 days until we were evacuated by a humanitarian program. The flight on 9th May 1999 was destined for Glasgow. It took three hours and we arrived at midnight. When we entered the hotel lobby, we were greeted with lots of food and a very warm welcome.

I knew no English at the time. Back home I was studying mechanical engineering. In my fourth year, it was on and off because of the troubles. The buildings were closed and we had to use private houses for school.

While I was in Glasgow, I went to Glasgow University and asked if I can continue my studies. The requirement was to have good English, which I did not have. So I started college to learn English first, moved to London in my second year and I studied IT and English. Then I finished my degree in Computer Communications and Networks at the University of Westminster.

At the moment I am working in a nursery with children. My hobby is gardening and I have an allotment planting loads of vegetables. This year I have grown beans, sweet peas, garlic, onions, tomatoes, peppers, spinach and cucumbers. I love wild flowers. I am settled in London now and it feels like home with my family around. I go back to Kosovo every year but the house we used to live in is all cracked and dangerous to go into.

To find out how you can help displaced people around the world, please visit the page below.

In the middle of the 2020 lockdown, I founded Chadari, a non-profit organisation supporting Afghan women and girls through capacity-building, awareness-raising, and storytelling. I wanted the world to hear Afghan women’s stories from their own perspectives, not through someone else writing about them. With the new Taliban government, girls and women are deprived of basic human rights, including education. They can’t attend school beyond the 6th grade or go to university. I empathize deeply with these girls, having faced something similar when the Taliban attacked my university in 2016, leaving me stuck at home for eight months, uncertain about my education.

I have a long story to share— the UK is actually the sixth country I’ve lived in. I was born in Kunduz, in northern Afghanistan. I was only six months old when, like many other Afghan families, we became refugees. We fled to Tajikistan in Central Asia and later moved to Kazakhstan. Changing countries is very, very difficult; it means adapting to new systems and learning new languages. I came to London in August 2021 after receiving a fully-funded scholarship from LSE to pursue my second Master’s in Gender, Development, and Globalisation. I arrived just a few days before Afghanistan collapsed. I’ve faced many challenges, but nothing compares to losing my country. I always tell people that I wish and pray nobody ever experiences that in their life. Losing your country feels like losing your home forever, and I hope nobody has to go through that.

To learn more about the situation in Afghanistan and what you can do to help, please visit the page below.

I’m a filmmaker. It was only in the last few years that I felt the gift of having such a rich culture. It was in lockdown that my wife convinced me to start directing my own films, directing my own stories. I come from Iran, from a background of a very creative family, pre-revolution my father was in the Royal Kings Opera.

At the age of eight, my mum decided to take us out from Iran – we were under a lot of pressure being part the Baháʼí Faith, by law we wouldn’t be allowed to attend colleges or universities. We left in 1998, lived in Turkey then came to the UK. I was ten. Those perceptions of not feeling welcome in your own country became ‘ok now you’re not welcome in an external country.’

The word ‘refugee’ has huge connotations, negative, mainly. I think it’s so vital to be able to change that perception. The misfortune of having to leave entire lives behind and travel – you become empowered to keep going. You’ve come from something that’s terrible, yet you’re still pushing for greatness. You’re still pushing for success, whatever that success may be.

I’m constantly thinking about perspective, seeing other people’s perspectives, how we’re all interconnected. London is made up of thousands and thousands of different realities, perspectives, thousands of different ideologies and beliefs. Like a garden filled with a variety of flowers, this is what makes London so wonderful.

To learn more about the Islamic Republic of Iran and UNHCR’S work there, please visit the page below.

To learn more about the war in Ukraine and what you can do to help, please visit the page below.

I was quite young when I moved here from Albania, I came to join my partner at the time. I got pregnant and had my son when I was 23. I was quite isolated, my partner didn’t want me to go out much, and it was hard without friends and family especially after the birth. It was then that they didn’t extend my visa. A conflict started with my partner, he threatened me, if I didn’t have papers he would be able to take my child away. As a mother I was trying to do everything to stay with my child. I spoke to the midwives who helped me move out of the house. Slowly, I started to socialise, I got my driving license, I started to learn English. When my son was one year old I started studying and then when my son started nursery school, I started teaching in a primary school. My son is 12 now, we’ve grown up together.

I love teaching, I work in a primary school in Hammersmith. No matter how stressed, whatever you feel, those little smiley faces keep you moving, and put a big smile on your face. I want my gift to be a heart because no matter what you go through, how difficult your life is, being positive with a big heart you can always get through it.

To learn more about Albania and UNHCR’s work there, please visit the page below.

I am originally from Kosovo and I came here in the early 90s as an au pair to learn English for a few months whilst the universities were closed. I had to travel through Serbia, leave ex-Yugoslavia then through Belgrade, which was really scary, especially for my parents. A few months after I arrived, the war started in northern Yugoslavia, and my parents asked me not to come back because it was clear that the war would move into Kosovo. For five years, I stayed in the UK as an asylum seeker. My brother and sister joined me. We were not able to work, study or leave the country and so we hadn’t seen our parents.

When the war reached Kosovo, we lost contact with our parents and our nine year old sister. I was sick with worry. We had people calling us, giving different stories, terrible stories, I’ve seen your dad being taken by the police, I’ve seen your mom. After a few months I heard news that they were ok and in hiding but that period while I didn’t hear from them, I think it taught me a lot about life. Ever since, I have pursued community work and social work. I’m a practitioner of public health and I work a lot with refugees and asylum seekers. I usually manage projects on mental health: raising awareness, helping people to recover and supporting them in the community.

To find out how you can help displaced people around the world, please visit the page below.

When I was a child, I drew anything and everything. As soon as I saw a table, I would start sketching with pencils. It was as I got older I started to paint. My favourite medium was oils. It always made me calm when I was painting.

I came from the north side of Afghanistan but moved to Kabul as a teenager. I made murals in Kabul but when the government changed there was no place for me, they didn’t like the murals. It was after the regime change, that I left Afghanistan. I left with nothing but some food and water to survive. It was a hard journey, I travelled by train, by foot and by boat. Eventually I came to the UK by boat. My sister had a British passport, and had made it to the UK, and I needed to be with my family.

I waited for my asylum documents for a long time, I wasn’t allowed to work or to study so I spent time walking around London, around the galleries and the museums.

I work as a caterer now. I like cooking Afghan cuisine, Afghan dumplings are one of my favourite dishes. Where is home for me? It is in both Kabul and London.

To learn more about the situation in Afghanistan and what you can do to help, please visit the page below.

I feel like when you share food with people you share love. I take care of the presentation, the decoration. Every dish should have different story. We use tamarind pomegranate molasses to give the food a very special taste. I stop behind the table just to see the people, not to serve them, but just to see their eyes and how they say ‘Wow!’.

In 2011, everything changed for me. The Syrian revolution started. For the first time in my life, I found my voice. As I became more active in the revolution, I faced serious consequences. In early 2016 I fled Syria. The journey to Lebanon was terrifying. Even in Lebanon, I continued my work with women and refugees, but I had to leave.

When I arrived in London, I didn’t know anyone, but I knew I had to do something for Syrians. I discovered people were passionate about food, which led me to start cooking classes. Through these classes, I not only shared Syrian food culture but also told the real story of what was happening in Syria.

I then started my own social enterprise, focused on helping refugee women, particularly those who, like me, came from Syria. Many of these women have incredible cooking skills but lack the basic tools to start a business. I offered training and job opportunities, giving them a chance to rebuild their lives.

My heart is still in Syria. In Syria I always had a lot of cats, one thing that makes me feel more at home here is my cats.

To learn more about the ongoing Syria crisis and what you can do to help, please visit the page below.

I first came here 22 years ago to do science research on post-surgical heart disease patients, we won a lot of accolades. At the same time, battling about my sexuality, I saw two men holding hands, two women holding hands, I thought: ohh there’s bigger world. Fast forward, the last 13 years, I’ve been a journalist – Asia, Middle East, Europe. Some years ago, I received bad news from a source about my home country’s government, I alerted the Swiss Monetary Authority. I know I did the right thing, but it is not safe for me to go back to my country.

I work closely with the British Red Cross and Rainbow Migration. I’m also really glad to be an artist at the Queer Britain Museum – artists from all over the world with raw, impactful, immense stories.

Where do I call home?
Home is where the heartbeat lies.
Home is where I can safely lie my head,
my thoughts, my robes and my dignity.
Home is wherever I breathe and use my mind,
leaving it to rest and unwind.
Home is wherever in the world that can be.
Home cannot be dictated by nationality, my address nor my background.
Home is where I can be my best and leave the rest.
Home is where I’m most loved, even when I’m all alone.
Home is where I feel safe and grateful to every single day and night.
Home is where my heart lies and the home is the whole world.
A new world, decolonised and borderless.

To find out how you can help displaced people around the world, please visit the page below.

I am an Iranian Kurdish. As an advocate for women’s rights and minority groups I got into trouble with the authorities. I had to flee my homeland in secret and take a traumatising journey. I was smuggled in a lorry which was driving to the UK. When we got to the UK, the driver stopped at the side of the road, and told us to walk straight until we met someone: “ask for Home Office Croydon”.

The asylum process was like living in an endless limbo, a black hole that I cannot see an end to. During one of my lowest ebbs, I had to stay in shelters around London, because you cannot work whilst your case is being resolved and so I was homeless. Everywhere was full. Eventually, I found a shelter in a church. The kindness of the people that ran it made me promise that if ever I got out of this situation, I would do my best to help others.

After being able to rebuild my life in the UK, I now work coordinating and managing the Survivors Speak Out network within the organisation Freedom from Torture.

Home will always be my homeland, my family. But I found a new home in the UK. All those people who showed me kindness and friendship when I needed it the most, all those small but heartwarming gestures. They just made me feel at home.

To learn more about the Islamic Republic of Iran and UNHCR’S work there, please visit the page below.

I left home when I was 13 and arrived in the UK just after turning 14. The way I came was difficult and life threatening. I would never wish it on my worst enemy. Now, I run an international shop on the outskirts of London, which I’m really proud of – people from different countries find the things they miss from home – like a special food item – and it brings them such happiness. Going home to your mum’s food. That’s the best feeling ever. I also work as a taxi driver, which keeps me busy.

I left Eritrea because it wasn’t safe. The military service is mandatory. My dream was to study, to hold a pen and a book, not a gun. But in Eritrea, even the only university is a military camp.

For me, home means safety, means my family. It’s the place where, no matter how hard the day has been, I can relax and connect with my family. Home means everything to me. And this July, after two years of nonstop trying, my younger brother Josi has joined us in the UK – him being at home with me is incredible. It was so hard to get him here – we manifested him – I never had a doubt because I felt I could do it with my lawyer and we did it. My Eritrean church in Camberwell also feels like home. It brings me a sense of belonging.

The word ‘refugee’ is a label – I don’t like it because of the negative connotations. Refugee means seeking safety and it doesn’t matter from what background. We can replace refugee with someone’s brother, someone’s sister, someone’s mother. Everyone’s together.

To learn more about the situation in Eritrea and UNHCR’s work there, please visit the page below.

When I was granted asylum, it was a real turning point for me, it was the first time I had ever had documents with my picture. I was born in Eritrea but I lost my parents when I was very young and so I grew up with my uncle in Ethiopia as a Christian but classified as “illegal” because I didn’t have documentation from Eritrea. I couldn’t find work without documentation so when I was 15, I set out on foot to Sudan. People smugglers took me across the Sahara desert to Libya, where I was held as ransom. I escaped and managed to board a boat bound for Italy, but I was taken back to Libya and put in prison. The second time I made it to Italy, and I travelled on trains across Europe. After three months of trying, I made it to the UK. I was 17.

For the last few years, I have been working with Phosphorus Theatre Company. We’ve toured the UK telling the stories of refugees and asylum seekers. Every time I’m on the stage and telling my story it is a big relief for me. When I tell my story, I don’t want people to feel sad for me because that’s already passed, after all I made it. I want them to laugh. Storytelling & poetry change people’s prejudices. This is why I chose the palm branch – it is a sign there is always hope.

To learn more about the situation in Eritrea and UNHCR’s work there, please visit the page below.

I have been always a feminist. When I was growing up in Rwanda as a young girl, you didn’t have the same rights as a boy to go to school. However, I was privileged to be one of the few who went to university and was able to feel empowered through the Girl Guide movement. For over 20 years, I worked as the Regional Director for Africa Region for the World of Association for Girl Guides and Girl Scouts.

I was appointed January 2024 as the director of Women for Refugee Women. We offer opportunities that enable women who have sought asylum to connect and build their skills through a weekly programme of creative and educational activities, from English lessons to drama classes.. We amplify the voices of women who have sought asylum and supporting them to reach new audiences, and to influence the public and political debate and we campaign for a fair asylum system. Some of them have been in the system for 20 years without having their papers.

I survived the Rwandan genocide against the Tutsi in 1994. When the killing started we hid in a church, then a school room, my daughter was six months old. A miracle happened, my brother-in-law came from Belgium to rescue us. How can you explain that? Seeing Guy was like seeing God himself. We left for the airport in a military convoy – no one survived like we survived, not any single family. I always count myself very lucky as I survived the genocide against the Tutsi with my immediate family.

To learn more about the current situation in Rwanda and UNHCR’S work there, please visit the page below.

I left the Democratic Republic of the Congo in 1992 as a child of only seven years old. My memories of it are fading now but I can still picture our house. We only had the means to leave with the clothes on our back. We ended up in London and I grew up in Camden Town. My parents were super hard working and our home was full of love. They had a deep sense of pride about being a refugee, they encouraged us to use our power to speak up about our experiences. That’s the root of why I got involved in the work I do as a mental health social worker, and as a volunteer with UNHCR. It’s probably also how I came to my writing and poetry.

For me, home in its simplest sense is a place where you belong. During lockdown, I found a new home on the British seaside. It surprised me, I’m a real through and through Londoner, but I just fell in love.

I guess my gift would be something like the gift of the story, retelling our experiences. Stories humanise us, they connect us. What better gift is there?

To learn more about the current situation in the Democratic Republic of the Congo and what you can do to help, please visit the page below.

I think if I wanted to talk about my story, I would say I’m a son for a beautiful mother, husband for another beautiful woman, father for three daughters, chef, restaurateur, refugee, Syrian. Now we have a very successful restaurant in the heart of London. We opened in 2021, in 2023 we shifted to the same place but way bigger. We used to be 900 square feet and now we are almost three times that. It’s stunning, I love it. I’m shortlisted now for Book of the Year for the British Book Awards. So lucky me.

Staying in Damascus between 2011 and 2015 was not the best idea, I think, as a human being. But taking that journey to Europe somehow makes me believe in a human being again, because of all these people I met during my journey – I’d love to call them angels and they are my angels.

For me, family is home even more than peace. Damascus is like my mother, she passed away. Of course I love her so much, but she’s not there anymore. Exactly the same thing with Damascus, it’s not there anymore. London is like my wife, she’s there for me. I love her so much, but a different kind of love.

To learn more about the ongoing Syria crisis and what you can do to help, please visit the page below.

I am currently working in digital communications at Refugee Action which is a charity for refugees. I’m originally from Burma, also known as Myanmar. I left after the Coup in October 2021 and claimed asylum in May 2022.

It was a devastating time, more than two thousand people were killed and I was directly prosecuted by the military. I’m queer, and life is not easy as a queer person in a country of Buddhist/Burmese belief. They believe that you’ve done something horrible in your past life, and that’s why you’re queer, which is quite sad. I was middle class so I had it a little easier, but things were still quite difficult.

I came to the UK as a student to study social anthropology and claimed asylum not long after. It took a year and a half being in limbo, not allowed to leave the country and not sure when my case would be finished. I used to have bigger dreams. I used to want to work in the United Nations, to work in camps. I used to want to earn a lot of money. I think what happened to Burma and the asylum system exhausted me.

Now that I am starting to feel safe, I’m beginning to explore again, arts, poetry, partying with my queer community. I started journaling, playing badminton. These are the recreational things that only people who are safe can do.

To learn more about Myanmar and UNHCR’s work there, please visit the page below.

I left Chile in 1976 when I was 11 years old, a few years after the coup in 1973. When my mum was applying for a visa, she interviewed for Canada, Germany, Sweden and England, and whichever visa arrived first, that’s the country you left for. We received the UK visa one day and then the next day she had to phone them up to say, “Yeah, OK then. So we will be leaving for the UK.” We arrived to the UK in 1978.

We started out in London but relocated to Manchester. I studied at Manchester Polytechnic, before working as a buyer at the store Aspecto. In 1993, I opened my own store with my partner. We decided to buy different brands: Vivienne Westwood was one, Helmut Lang. We were the first people to do Alexander McQueen, they were all emerging brands back then. My partner and I opened stores in London, stores with other brands Vivienne Westwood, Y3 all across the UK. I was awarded an OBE for services to fashion this year.

If I had to symbolise my gift to London it would have to be something red. It’s my favourite colour and it also symbolises a lot of things for Latins. The colour of blood, the colour of passion. South Americans we have a different kind of aspect of life and colour; it’s a lifeforce.

To learn more about UNHCR’s current work in the Americas, please visit the page below.

After three challenging years surviving across Europe, I finally made it to the UK, but my journey was far from over.

When I first arrived, unable to speak any English, life felt like a constant uphill battle. But I never gave up. I worked hard, learned the language, and pushed myself beyond what I thought was possible. Graduating from King’s College London in Accounting and Finance and being honoured with the Jelf Medal, the most distinguished award across the entire cohort, was an indescribable moment that I cannot express — but my dreams did not stop there.

Living at a YMCA hostel with just £5 a day, and waiting for my status to be approved for a few years was really challenging. In 2018 I was watching YouTube and came across a video about Michael Phelps and he really inspired me to learn how to swim and to overcome my fear of water, which stemmed from a terrifying experience when our boat’s engine failed during my journey from Turkey to Greece into passion and love. I thought to myself by watching the kids in the pool and copying what they do. After a year of training with my swimming club, I was honoured with the Gold Achievement Award from Swim England. The dream was making the Refugee Olympic Team one day and sadly I narrowly missed selection for Paris 2024.

If you cannot find me, I am either in the pool or around the finance sector. My hunger to keep learning and growing has only gotten stronger and I can’t wait to see what the Asset Management and the Investment Banking world holds for me.

To learn more about the ongoing Syria crisis and what you can do to help, please visit the page below.

I’m a contracts lawyer working in a big international law firm in London. They’re really huge on pro bono projects. I still like to do pro bono work in my own time with refugees and asylum seekers because I can kind of resonate with their story. I feel like it’s a full circle moment for me. Sometimes you just have to sit back and think life is crazy because if my parents had not made that step, a lot of sacrifices, I definitely wouldn’t be living in London and have the lifestyle that I have. 

I came to the UK when I was a toddler, me and my parents came from Afghanistan. It was a journey that I had very early on in my life. I didn’t really know what was going on. We got a lot of help from the Citizens Advice Bureau, which is funny because then later down the line, I went back and volunteered there.

I think the word home means to me somewhere where I feel accepted. I always felt a connection with London and like a calling. I’m a young independent working woman, living in the centre of London, and I’m just really excited to have a new tiny flat to myself where I can call it home.

Through the journey and the experiences that I’ve had it’s like I’m bringing myself, hope, ambition, I’m telling my younger self this is you, you’ve done it all.

To learn more about the situation in Afghanistan and what you can do to help, please visit the page below.

I’m Zead, I’m 17 years old, and I love football. Football means everything to me. I love playing football. I love watching football. Football is a great way to channel my energy into something positive – I have ADHD and football helps me. I’ve been in England for five years now. When I first came, I couldn’t speak a word of English, but football helped me make friends and learn the language and my foster mum helped teach me too. I used to listen to the boys playing football, copy what they said, and even though I didn’t always understand, I kept at it. Now, I play football six or seven days a week with teams in Kent.

England though has become the place where I feel comfortable. People here are friendly, and I’ve enjoyed living in England so far. Home, to me, isn’t about a specific country—it’s about having a safe place, a house, and family around. There’s no one country I call home – I’ve created a sense of home here.

I bring to London my passion for football and my energy. I look to live my life happy and to stop caring what other people think of me. That’s how I live my life, and I hope to inspire others to do the same.

To learn more about Libya and UNHCR’s work there, please visit the page below.

I was born in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, and grew up in a big family with six brothers and five sisters. I used to sell cassava on the roadside. My husband, who worked at the airport, was very persistent and deeply in love with me and didn’t want to marry anyone else. We eventually got married, had three children and built a beautiful life together. I used to love singing and dancing, filling our home with joy…

When the government took away our businesses, we had to leave Tanzania. I moved to London when I was 38. At first, I missed everything back in Tanzania, but over time, London became home. The people here were welcoming. Now, I spend my time cooking dishes that remind me of home. My cooking is my gift to London — it brings me joy and it’s how I share my culture and keep my memories alive.

Home, to me, is where I can cook and where everyone can enjoy my food. It’s where I feel safe and happy. London is my home now, but I carry my roots with me every day. Here, I can continue to live, cook, and love, bringing a piece of my past into my life today.

To learn more about Tanzania today and UNHCR’s work there, please visit the page below.

I’m a sneaker maker at Golden Goose, where I create custom designs on shoes, bags, and leather jackets. With this role I combine my passion for art and fashion – it’s something I’ve been building towards since my days working in the Gallery of Contemporary Art in Kyiv.

I was living and working in Kyiv and very happy and one morning in February 2022 the phone rang at 5am and everything changed. The war had started. My boyfriend and I started packing our bags – two backpacks – and fled. We went by foot to the border with Slovenia, then to Germany and after a long and challenging journey, to the UK through the Ukrainian sponsorship scheme thanks to a really nice man in Britain we met on Facebook who hosted us in his home in Rugby. We found many people on Facebook who helped us.

When I got to the UK I started organising art exhibitions by Ukrainian artists – sharing the feelings of the people living through the war through art, not traditional news. And now, after all these exhibitions, I am ready to express through my own art.

To me, London is now one of my two homes—a place where I can live, create, and feel safe. And Kyiv remains my other home, filled with the memories and people who shaped me. And while I know I’m a refugee – a word I don’t like because of the negative meaning it has when I have so much I want to give – who I actually am is a Ukrainian in London.

To learn more about the war in Ukraine and what you can do to help, please visit the page below.

My job is a calling. I fundraise for UNHCR. I always wanted to work for an organisation that supports and protects refugees. It’s incredibly amazing and humbling when you speak to people who have worked really hard in their lives, they’ve been successful, they’ve got some means and want to support refugees.

I come from Iran. We came to the UK when I was 17. My mum was a political activist in Iran, heavily involved in women’s rights. Because of her involvement, we were forced to flee. We applied for asylum here in the UK. The whole ordeal was terrifying from beginning to end. We were lucky to have been granted asylum, so many people aren’t very lucky. This year marks 30 years since we arrived, and whilst I call London my home, I still very much feel like a guest.

My favourite childhood memory is opening the kitchen windows, seeing the beautiful mountains, the Alborz mountains. For me mountains are home too – a place of peace, of friendship, of joy, they give me a feeling of being cocooned, being protected, yet free.

To learn more about the Islamic Republic of Iran and UNHCR’S work there, please visit the page below.

The turning point for me was in 2022, where I got a scholarship for a Masters in International Development, Social Justice and Sustainability at the University of Bath. I’m passionate about working for a nonprofit, giving back to the community and being an LGBT+ rights activist from Uganda.

I’ve always been part of the revolutionaries that are making change. I became the first ever Miss Trans Global contestant representing my country. People have never seen transgender people compete in beauty pageants and my name was in the tabloids! This publicity was one of the reasons why I couldn’t go back to Uganda. The anti-homosexuality bill was passed in 2023, including a clause which prohibits transgender people. So when I was done with my Masters in 2023, it was too dangerous to go back. The only way to stay here was to claim asylum.

In my country, I lived in fear. I couldn’t be myself because I’m transgender. There is no stigma about it in the UK and it’s liberating, I could finally be myself but it also came at a cost. You lose things when you have to rebuild your life from scratch. Home to me is not a place, I think home is a feeling and London is my home now.

To learn more about Uganda and UNHCR’s work there, please visit the page below.

I moved to London when I was four years old with my mother and sister, and was later joined by my father. After being refused asylum in different countries, we were finally welcomed in London. I am ethnically Albanian, born in Kosovo, and moved to London during the genocidal regime of Milosovic (1998). I was born at home in my village because Albanians were not allowed to go out at night, so my mum was not able to go to the hospital or get any medical help. I don’t have a birth certificate as the regime wanted less proof of their atrocities. 

My letter granting me my refugee status here was my first official letter documenting my entire existence. I also have 3 birthdays because they’ve messed up on some of my paper work but I just celebrate them all now!

My first memory of moving to London is of watching the news of the war on the communal TV in the hostel. That was the only way we could find out what happened to relatives and who managed to get out and where in the world they could be.

I’m working at Amnesty now and previously worked at UNHCR. I’ve met lot of people that worked in Kosovo during the war, these moments are still surreal to me as we probably lived there at the same time, and now we’re working side by side on the other side. I feel so privileged of course, but I also carry a lot of guilt.

My gift is the çefteli. This is a traditional folk musical instrument which was banned for Albanians in Kosovo prior to their independence (2008). Now it’s played everywhere in Kosovo and appreciated by all for what it represents and the nostalgia it brings.

To find out how you can help displaced people around the world, please visit the page below.

I am a trans woman refugee from Malaysia. I’ve loved to draw for as long as I can remember, particularly portraiture. I studied at College in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia and after that I worked in an advertising agency as a storyboard artist.

From there, I worked my way up to becoming a graphic designer, illustrator, and then a few years working in advertising. I started transitioning after I got my first job in advertising in 2003. There is an anti-trans law in Malaysia where you cannot cross dress; if you get caught you get fined, or jailed for up to six months.

From the trans community in Malaysia, many of us have already sought refuge elsewhere: in Australia, in Sweden, in Europe, and a few of us here in the UK. So I decided to come here. It was a very hard decision to make. I left Malaysia in 2022, and applied for asylum at the airport and it was approved in 2024.

If I had to represent my spirit, my gift to this city then it would be a small cube that represents one dot pixel. I imagine London as a 4K or 8K image, very high resolution. I arrived here and I’ve added that square pixel, that one dot, onto the picture of this city.

Lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, intersex or queer (LGBTIQ+) persons can face discrimination, persecution and violence, sometimes on a daily basis.

UNHCR works to try to protect all LGBTIQ+ refugees, asylum-seekers, internally displaced and stateless people and works with partners to provide inclusive services, protect their rights and identify safe options. To learn more, please visit the page below.

I was born as the civil war broke out in Somalia in the 1990s. I don’t know my age because there was no official record of me being born. I don’t know the day, the month or the year. My eldest brother was killed by a grenade. We fled to Kenya not long after. I was a young baby and almost died on the journey. Eventually we managed to get some fake Kenyan passports and using these we got to the UK to claim asylum.

When I was in secondary school, I was bullied a lot for being different, for being overweight. I walked into a boxing class one day and I fell in love. And that’s what I’ve been doing ever since I was 12 years old. Now, I’m an Olympic boxer.

In my family, I’m the anomaly. I’ve got two sisters, they’re nurses who both lead their own teams. Then I’ve got three brothers: one who’s a doctor, one who has his own clinic for physiotherapy and another brother who lives in Dubai and works in artificial intelligence.

If everybody was the same, the world would be so boring. I don’t particularly like the word refugee, and I don’t like to use it. I think from now on I’m going to use your words, the bringers of gifts to London. London has so many gifts, that’s the beauty of it.

To learn more about the current situation in Somalia and the wider Horn of Africa region, please visit the page below.

Back home, I was focusing in how to invest in myself, my kids, my future, my business. But when I came to the UK I learn how to invest in people, how to give, how to see the smiles in the faces.

The first interview with the Home Office I said I came for safety. I don’t want anything else. I don’t want money. I need safety, the right to stay. Then I can do everything. Then I can contribute to this country.

I volunteered across London helping to solve problems, supporting, translating. During my Masters I volunteered for STAR – Student Action for Refugees, worked with LGBT organisations, Care for Calais, Refugee Action, with councils, with solicitors. So many campaigns, protests, demonstrations. Now we have over 70 universities in the UK giving asylum seekers and refugees scholarships. We connect with big firms for training, for jobs.

Then how to use my business skills – I said what is missing? I want to bring the beautiful things in Yemen here. Treasures. I want the world to see the real face of Yemen, not only the Yemen in the news, the militias, the famine. I start my company, Yemen Land; first coffee and honey. Supporting the farmers affected by the war.

Home is where you find peace, dignity and your true self. Honestly, I feel like a Londoner now. I’ve been here for almost five years, and those five years feel like they’ve shaped me as much as the past 40.

To learn more about the ongoing crisis in Yemen and what you can do to help, please visit the page below.

I finished university in 2016, wrote my dissertation on the media framing of the refugee crisis – what’s wrong with it, but also what can create intervention. After university I started working in tv, now I’m a documentary filmmaker. I just finished directing my first documentary in Rwanda – I went back to explore intergenerational trauma, all of these things have informed me and shaped me.

I was six months old when people came to kill us. I had an aunty living in exile in Belgium, married to a Belgian military guy. I think that’s the privilege that we had, people who got to flee the genocide with the military.

We came to Belgium as refugees, loads of us living in one house. It was kind of fun, lots of cousins around. But my mum describes those years as really hard. She was a Girl Guide her whole life. A job opened up at the Girl Guide headquarters in the UK, they gave her a chance knowing that it could change her life. Even though she didn’t speak English, they supported her learning the language.

Even though I can feel home wherever there’s community, when I come back from wherever I’ve been I feel so at home when I get back onto the tube and just see all the strangers. And I’m like, yeah, I’m back in London. I like how invisible I feel in London. It’s a weird sense of home, but I just blend into the movement of the city.

To learn more about the current situation in Rwanda and UNHCR’S work there, please visit the page below.

My name is Hiba, and I am the first trans filmmaker in the Muslim world, as well as a public speaker and human rights activist. I came to London with a filmmaker’s visa seeking safety and the freedom to be who I am. I was born in Pakistan, where from a very young age, I faced severe persecution for expressing my true identity. I remember being 5 years old, standing in front of the My brother was my lifeline. He was the first to accept me as I am. He told me, “Nothing is wrong inside you. Everything wrong is in society. Live the way you want.” His support kept me going – I was bullied in school, beaten to unconsciousness and attacked by a mob.

They also beat up my brother and he died at just 32 years old. My mother died too because the doctor wouldn’t give her a liver transplant – he wouldn’t treat a trans woman’s mother. I couldn’t even go to my mother’s funeral – they would have killed me.

When I came to London it was hard initially. Now, London has been like a rebirth for me. Here, I feel like I belong, as if I was always meant to be. London gave me an identity, a recognition of my soul and myself. My gift is a bird as I see London as a place where I can be a ‘free bird’ – where I can contribute to the world in my own way and help others find their voice. Birds do not know borders.

Lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, intersex or queer (LGBTIQ+) persons can face discrimination, persecution and violence, sometimes on a daily basis.

UNHCR works to try to protect all LGBTIQ+ refugees, asylum-seekers, internally displaced and stateless people and works with partners to provide inclusive services, protect their rights and identify safe options. To learn more, please visit the page below.

As a refugee you end up hankering after safety and security; and now I’m in the fortunate position of being able to help others achieve security in my job as a fund manager.

I was born in Bosnia, came to London aged 7. When the war came to Sarajevo I was lucky, my mum somehow got us on a UNHCR list of people being airlifted out. The plane had no windows and no seats. Packed in with hundreds of people, I remember fainting on the way out of the plane, being caught on the steps.

I arrived in 1992 speaking no English. I was lucky to have an anglophile mother, and to be given the opportunity to start in the local primary school straight on arrival. Combined with the warm welcome of our local community in Ham, this helped me adapt fast. Four years later, a scholarship to Harrow School was a big turning point. The scholarship scheme was set up by Peter Beckwith, who had received a state scholarship to Harrow in the 1960s (when such things existed), made it big in property, and then wanted to enable state school children of 1990s/2000s to have the same opportunity he’d had.

I mean it very deeply when I say I’m lucky. I love living here, being a citizen. I pay my taxes with a smile.

What does home mean to me? I think of my children. My wife. I think of us being together. I think of safety and security.

To learn more about Bosnia and Herzegovina today and UNHCR’s work there, please visit the page below.

Like many refugees, I’m a Londoner by choice. It’s my home. I love its energy, its diversity – it’s where I can truly be myself. Being here allows me to do the job I love, in social research for Ipsos, where I feel appreciated, working to improve people’s lives and to fight misinformation, especially that surrounding refugees. I’ve seen firsthand how kindness and opportunity shown towards my family during our journey could change our lives, and I’m grateful now to be able to offer that same support to refugees as they rebuild their lives, most recently as a Trustee for UK for UNHCR.

I was born to Vietnamese and Chinese parents. My early childhood was happy, but life changed dramatically when I was nine. Because of escalating tensions between Vietnam and China, we had to flee. I remember my mother distraught as she said goodbye to her family, not expecting to survive. And we almost didn’t – we were shipwrecked but kind strangers helped us rebuild our boat. We reached a refugee camp in Hong Kong before finally coming to the UK.

It was winter when we arrived – my first experience of snow! My first Christmas! My first present! We first settled in Kent, but my parents found it isolating and we eventually moved to London. London is more than just a place where I live – it’s where I belong. I have never felt like an outsider. Despite traveling extensively, London’s pull always brings me back.

My life’s journey in one word? Resilience.

To learn more about UNHCR’s work in Viet Nam and Southeast Asia today, please visit the page below.

While I was studying biochemistry at University of East London, I got scouted to be a model. I gave modelling a go, it paid for my cousins’ school fees in Uganda. Then I told my aunt I needed to do something for the community, because people were starting to travel back home. People were leaving refugee camps after so many years, and going home to nothing, basically. I was about to buy myself a house in London and I was like, you know what, I’d rather this go to better use, so I started with building a school kitchen. I experienced starvation as a child, it’s not pleasant – so I wanted that to be corrected first. Today we have 765 kids in school, aged 5 to 16.

I was born in northern Uganda when a civil war was starting. Born in Lumule, close to South Sudan. A lot of people got killed. My father fled, walked for months, to seek a better life for us. I remember we would see men with guns, we had to hide from these men who did the most awful stuff.

Dad got to London, he didn’t give up with the Home Office to get me and my younger brother. I was 11 when we came to London. I knew I was coming to make something of myself to bring hope to my cousins. I remember thinking I’m going to be safe but they’re not safe.

Home is peace, freedom. That’s why the UK is home to me. I had the right to live, to learn and to earn here, for me, that’s freedom.

To learn more about the current situation in Uganda and UNHCR’s work there, please visit the page below.

I’m currently training to become a commercial pilot. Every day, I’m breaking barriers and challenging the misconceptions of a Syrian refugee. I’m showing you can build a life again from zero – I’m showing refugees are strong and resilient.

I was born in Damascus, a city that holds a lot of pride for me and my family. When the conflict began in 2011, my family thought it would pass quickly. It did not – it’s still going on. My dad sought asylum in the UK and when I was 16, he arranged refugee family reunion visas for my mum, me and my two younger brothers. We arrived in Birmingham – I could not speak English but I was super excited to be here. Excited for a new life, for a safe, predictable future.

But I was rejected from schools – they didn’t know where to place me, and assumed I was uneducated. Every school I went to, I said to them, I just want to study and I have the right to be in a classroom with people my age. I showed them my A-grades from Syria. I was determined to go to school so I bought an English dictionary and taught myself English, I sang songs to fix my accent, I started volunteering with the Children’s Society to immerse myself in my new community.

Now, I’m a UNHCR Goodwill Ambassador and training to be a pilot – only 5% of pilots worldwide are women – and London is my home. I absolutely fell in love with the city – the diversity, different people, cuisines and the vibrant community. When I walk around London I feel, ‘yeah, this is me’. I belong to London.

To learn more about the ongoing Syria crisis and what you can do to help, please visit the page below.

I’m doing here what I love most of all. I’m representing my country through food. We run a restaurant that employs forced migrants from Ukraine. For me food is the opposite of war, it unites people and brings them together with joy and happiness. For me it’s a very magical moment when family gathers at the table and when they share food together. Even starting from the preparation time and then finishing with the dishwashing, I love the whole process.

It’s a big irony, I think, that I became a Londoner. Before the war started in my country I was living in Kyiv. I came to London for a 10 day trip, and on the 5th day of my stay, the war broke out and I made a decision to stay. It wasn’t my first time in London. I studied here in 2010. I always loved London, it is my favourite city but here you come, and you don’t have your roots and nothing refers to you. Everything is new, so home means family, people and story; like your history, your roots. This is what we are delivering in the restaurant to our guests. We’re bringing Ukrainians back home.

To learn more about the war in Ukraine and what you can do to help, please visit the page below.

I might be called black and gay and a refugee but underneath it all there is a human. I fled Nigeria. People could perceive I was different and I was bullied badly at school. Through my nonprofit, MIF, I organised Nigeria’s first ever Pride protest. We challenged the long standing laws and rhetoric, trying to educate the Nigerian people and by extension the African diaspora. The fall out from that made me and my allies people of interest so I had to leave Nigeria.

Coming to the UK and entering the detention centre as an asylum seeker was like the wild west for all the wrong reasons. I was in limbo. I couldn’t work. There were something called night stops. I was homeless during the day, but at night someone calls you and sends you anywhere in London. London is massive. That’s kind of how I became a Londoner.

In November, I’ll start my second Guinness World Record attempt. Walking backwards along the coastlines, to highlight backward rhetorics, laws, policies that target not only my community, but everyone everywhere. Home, for me, is a safe haven, a place where you can be your authentic self. Green spaces everywhere will be my home soon because I’ll be walking.

Lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, intersex or queer (LGBTIQ+) persons can face discrimination, persecution and violence, sometimes on a daily basis.

UNHCR works to try to protect all LGBTIQ+ refugees, asylum-seekers, internally displaced and stateless people and works with partners to provide inclusive services, protect their rights and identify safe options. To learn more, please visit the page below.

I’ve always dreamed of starting my own business, but my journey has been shaped by more than ambition. When I first moved here as a teenager, I struggled with severe acne and eczema, likely due to the stress of relocating and environmental changes. Where I come from, beauty is deeply important and central to identity.

A decade ago, I arrived in the UK with my family. I was struck by the clarity of the skies and the beauty of the weather. Though my home country is rich in nature with stunning mountains and rivers, the UK felt peacefully different. When I think of home, I remember the smell of freshly baked bread, the breathtaking landscapes, and the sense of security from the pine trees that surrounded me. For me, “home” is an emotional concept.

Born in a pine tree region, I’ve always felt a sense of protection from those trees. This connection is why I named my organic skincare brand Gilguzi. The name, inspired by pine trees, symbolizes the protection and strength I experienced growing up. I want Gilguzi to offer the same care and security to others.

Our signature product is an organic sunscreen, but the core of our business is creating opportunities for girls and women from refugee backgrounds. I aim to provide more than just jobs—I want to offer them the financial independence and sense of security that the pine trees gave me.

My journey is a balance between honouring my roots and embracing the opportunities I’ve found in London.

To learn more about the situation in Afghanistan and what you can do to help, please visit the page below.

I’m a computer person, a computer buff, and in a sense, my gift is what I have done in the computing industry and for women.

In my day, women legally couldn’t do certain things. You couldn’t work on the Stock Exchange, you couldn’t drive a bus, you couldn’t fly an aeroplane. I began to resent that fairly early on and set up my company of computer software people for women, women who had left the computer industry on marriage or when their first child was expected and had come back into the industry. So I was using a workforce that nobody else was using and it became very much a sort of feminist campaign. So I am a feminist, and that’s part of what is in my gift. I think I’ve made an impact on women’s positions in society.

I’m still a refugee today. It’s as important to me at the age of 90 as it was when I was five or six. In 1933, shortly after my birth, the bad times began with Hitler. My mother put me on a Kindertransport and brought me to England. That two-and-a-half-day journey defines my life to a certain extent.

I’m not political, but I am a patriot. I love this country with a passion that perhaps only someone who has lost their human rights can feel. I feel safe here.

UNHCR, and later the UN Refugee Convention, were originally established to respond to global displacement following World War Two. Find out more about UNHCR’s history and mandate here.

I don’t even know where to begin. I started my journey when I was 13.

After the conflict in South Sudan, there was a genocide targeting the Nuer ethnic group and 20,000 people were killed. From age 10 I lived in the UNHCR camps. I left to try to find my mother; at the border I was caught by traffickers and sold, imprisoned by smugglers in Libya. I only just managed to escape. Many, many things happened like this. I used to write them all down, but it became too painful.

In the last smugglers prison, worse than the prisons before, full of people like dead walking people, seven of us planned our escape. We charged the guards and suddenly I saw a key ran to the door, opened it, escaping the cage. And then I just ran to any door I could find and open it. Women, children, sick people, we all ran, almost 450 people ran.

I was 16 when I eventually, I made it to the UK.

When I was young. I used to dream about becoming a lawyer, to give justice to people. After all the things that I’ve gone through, I felt like the dream was shattered. I never knew that I would go back to school after all I had gone through, but I did. I studied at college in Luton, now I model for Nike.

My dream now is different, but I still want to see a world without pain, suffering and discrimination. That responsibility is on all of us to think of other people, to be kind and empathise. Home for me is the place that is always somewhere that you want to go back to. Always.

To learn more about the crisis in South Sudan and what you can do to help, please visit the page below.

I’m from Palestine, and although I’ve been working in London since 2003 and internationally as a playwright and director, and was an associate of the Young Vic Theatre for many years, it was important for me to stay in my homeland. But as my children grew older it became clear that it was time to pack and leave. We moved to London two years ago; here I’m a bit in exile, I’m a bit at home.

For me, Palestine is a land of many stories. I can’t think of a place that has more accumulation. For millennia, it has been this corridor between Africa and Europe: on one side there’s the sea, on one side there’s the desert. Everybody that has passed through has left something. Destruction, love, a word, a curse, an etching, God, another version of God. So, this continuous accumulation is all there, and is – I feel – deeply entrenched in me.

My relationship with England, with London, is complicated because, obviously, the colonial systems that created this magnificent city are responsible for the pain that my people are feeling. The colonial mindset, white superiority, is very evident when you’re growing up in a place like Palestine.

I would love the word “rahma”, which means mercy. For me, this word has always been gorgeous. It’s gorgeous because rahim in Hebrew and in Arabic means womb, and mercy and giving life, the value of life. They’re the same roots. It’s something that we constantly need to remember. It’s an unpopular word, it’s almost naive, but it’s also my favourite place in Jerusalem– the Gate of Mercy.

To learn more about UNRWA and its work, please visit the page below.