“I will always stand with refugees. I will always tell our stories.”

Bashir is a Sudanese songwriter, poet and community activist who has composed more than 40 poems and songs, many of which are well-known in Sudan. This Refugee Week, Bashir shares his story of exile, resilience and the healing power of music.

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I was born in a tiny, remote village in Sudan – no running water, no electricity, no school, no clinic. When I was six, my father sent me to live with his brother in the city so I could go to school. I fell in love with learning, which led me to earn my diploma in French, and then I earned a scholarship to study tourism in Morocco. That took me to Saudi Arabia, where I fell in love, got married, and eventually returned home to Sudan with dreams of building something for myself, and shortly after I opened my own travel company.

In 1989, after the military coup, everything crumbled. The new government moved to shut down businesses like mine. Overnight, I lost everything I had worked for.

Still, one thing remained: my music. I’d always been writing – listening to the rhythm of the streets, the struggles of everyday people. Music was my refuge, my truth. In 1993, I wrote a song called Patience on a Beach. The next day, the police came for me.

They interrogated me, asking again and again, “What political party are you with?” I told them the truth: I’m not with any party, I’m not a politician. My songs were for the people. But they didn’t care. They held me for two weeks, tortured me, tried to silence me.

When they finally released me, I knew I couldn’t stay. They were still following me, watching me. I had no choice – I fled. I applied for a visa to the UK – not for wealth, not for comfort, but for safety. For the freedom to sing without fear.

But home stays with me. When I think of Sudan, I picture an empty, broken heart. I miss the soil, the smells, the laughter. I miss the oxygen. Being apart from your country is a daily ache.

What keeps me going is music. Music is my glue, my gold. Through it, I heal, and I help others heal. Most of my time now is spent with my instrument, my words. It’s how I survive the pain, and how I connect to other refugees who are also searching for pieces of home.

In Sudan, mornings began with tea. It wasn’t just a drink, it was a ritual. Our whole extended family would gather to talk, laugh and plan the day. That moment of togetherness was sacred. And in the afternoon, we’d do it again – this time with our neighbours, where we checked in on each other. It was just what you did.

So when I first arrived in the UK and was placed in asylum accommodation, that tradition came with me. I was living in a building with about 20 rooms, and one of the men next door was British. Naturally, I went to check on him. I knocked gently, and when he opened the door just a crack, I said, “I’m your neighbour. Just checking if you’re okay. I have some milk, some tea bags – maybe we can share tea?”

He looked at me like I was mad and slammed the door in my face. But I tried again the next night. Same response. On the third night, he opened the door a little wider, with a puzzled smile. “Why are you doing this?” he asked. I smiled and said, “Where I come from, this is what neighbours do.”

Twenty-five years later, he is one of my best friends. Tea really can change people. I believe in gathering, I believe in sharing. And now he does too.

I think the hardest part of being a refugee is the misunderstanding. People ask why we’re here, but they don’t understand what forced us to leave. In Sudan, I owned my own business. Here, I cleaned offices. I delivered pizzas. I did whatever I could to support my family.

I want people to know that I love my country. So why am I here? Why do my children grow up far from their roots, unable to speak their native language?

Refugee Week matters because it opens the door to understanding. Because when you see somebody crossing an ocean in a small boat, risking everything, you have to ask – what are they fleeing?

It’s not luxury, it’s not comfort. It’s for safety. For freedom. Yet, so many barriers are thrown our way. So much rejection. I ask myself, why? If I’m part of this society, if I contribute, if I care, why am I not accepted?

I will always stand with refugees. I will always tell our stories. Through my music, I will keep speaking for those who have lost their voice. Because when everything is gone – your home, your country and your past – your voice is all you have left.

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