“Give people the space to speak when the world isn’t falling apart.”

Ayman, a self-taught cinematographer and filmmaker from Syria. Now based in the UK, he shares his journey of forced displacement and uses storytelling through film to connect, reflect and challenge harmful narratives about refugees and asylum seekers.

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My name is Ayman. I’m a filmmaker, consultant and refugee activist. I love gardening, I love storytelling and, more than anything recently, I love making coffee at home with a side of latte art. But this version of me wasn’t always possible. It’s been stitched together piece by piece along the way.

My journey began in Syria. I left in 2012, thinking it would be temporary. My family and I believed the situation there might improve. It didn’t. Within six months in Türkiye, it was clear we weren’t going back. So, I made a decision: I enrolled in university, learned Turkish in just a few months and studied dental prosthetics.

I made friends. I studied in Turkish and even passed as one. But when I graduated, all of that didn’t matter. I was still a Syrian refugee and that meant I had no right to work. I applied for a work permit three times and was rejected each time for a different reason. Eventually, I ran out of money and had no choice but to take cash-in-hand jobs; underpaid, unstable and exploitative.

I didn’t want to leave. I fought the idea of going to Europe. But it became clear: if I stayed, I would be trapped in a cycle of survival, not living. So, I took a dinghy to Greece, walked through Europe and ended up stuck in France for nearly a year. Sleeping in tents, facing police violence and racism, even surviving attacks from extremists hiding near refugee camps.

And then came the suitcase.

It sounds unreal, I know. But yes, I climbed into a suitcase and crossed the Channel to the UK. I passed out from lack of air. I could’ve died. But I didn’t. I arrived, broken and breathless, but alive.

The UK offered hope, but also a different kind of waiting. I spent over two and a half years waiting for my asylum claim to be processed. My first lawyer wasn’t helpful. It took finding a second lawyer, Victoria, who finally got the Home Office to listen. Even then, it felt like shouting into a void.

But here I am. And somehow, I’ve made a life.

Today, I call the UK home. Not because it’s where I was born, but because it’s where I’ve found safety, friendships and purpose. Home, for me, is where I feel safe, respected and able to be myself. It’s no longer a physical place on a map – it’s built from people, passions and healing.

I’ve used my pain as fuel. Every hardship became a reason to push harder, speak louder and create. I want to change the perception of who refugees are. I’m not a victim. I’m not a burden. I’m a creator, an advocate and a Storyteller.

Tea, oddly enough, was part of that healing too. As a child in Syria, all I ever wanted was tea and biscuits, especially those long sesame-covered sticks called Kaak. My mum would cook elaborate meals, and I’d stubbornly demand just tea and a Zataar wrap. Tea wasn’t just a drink – it was comfort and ritual.

In every Syrian home, we had teacups for guests; the fancy ones for important visitors, the chipped ones for everyday use. There was even a family art of pouring tea just right, so the glass didn’t shatter from the heat. Even in the darkest moments, those tiny rituals grounded us.

When I think about what helped me piece myself back together, it’s not just the big acts, it’s the small ones. The quiet pride of learning a new language. The resilience of sitting down with a camera, telling stories and reclaiming my narrative.

This year, for Refugee Week, my message is simple: give people the space to speak when the world isn’t falling apart. Too often, refugees are only asked to tell their stories in the wake of trauma. But our lives are bigger than tragedy.

Refugee Week is one of the rare times where we’re not framed by disaster, but by dignity and humanity. It’s a celebration of survival, creativity and contribution. I’d love to see it grow even more; into schools, universities and festivals. Make it a holiday if you like. Why not?

We’re not just surviving. We’re thriving, building and telling our stories with gold running through the cracks

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