When I arrived in the UK as a 16-year-old asylum seeker, I stepped into a world where everything felt unfamiliar. The weather, the streets, even the way people smiled felt different. But the strangest difference of all was the silence. Not because the UK is a quiet place, but becauseI was quiet. I couldn’t speak English. I couldn’t explain myself. I couldn’t express who I was. I had thoughts, feelings, fears, hopes, but no voice that the people around me could understand.
That silence stayed with me for a long time. It followed me into college classrooms, GP appointments, general meetings, and everyday moments like trying to buy a bus ticket. Before coming to the UK, the only English words I knew were “hello,” “yes,” and “no,” and even those I whispered with uncertainty.
Everyday conversations
When people spoke to me, their words felt like one long, fast river of sound. It was overwhelming at times, but not in a depressing way. I used a lot of body language, hand gestures, facial expressions, and emotions to survive everyday conversations. Sometimes I felt like I was performing a whole silent film in the middle of a shop or at a bus stop. And surprisingly, it often worked. People were patient and kind, and even though my English was almost non-existent, human communication found its way through.
I remember one of my first weeks in the UK, standing at a bus stop and watching people walk up to the timetable and study it as if they were reading a novel. In my country, you don’t really “check timetables”, you just wait until the bus comes whenever it comes. It felt so strange to see people planning their whole day around these little pieces of paper.
And then there was the weather talk. I couldn’t understand why people were so passionate about discussing rain that hadn’t even happened yet. At first it seemed funny and confusing, but over time, these habits slowly became part of my daily routine too. Now I’m the one checking bus apps and saying things like “The weather looks a bit unpredictable today,” without even thinking.
And then there were the funny language moments. One of my favourite early memories happened where I was staying at the time. I remember asking one of the staff members, in my very broken English, if he could explain to me, how to get to the college so I could apply. I didn’t expect much, because neither of us spoke the same language well enough for a real conversation.
But he took my question so seriously and warmly. He immediately grabbed a piece of paper and started drawing a very simple map: a few lines, a roundabout, a square, and an “X” to show the college. Then he stood up and used body language to act everything out, pointing left and right, pretending to walk down imaginary streets, tapping the paper, giving me a big thumbs-up every few seconds. He mixed random English words, a lot of gestures, and a lot of enthusiasm. It felt like watching a friendly comedy scene, and we both kept laughing at how dramatic the directions became.
Despite the language barrier, I understood him perfectly. And that moment has stayed with me for years. It showed me that kindness doesn’t need perfect grammar, sometimes all you need is patience, humour, and a willingness to help someone take their first step.
Moments like that made me laugh later, but at the time they were reminders of how powerless you can feel when you cannot communicate.
The power of language
Language isn’t just about grammar or pronunciation. For refugees, language is about ‘survival’. It affects everything, your confidence, your mental health, your ability to create relationships, and your chances of finding work. Without English, the UK can feel like an endless maze where every door is locked, and you don’t even have the words to ask for a key.
Mika
Language isn’t just about grammar or pronunciation. For refugees, language is about ‘survival’. It affects everything, your confidence, your mental health, your ability to create relationships, and your chances of finding work. Without English, the UK can feel like an endless maze where every door is locked, and you don’t even have the words to ask for a key.
Over the years, through studying, community organisations, and the kindness of volunteers, I slowly found my voice. Every new phrase I learned felt like reclaiming a small part of myself. I still remember the joy of understanding my first joke in English. Or the day I managed to call the GP without asking for help. Or the moment I stood up in a room full of people and introduced myself with confidence. Those moments might seem small, but for someone rebuilding their life from zero, they are huge victories.
Many of my friends from the refugee community shared similar experiences when I asked them. One said that before learning English, she felt “socially blind”. She could see people but couldn’t connect. Another said he avoided leaving the house because even asking for directions filled him with fear. And yet another told me that learning English made him feel “visible” for the first time since arriving in the UK.
That is what language does: it gives you your identity back.
Getting the right support
When I look back my on journey from the girl who could barely say “hello” to the woman studying law, working in community organisations, speaking at events, and advocating for others, all of it started with language. English opened the first door. And every door after that.
Mika
For many refugees, organisations like Breaking Barriers make all the difference. Whether it’s structured English classes, patient teachers, or volunteers who sit beside you and help you understand everyday words like “council tax,” “prescription,” or “direct debit,” the support is life-changing. In my own journey, every bit of guidance helped build my confidence and allowed me to pursue education, volunteer roles, and now postgraduate study in law. Without language support, none of these steps would have been possible.
But language support doesn’t just help individuals, it strengthens entire communities. When refugees learn English, they can start working, contributing, volunteering, advocating, and building connections. Integration becomes more than just living in a place; it becomes belonging to it. Employers gain capable, motivated workers. Local neighbourhoods gain new voices. And people who once felt isolated gain the confidence to rebuild their lives.
This is why supporting Breaking Barriers’ Language Programme is so important. Donations directly help connect more refugees with classes, reaching more people who are desperately trying to find their place in a new country, A single contribution could pay for someone’s English exam fees, learning materials, or get them to a one-to-one tuition session. In reality, you are not just donating money, you are giving someone the ability to speak to their doctor, help their child with homework, apply for education, or finally secure a job.
You are giving someone the power to have a voice.
When I look back my on journey from the girl who could barely say “hello” to the woman studying law, working in community organisations, speaking at events, and advocating for others, all of it started with language. English opened the first door. And every door after that.
There are thousands of refugees in the UK today who are still standing in front of their first door, waiting, hoping, whispering words they are not yet sure how to pronounce. With the right support, they won’t have to wait alone.
