On Monday, my phone wouldn't stop buzzing. Something set off the Google alert I’d put in place for words like “Home Office,” “immigration,” and “naturalisation.” Immediately, my anxiety went through the roof – I'm three months away from applying for permanent residency in the UK, and shortly after, citizenship. I've already spent the better part of two years saving thousands of pounds toward Home Office fees, and I've just started studying for my ‘Life in the UK’ test.
“Keir Starmer unveils ‘tighter’ immigration rules,” read one notification. I couldn't bring myself to read the full article – too scared it would send me back to the drawing board, or that someone could take away the very thing I’ve been working so hard for.
Bracing myself for the worst, I decided to watch the full press conference. As part of the government's newly published White Paper, Prime Minister Keir Starmer revealed some of the biggest changes to the immigration system I’ve witnessed in the last ten years, claiming the country is at risk of “becoming an island of strangers.”
“It's all about fairness,” he said, announcing plans to extend the qualifying period for settled status from five years to ten – because, in his words, living in the UK is “a privilege that is earned, not a right.”
While I knew these changes were unlikely to impact my own route to settlement, I couldn’t help but feel the outrage, sadness and sheer frustration for anyone affected. Having experienced just how taxing the process is first-hand, I know all too well that it’s another reminder that, as an immigrant, I will never truly feel like I belong.
This year marks 10 years since I moved to the UK – a decade since I kissed my immediate family goodbye and uprooted my life to chase the “Western dream” I so longed for as a child from Central Asia.
I still remember the day I received my acceptance letter from the University of Sheffield. At first, I couldn’t fathom the idea of leaving everything behind: my family, my friends, my country. But how could I, when I was too busy being excited to start a new life – one that had only existed in the pages of my childhood diary. After all, at the time, I was a 17-year-old with big hopes and an even bigger set of rose-tinted glasses.
As a student, everything felt too temporary for me to fully grasp that I was an "immigrant.” It wasn’t until I graduated, landed my first job and got married that it hit me: my life here wasn’t just a fleeting chapter; rather, it was shaping up to be my home.
With each year, I hit more milestones: forming lasting friendships, becoming a dog mum, switching careers. At 23, I landed my dream job at my dream magazine. On paper, I’d achieved everything I set out to. But behind the scenes, my immigration journey was far from smooth.
Kazakhstan is a nine-hour flight away, so work commitments and financial constraints meant that I could only see my family once a year. I had to make my peace with missing birthdays, funerals and weddings, and knowing that, as my parents were getting older, I wouldn't be able to spend as much time with them as I would've liked. I don’t get to watch my nieces and nephews grow up, or taste my mum’s cooking on a random Sunday. Worst of all? I don’t have the comfort of knowing I could see them at a moment’s notice.
Each time I leave for the airport, I feel like I'm leaving a little piece of me – nay, my heart – behind. I’m torn between two worlds: a country where I’ve built a life, and the home I left behind – a place of comfort and unconditional love that I only recently started to cherish that much more.
There are times when I stay up crying for no other reason but from missing my mum – and knowing there’s no immigration route for my parents to join me. Over the years, I've noticed that my ability to stay fluent in my native language also slowly deteriorated as I subconsciously prioritised speaking English in all aspects of my live; to the point where I often find myself struggling to find the right words when talking to my family on FaceTime.
It also doesn't come without the constant anxiety around visa applications and extensions – all to eventually earn the right (or “privilege”) of permanent residency. Even after being granted a visa, the stress doesn’t go away. That little voice – “you could be kicked out at any moment” – is always there, responsible for countless panic attacks and the unfortunate state of my bitten cuticles.
Then there's the financial aspect. Just this April, the Home Office, once again, upped the cost of application fees across most visa categories. For reference, the Indefinite Leave to Remain (ILR) now costs £3,029 – a sizeable increase from the £2,389 fee in 2020. As for myself, my application for both ILR and naturalisation as a British citizen will cost me nearly £4,600 – on top of paying £50 for a ‘Life in the UK’ test and £107.50 for a British passport.
Something that surprises most of my British friends is that the healthcare provided by the NHS isn't always free for immigrants. As part of every visa application, I've had to pay an NHS surcharge fee, which also increased to £1,035 per year of the visa as of February 2024.
The most frustrating part? Not being allowed to vote. In 10 years, I’ve had no say in some of the most pivotal moments in British history – from the Brexit referendum to multiple general elections. Not having an opportunity to vote when it could've made a difference left me feeling powerless every time. I also learned that not being registered on the electoral roll negatively impacts my credit score – and, by extension, my chances of getting loans or a mortgage.
So yes, even though increasing the qualifying period for settlement from five to ten years may not sound extreme, depriving someone of their right to vote for an additional half a decade isn't just irritating – it's insulting. I've spent most of my late teens and 20s doing everything by the book and doing my best to “integrate.” I've trusted the system while paying taxes and contributing to the economy, having made an entire career out of writing and speaking in English. And after all that, I refuse to be called a “stranger.”
I also recognise that I haven't faced the same hardships as other immigrants, and I can only speak on my own experience. However, what's clear to me is that the government fails to realise that we're not just case numbers stored inside the Home Office database. At the end of the day, we're all people with lives to plan and futures to build. What concerns me is that these changes set a troubling precedent that no matter our efforts, we’ll always be seen as outsiders in a country we call home.
As a Central Asian immigrant and Muslim woman, I have never felt so anxious about my future in this country.
