The night before I made the crossing, I was so nervous that – for the first time in my life – I smoked a cigarette.

It was April last year and the smugglers had said the sea was going to be calm so I was googling the weather. That’s when I noticed headlines about the UK Government’s Rwanda plan to establish offshore processing for asylum seekers.

My English was not good enough to understand the whole deal, but what I could read made me wonder if something was wrong. 

I asked the smugglers about it, but they mocked me and said it wasn’t true. They also said that if I told anyone from our group, it could end up ugly for everyone.

I knew they were serious. My own life experience has taught me that when someone threatens you, the result can be more harmful than you can even imagine.

In my home country of Iran, I was a bright and ambitious student. After I graduated from university in 2008, I came up with an idea.

I discovered a new way to extract tannic acid – a chemical used in medical treatments for things like cold sores, nappy rash, fever blisters and poison ivy – from oak bark and acorns. Unfortunately, my clever idea ended up being the primary reason for my downfall.

In 2009, the reformist presidential candidate, Mir-Hossein Mousavi, lost out to the establishment candidate, which resulted in thousands of protesters taking to the streets. While the protests started out as a peaceful, non-violent movement, hundreds of people were arrested, and several died as they turned into riots in the following months.

At the time, I was having a few meetings in Tehran and just happened to be in one of the locations where the protests took place. Three days later, the security services knocked on our door at 6am and told my dad: ‘We’re just going to take your son in for a few questions.’

These ‘few questions’ turned into four and a half months of torture. They held me in solitary confinement and broke my arm, nose and teeth.

Every now and then, I would be forced to confess that I was financially supporting the protesters and that I was a spy for the UK and Saudi Arabia. They took me into detention blindfolded. I can still recall hearing the screaming and shouting of other people who were being tortured. 

Before this, I was a healthy, energetic guy, but the man they released was a total stranger. I had lost 18kg and was mentally, as well as physically, broken.  

Even then, I decided to keep going with my business idea. I had meetings with organisations and politicians, even the president.

But one day, I was summoned by the security services again. This time, they took me to a big, unfinished factory filled with machines. They were trying to copy my project, but had got stuck at the extracting stage and needed my help.

I refused. They kept calling me and threatening me. One day, when I was returning from a business trip in Iraq, they confiscated my ID card and passport at border control.

The next morning, my wife – who I had married two years earlier – phoned to tell me that the police had come with a search warrant and taken all of my documents, books, laptop and hard drives. My father called next and urged me to hide. 

Finally, in hiding, I called my lawyer. ‘This is very serious this time,’ he said. ‘The government won’t give up easily. They will make your life a living hell. I would advise you to flee.’

My wife and I had one daughter at the time and I knew my situation would affect my family too. So, although it was one of the most difficult decisions in my life, I crossed the border in secret and went to Turkey in 2014.

There, my family joined me, and we applied for protection from the UN High Commissioner on Refugees. 

In Turkey, I was working for less than the minimum wage so my sister sent me some money and I managed to open a small shop selling household goods. But, just as it seemed like I was back in control of my life, I was randomly arrested by the Turkish police.

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They wanted to know why I was a member of a Kurdish association, which is the People’s Democratic Party – a pro-Kurdish political party in Turkey. It’s generally left-wing and places a strong emphasis on participatory and radical democracy, feminism, as well as LGBTQ+, minority and youth rights.

My lawyer told me that he didn’t know what they would charge me with but that I could be sentenced to six years in prison. Through the window of the room where they were questioning me, I could see my wife’s desperate face. She was so broken and alone in this foreign country.

Thankfully, I was released on bail. My lawyer then advised me to flee Turkey as soon as I could. Leaving my family for a second time seemed even more difficult. But my wife told me that it was the best decision to keep me safe at the time.

So, seven years after initially arriving in Turkey, I found a smuggler and – with a group of around 120 Syrians – I walked for a week to Greece. On our way, we passed two dead bodies from other groups that had tried to escape by the same route.

I was anxious and stressed, knowing that the police could stop us at any moment, and deport me back to Turkey. From Greece, we continued to Hungary and the border of Austria.

After that, I wasn’t sure what to do so I made my way to Dunkirk, France – where I was googling the weather. After my conversation with the smugglers, I lay awake all night, too worried to sleep.

I was right to take the smugglers seriously. The next morning, when some of the passengers refused to get on the boat, they threatened them with a knife and said: ‘Either you get on this boat, or you lose your life.’

So we set off. There was water as far as we could see. We were already nervous, and then the boat’s motor stopped.

The 37 men, women and children began to cry, scream and pray. Parents kissed their children goodbye. Someone fainted. There weren’t enough life jackets for everyone. 

I still remember everyone crying four hours later, when the lifeboat appeared and we realised they were going to survive. The crew of the lifeboat told us: ‘Don’t worry, you’re safe now.’

They took us to Dover, where we were escorted to a processing centre and given clean, dry clothes, as well as food to eat. But the area was full of journalists and photographers – it was the day after the Rwanda plan was announced.

I asked an officer in the centre what would happen to us, but she didn’t know. Then she asked me if I’d had a chance to speak to my wife.

I said I hadn’t, so she led me into one of the interview rooms and let me use her laptop to Skype my family. She even told my daughter in English that I was safe, and that she hoped we could be reunited soon. 

I was sent to a hotel in Carlisle to wait while the Home Office considered my case. Still, the Rwanda plan haunted me. In the hotel, I had constant, racing thoughts about my family, my situation, our future.

One of my friends’ fathers was actually meant to be on the first deportation flight. He would cry every day, not knowing how to help his old, desperate father. Thankfully, that flight was postponed, due to a court appeal.

Finally, on 2 February this year, my lawyer phoned with the good news: ‘You got leave to remain.’ When I shared the news with my wife, she burst into tears. Happy tears, for once.

As for the Rwanda plan, if I could talk to the Home Secretary about it, I would want to explain that it feels to me like a waste of time, money and energy.

As I know from my own experience, how can a country feel safe if the authorities imprison you and threaten you? And how can someone weigh up a random headline against the very real threat of a smuggler with a knife?

I would like to see the Government make it clear who is eligible for protection, then provide safe routes for those people to get here. 

Meanwhile, I’m trying to improve my English so I study every day in the hotel. In Carlisle, I’m known as a bookworm, so everyone donates their books to me.

One day, I hope to be reunited with my family so we can live together in the UK – finally free from persecution.

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