Janine GriffithsWhen Akhona Ndudane arrived in the UK from South Africa, she hoped for safety and a fresh start. Instead, she found herself trapped in a cycle of displacement, substandard housing, and discrimination—her struggle reflecting the harsh reality faced by many asylum seekers.
A trained biomedical scientist, she had built a career in South Africa working in hospital laboratories, testing patient samples to diagnose diseases. But in the UK, she is not allowed to work while her asylum claim is processed. “I studied. I worked hard to be where I was. And now, I am just waiting, doing nothing. It’s like they want to break you,” she says.
Eventually, she was forced to flee South Africa for her own survival due to domestic and sexual abuse. “I was running away from heavy abuse,” she explains. The man she feared was part of a gang. Corruption and bribery within the police force meant that no matter where she went, he could find her. “If he wanted to see me, he would be there. He’s got power.” On top of this, she had suffered devastating personal loss—three siblings gone. “I thought, it’s only me left alive. Let me just go to the UK. I thought it was going to be better.”
But the UK’s asylum system proved far from welcoming.
A System That Fails the Vulnerable
At first, Akhona relied on relatives for shelter, but tensions ran high. When the situation became unbearable, she turned to the Home Office for help. That’s when she was placed in a hotel—a common but controversial practice for housing asylum seekers. The conditions were dire. “The bathroom was growing mushrooms,” she recalls. “And I’m very allergic to mushrooms.” At the time, she was recovering from COVID-19.
After multiple complaints, she was moved into shared accommodation with four other women. But instead of finding community, she faced stigma. When she disclosed her HIV status—something she has always spoken about openly—her housemates reacted with ignorance and fear. “The next day, they had a meeting,” she says. “They asked me to be the last one to take a bath because they didn’t want to get my disease.” She was also expected to cook last and spray down the kitchen before others would use it. “It depressed me a lot.”
Her housing situation continued to deteriorate. The next placement, a cramped upstairs room in shared accommodation, made her existing knee problems worse. Despite repeated pleas to be moved, her requests were ignored. “I fell. I got a bruise on my knee. I told them, and they kept resisting.”
Eventually, she was moved to a self-contained flat, but there was another problem: she was the only woman in the building. The surrounding flats were occupied by men, many of whom were involved in drug use and crime. “They would knock on my door at night. I felt so unsafe. I had to push my sofa against the door just to sleep.” The area was rough—Seacroft in Leeds—and for Akhona, a survivor of sexual abuse, it triggered deep-seated trauma.
Even once she was granted refugee status, the struggle didn’t end. With no access to social housing, she had to find a private rental—a huge financial burden. “I have to pay £950 a month, including utility bills,” she says. “I thought things would get easier. Instead, they got worse.”
“Treat Us Like Human Beings”
Akhona’s experience has left her determined to advocate for change. She believes asylum seekers should be allowed to work—something she was lucky enough to do due to her specialist skills. “If the government gave asylum seekers work permits, they would contribute. Instead, they’re kept in hotels, draining resources. It doesn’t make sense.”
She also wants a shift in public perception. “Not all of us are here to take British people’s jobs or houses. I work. I pay rent. I contribute.
“I don’t want free money. I just want to work and look after myself,” she says. “We are not here because we want to be. We are here because we need to be safe. No one leaves their children behind and risks everything unless they have to.”
Akhona believes the UK government should be doing more to help both its citizens and asylum seekers. “If you give your people houses, and then feed Asylum seekers, then if you have six houses and then you give your people houses first, and then you were left with three, then that three give it to us,” she explains, arguing that a well-managed system should provide for everyone.
But beyond the systemic failures and economic arguments, there’s a deeper pain: separation from her family. For over a decade, she has been unable to return to South Africa. When her eldest child died last year, she couldn’t attend the funeral. “I have no closure. I didn’t see my daughter. I didn’t bury my daughter.” She has never met her granddaughter. “It’s been eleven years since I’ve seen my family.”
The stress of her situation has taken a deep toll on her mental health. Although Akhona is receiving counselling, she says her mental health remains a daily struggle.
“I’m grieving, I’m in a grieving phase, but I don’t have a support program for my daughter,” she says.
“It has affected me so much that I feel like I’m losing my mind. I had to stop working because of my mental health issues. I just… I don’t even know what to say.
“I used to love cooking and baking, but now I can’t even do that because of my mental health. There were so many things I enjoyed when I was okay, but now I’m just really unwell.”
Akhona’s journey is a stark reminder of the sacrifices asylum seekers make in search of safety—and the inhumane barriers that await them. “I just wish,” she says, “that asylum seekers and refugees could be treated like human beings.”
