I longed for the familiarity of home (Picture: Mueed Majid)
It was a cold, grey morning in May when I received the email that would alter my life.
The subject line read: ‘FLR Application Update’ and my heart pounded in my chest as I clicked it open. But I could hardly process what followed.
‘Your application and human rights claim made in February 2024 is refused,’ it read.
The words struck me like a hammer. The world seemed to blur around me.
This rejection meant I was on the brink of losing everything I had fought so hard for since arriving in the UK – my religious freedom, my right to openly love my Christian partner, safety from persecution – and the life I had painstakingly built in a country that respects human rights.
I realised that this broken system – one designed to crush hopes rather than nurture them – tears apart lives and families with impunity. It isn’t just failing, but actively destroying the fair, liberal values Britain claims to uphold.
Born and bred in Saudi Arabia, where my parents had lived for 40 years, I arrived in the UK in December 2009 on a student visa.
I was going to do a one-year foundation course in accountancy at an institution in London. Initially, I stayed with my aunt in Reading, then moved to rent in London.
My UK visa was valid until April 2011. Initially, I planned to return home after completing my studies – my tuition ended that March, but I still had exams to do, which could be taken in June or December – but I was also open to the possibility of working in the UK for a few years to gain international experience before going back to Saudi Arabia.
Unfortunately, my exit/re-entry visa – a special permit allowing residents to leave and return to Saudi Arabia without losing their residency status – was due to expire in May 2011.
I’d be unable to return to Saudi Arabia after my UK visa expired, and I’d be stuck in the UK illegally (Picture: Mueed Majid)
Saudi regulations impose a three-year ban on re-entry if you have not left the country on a final exit visa (a rule designed to ensure residents properly close their affairs in the country before leaving).
This would put me in a precarious position: I’d be unable to return to Saudi Arabia after my UK visa expired, and I’d be stuck in the UK illegally.
In March 2011, I tried to get ahead of the issue. I instructed an immigration advisor to assist with an extension application – he came through the recommendation of a fellow student.
He asked for my passport, previous visas, bank statements, and institution documents. While something felt slightly off about the advisor’s vague promises, I was so desperate for help that I pushed my doubts aside, convincing myself that this was my best chance to stay in the UK legally.
Devastatingly I later learned that the advisor was unregistered.
He failed to submit my application and retained my documents meaning I could not seek help elsewhere. Having already asked me for the initial Home Office fee of £475, he then wanted an additional £300 to return my passport.
I had no choice but to comply, and ultimately missed my chance to file for an extension.
And so, from May 2011, I became an overstayer.
Life in the UK became challenging and survival became my priority.
I finally revealed the painful truth of my immigration status to Maria (Picture: Mueed Majid)
I managed to find cash-in-hand jobs – though these were always exploitative, often paying very little or nothing at all, as people knew my status and didn’t hesitate to take advantage of the situation.
I spent most of my time couch surfing, relying on the kindness of friends, and when that wasn’t possible, I stayed in cheap hostels, constantly moving to find more affordable options, or even sleeping in abandoned vans or exchanging labour for a place to sleep.
With most of my family in Saudi Arabia, I felt increasingly isolated and despondent. The constant stress of my uncertain status, coupled with the inability to visit my family, left me feeling profoundly lonely and homesick.
Trapped in a limbo I couldn’t escape, I longed for the familiarity of home.
I reached out to various solicitors in London, desperately seeking help, but most wouldn’t take my case without substantial fees. Pro-bono work or legal aid cases were consistently rejected. My lack of money severely limited my options, and it felt like all avenues were shut off to me.
The Brexit referendum in 2016 intensified the anti-immigrant sentiment I was facing daily and further complicating my already precarious situation.
However, in 2019, I met Maria via a dating app. We quickly discovered we had a shared love for food, movies, and deep conversations about life. What really connected us was our ability to dream together, creating the kind of aspirations we’d both missed out on previously.
She was, and still is, a vibrant, compassionate woman who became my anchor.
With trembling hands and a racing heart, I finally revealed the painful truth of my immigration status to Maria.
I braced myself for rejection, but her reaction left me stunned. ‘Your struggle is now our struggle,’ she said, her voice unwavering. ‘We’ll fight this battle together, no matter what it takes.’
This new system wasn’t just complex – it was a cold, unfeeling machine programmed to say ‘no’ (Picture: Mueed Majid)
In that moment, as she pulled me into a tight hug, I felt a glimmer of hope ignite – a feeling I thought had been extinguished years ago. Maria’s unconditional acceptance and determination to stand by me became my lifeline in a sea of uncertainty.
Neither of us believed that happiness required traditional marriage, and we knew we could be partners while keeping our religious beliefs separate. Our relationship was built on mutual respect and open communication, rather than traditional notions of obedience or conformity to societal expectations.
We moved in together in 2020 and entered into a civil partnership in June 2021.
Yet as happy as I was, our relationship only added another layer of complexity to my immigration situation.
The Home Office rejected our EU Settlement Scheme application in February 2022, one year after we’d submitted our application. Before Brexit, EU citizens and their loved ones could build lives in the UK under EU free movement laws. After the referendum, this dream crumbled into a nightmare of red tape and rejection – Maria is from the EU.
New relationships like ours faced an impenetrable wall of bureaucracy, each brick another arbitrary rule designed to keep us out. We found ourselves trapped in a labyrinth of paperwork, each turn revealing another dead end.
This new system wasn’t just complex – it was a cold, unfeeling machine programmed to say ‘no’.
It didn’t matter to the government that Maria and I had provided evidence to show we’d made every effort to have our civil ceremony before Brexit day – or that the massive backlogs in settlement requests were not our fault.
And, while I understand we were living through a pandemic at the time, there seemed to be no human aspect left with the Home Office. It felt like Brexit had turned the simple act of love into a crime, and we were paying the price.
Maria (R) would face relentless danger in Pakistan (Picture: Mueed Majid)
When my FLR application to extend my stay in the UK was refused in May 2024, it was the latest in a long line of rejections. The rest of the email informed me that there were no insurmountable obstacles to our family life continuing in Pakistan – as my parents are from Pakistan, I have a Pakistani passport – but this is not true.
For a start, my civil partnership status is not recognised under Pakistani law so the authorities would consider Maria and I out of wedlock, and Maria would have no legal right to stay in the country with me.
Nor are Pakistani authorities prepared to grant Maria a family visa. Our relationship would be reduced to a state of illegitimacy, subjecting us to discrimination, prosecution, and even imprisonment.
And as a white, Western, orthodox Christian woman, Maria would face relentless danger in Pakistan. She’d be a constant target for discrimination and violence, exacerbated by rising anti-Western sentiment – and she’d be vulnerable to persecution under strict blasphemy laws.
How can a UK system that claims to uphold human rights so blatantly disregard the fundamental freedoms and well-being of individuals like us? It needs to be fixed, and fast.
Over the last 14 years I have sought legal assistance from various solicitors, only to receive incorrect advice and negligent service.
All this has led to significant financial strain – I have currently spent almost £23,000 on legal fees, Home Office fees and the Immigration Health Surcharge (IHS) on top of it – and yet my status remains unresolved.
Frankly, I am financially, mentally, and emotionally exhausted.
Despite enduring exploitative cash-in-hand jobs and the constant threat of destitution, I have never claimed benefits and have dutifully paid taxes. I have consistently embodied the values of hard work, resilience, and a desire to contribute positively to the community. I’m not a burden on the state and I strive to integrate and uphold British values.
While my future and Maria’s remains uncertain, we are resolved to fight for our right to stay together in the UK. Our love and commitment are our greatest strengths, and we will not let bureaucratic hurdles tear us apart.
It’s why we try to maintain some semblance of normalcy by talking about our dreams, about the future we want to build together – owning a home, starting a family, and contributing positively to the community.
I implore Britain to reclaim its moral compass and create an immigration system that upholds justice, empathy, and human dignity for all.
Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing James.Besanvalle@metro.co.uk.
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