14/09/2025
Between Two Fires: A Migrant’s Reflection on Fear, Hope, and Belonging
I left South Africa not because I wanted to, but because I had to. The place I once called home was being torn apart by violence, crime, and waves of xenophobia that made it unsafe for people like me. Shops were looted, neighbors turned against each other, and people were attacked simply because of the country they came from. Every day felt like a roll of the dice with my life. Eventually, I made the hardest choice a person can make: to leave my homeland in search of safety, dignity, and the possibility of a future.
When I came to the United Kingdom, I carried with me both pain and hope. Pain, because displacement is never easy—leaving family, friends, and a history behind. Hope, because I believed this country’s long history of democracy, multiculturalism, and rule of law could offer a more stable life. Here, I thought, I might finally breathe without fear.
But now, as I settle into my new life, I feel an unsettling sense of déjà vu. The “Unite the Kingdom” rally and the growing voices against immigration sound hauntingly familiar. The chants may be different, the flags and faces are not the same, but the root is identical: fear turned outward, anger weaponized against the “other.” The target shifts—from Somalis or Zimbabweans in South Africa, to Muslims, refugees, and migrants here in the UK—but the pattern remains constant.
I hear people say migrants are “taking over,” that we don’t belong, that our presence erodes culture or threatens security. These words echo the accusations I fled from. Yet, many of us came here not to take, but to build. We clean your hospitals, drive your buses, code your software, care for your elderly. We contribute in ways often invisible, yet indispensable.
To be a migrant is to live between two fires. In South Africa, I was unsafe because I was a foreigner. In the UK, I worry about being marked as one again. It is a loneliness that is hard to explain—to always be an outsider, even when you love the places you inhabit.
What makes this harder is that anti-Muslim rhetoric has become woven into the broader hostility to migrants. I am not Muslim, but I know what it feels like to be vilified for identity alone. To my Muslim brothers and sisters here, I say: I stand with you. Today it is you under attack, tomorrow it could be me.
But I also hold on to hope. I see Britons who march not in hate, but in solidarity. I meet neighbors who welcome me, ask about my story, and see me as more than my accent or my passport. There are people here who refuse to let fear dictate the future.
I left South Africa to escape the destructive power of xenophobia. I do not want to witness it take root here too. The lesson I carry with me is simple: hatred consumes nations from within. If Britain forgets its own history as a nation built by waves of migration, it risks repeating the mistakes I left behind.
As a migrant, I don’t ask for pity. I ask only to be seen—for my humanity, my hopes, my work, and my willingness to belong. I came here to contribute, not to replace. To live, not to take. To build, not to destroy.
Britain has a choice: to close in on itself, or to continue the legacy of openness that made it a beacon in the first place. For my sake, for the sake of countless others, and for the sake of Britain itself, I hope it chooses the latter.
~ Mapiravana Mapiravana
