I was taken to the airport 3 times and told I’d be deported

Once again, I was woken at 4:00am in my room at Yarl’s Wood Immigration Removal Centre.

I was put in the back of a van and driven for around six hours to an airport, where I was told I’d be deported.

It’s difficult to describe the stress of that journey – the terror of thinking I was about to be sent back to a country I’d fled; a country I loved, but where I’d surely be put in prison, or killed, if I was to return.

I had to wait around at the airport for hours. During which time, my fear grew. At the end of the day, around 10:00pm, the officials who’d taken me to the airport said: ‘OK, you’re not going today, after all’. And I was taken all the way back to Yarl’s Wood.

In 2012, when I was 55, I was detained in Yarl’s Wood for three months – during which time I was taken to the airport to be deported three times before being brought right back to Yarl’s Wood again: A place I equate, in every way, with a prison. 

I wouldn’t wish a detention centre on anyone, let alone on people who are forced to come to the UK because they have no other choice. I now campaign against detention and I’ll never stop.

I’m from the Ivory Coast, where I lived with my family. I had an incredibly happy childhood – I remember walking to school through mango trees, playing and climbing – and as an adult, I worked as a secretary to the First Lady.

I lived peacefully with my family and my siblings. I had everything I wanted and I wouldn’t have left if I’d had any other choice.

But in 2010, there was an election that sparked contestation and this contestation turned into civil war. As I was associated with the former president – via his wife – I was arrested. 

I count myself as lucky; I was in prison for around 10 days before I was initially released. But I knew I couldn’t stay in the Ivory Coast – all my colleagues were being arrested and kept in detention. I was in danger of being imprisoned again at any moment.

My mum was so scared that she said: ‘If you have somewhere to hide, go. Even if I can’t see you with my eyes, I’ll know you’re safe somewhere.’

I decided my best option was to go to the UK – but leaving my family was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I’ll never forget the image of my mother saying ‘Go! Go, go!’.

I left everything I had.

I had a diplomatic passport, which meant I’d be flagged instantly at the airport, so I had to travel 100 kilometres by foot through forests and lagoons to fly out of Ghana.

Eventually, I arrived in the UK on April 26, 2011. Initially, I lived with my daughter, who was a student, in Portsmouth. I had secured a visa that meant I could stay legally until June, so I went to the Home Office in Croydon and asked what I should do.

‘Go back and apply for another visa,’ they said.

‘But… I fled my country because of the civil war,’ I said, appalled. ‘How can I go back to apply for a visa?’.

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They said my other route was to seek asylum, so that’s what I did. I was sent to Manchester, where I didn’t know anyone, and had to report to Dallas Court once a week. I didn’t miss a single date. Then one day, when I arrived at the court, I was arrested and taken to Yarl’s Wood.

I did everything right; I followed every single rule. But when I’d applied for asylum, there was a sentence on the letter I was given that said I was liable to be detained at any time.

First, my phone was taken from me, so I couldn’t call anyone. I was taken in a van – I could see out of the windows, but no one could see into it – to a different detention centre, before Yarl’s Wood. I was so traumatised I barely knew where I was, but I spent a couple of nights in a bunk bed there.

When I got to Yarl’s Wood, I realised I’d been deceived. I’d been expecting protection in the UK; instead, I found myself in what was no better than a prison. I didn’t have anything with me – I felt like a criminal.

I was given a small phone, but I couldn’t call anyone unless I knew their number by heart. It meant I couldn’t even tell my daughter where I was. 

I was in a shared room, and we were all subject to a timetable. We had to eat at a certain time, go to bed at a certain time. Guards would come into our rooms and check on us; it didn’t matter if we were naked, or bathing, or sleeping. 

I’m proud to say that I’m strong. I managed to keep pressing on, day to day – but I was surrounded by people, many of whom were younger than me, who were incredibly distressed.

And, while I was strong, I had lost all hope of ever getting out. I had no money for a solicitor; I didn’t understand English, and every day, I saw people being taken away for deportation. My only hope was that God would save me, and I prayed and prayed.

Maybe prayer worked because one day I heard about a charity called Bail for Immigration Detainees, who would periodically visit Yarl’s Wood and work on getting people released. The next time they came to the detention centre, I went to meet them and explained my situation.

Thanks to them, I was released. I then spent six years in the asylum system, waiting to get leave to remain. I’m not someone who can just sit and watch TV all day; I need to work (which those waiting for asylum decisions are not allowed to do).

So for five years, I volunteered for a charity called The Hope Project, which helps homeless asylum seekers and to whom I was referred when I was released from Yarl’s Wood. They gave me somewhere to stay in exchange for my volunteering as a housing worker.

Finally, I got my leave to remain in 2018. But my experience in Yarl’s Wood stayed with me, emotionally and mentally. I came to this country seeking security and I ended up in what felt like a prison. And I’ll never stop wondering: What is so wrong with seeking asylum that they feel the need to treat us like criminals?

Now, I work closely with the organisation Women for Refugee Women as a spokesperson and network facilitator: I filmed a short video for them years ago, and with them, I stand against women being detained. They have a campaign called ‘Set Her Free’, and that’s a phrase I’ll repeat over and over, for as long as it takes. 

Set her free.

I’m deeply homesick. I’m isolated here, living in a flat on my own, in a way I never was when I had all my family around me in the Ivory Coast.

But I’m dedicated to trying to get people to have compassion for those in detention. I want everyone to understand that these people have left everything; that they’ve been forced to leave everything they’ve ever known – just like I was.

And I will always stand against putting asylum seekers in detention. Anywhere people are saying, ‘Stop detention!’: I will be there saying it right along with them.

As told to Izzie Price

Metro has approached the Home Office for comment

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