Starting over in a country is often described as “starting from zero.” But some journeys do not begin at zero. They begin in the negatives. Mine was one of those journeys.
When I came to England, I left two children behind. One was 15, the other 9. I set out believing that I had a family I could entrust them to. No one can truly explain how a mother’s heart stays behind with her children long before her body ever leaves. You look strong while boarding the plane, but the real journey begins after the doors close.
When I arrived here, I had nothing with me but courage. I did not know the language. I did not know the system. I did not know anyone. But the hardest moments were at night, when I laid my head on the pillow and realized that within four walls, I was truly alone.
Those two years… Two years kneaded with tears. Every night falling asleep with prayer, every morning waking up again with prayer. With gratitude, yet with tears. With pains I could not tell anyone, pains I swallowed, pains that burned my throat every time I tried to hold them in.
At one point, I gave up and went back. But when I looked into my children’s eyes, I heard this: “You have to go. For us. You can do this.” There is no stronger motivation for a mother than that. And I came back. More tired, but more determined.
Here, I did not fight only the system. I struggled with people who introduced themselves as
“consultants” yet failed to do a single vital thing correctly for me; with so-called accountants who wasted my trust; with people I shared a home with who stole my money, my belongings, my jewelry; with those who threatened me by saying, “We can sabotage your process, this will affect your residency,” at the slightest objection.
Do you know what hurt the most? Seeing most of this coming from my own people.
Employers who know you understand nothing try to exploit you. Some silence you, some intimidate you, some try to break you before you even begin. On one side, you lie awake at night wondering if something will happen to the children you left behind; on the other, you fight the greed surrounding you.
My money was stolen. The personal belongings I bought for myself, my clothes, my memories were taken. But I did not grieve for those. What truly hurt was that the people who did this were from among us.
During this process, I was asked who I was. Are you Turkish or Kurdish? Are you Sunni, Alevi, Shafi? I faced a gaze that questioned identity before effort. And the greatest discrimination I experienced did not come from the English, but from my own people.
For two years, I was alone here. That loneliness wore me down. But it also transformed me.
I did not start from zero. I started from the negatives. And today, when I look back, I know this: My greatest success is not building a business; it is having carved out a place for myself in a country I did not know, without leaning on anyone.
By
Neşe Özdemir
