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Just to say before we start that this article contains references to self-harm that some might find up

setting. We tried to be joyful enough to deserve our new lives. What it's really like to be a

refugee in Britain by Zalash Talamsai, read by Serena Mantighi and produced by Hatty Moeah.

During the summer I turned 15, I fell into a prolonged depression that lasted well into my 20s.

My mother, my two brothers and I had just arrived in London because we were seeking asylum as refugees.

We were moved into a hostel for vulnerable families on Fitz-John's avenue in the affluent

northwest of the city. The journey to London had been so difficult that we had separated from my

father one of my brothers and my sister a few months earlier. The hostel was situated on a

tree-lined avenue that connects Swiss cottage to Hampstead Village. A pleasant walk north takes

you to Hampstead Heath and Keats House. To the south is Regent's Park where my family would walk

around the parks or Nate Rose Garden and sit by the fountain, our favourite spot.

Four years earlier, in autumn 1992, my family had left our home in Kabul when the sudden withdrawal

of US interests from Afghanistan left militias fighting for power, making ordinary life impossible.

Once frequent family gatherings had been reduced to funerals attended by a few. Food and water

were scarce. We rarely left our home. The adults only went out on the most essential errands.

My uncle sometimes cycled across the city to bring us drinking water as rockets fell around him.

We would be worried sick until his return. My parents wanted to stay. For a year they had

talked about peace in Afghanistan as if they could make it happen with sheer force of will.

...