Nasif, 24 years old, from Sudan

I left Sudan because of the conflict in my village in the Nuba Mountains. One day, while I was out herding cattle about a kilometre away from home, I heard planes bombing my village. From a distance, I could see it was on fire. When I arrived, people were screaming, and everything was burning. I couldn’t recognise my own home. I later found out that I had lost my mother, and my older sister and father were injured.

The following day, the bombing resumed, and we fled to hide in caves. My sister died from blood loss and the lack of medical help, and we were unable to bury the dead due to the continuous bombings. We made our way to another village, where we heard an organisation was offering medical assistance. We transported my father on the back of a donkey, and I carried my younger sister.

The next day, the militia surrounded the area and took us to a military camp, where they beat us and accused us of conspiring against the government. Men and women were separated, and I haven’t seen my sister since; I still don’t know if she is alive or not.

At the camp, we were tortured and told that if we tried to escape, they would kill us. They called us slaves. We endured this for four months before we managed to escape. One day, during Ramadan, while the militia were breaking their fast, we ran. I had no shoes, and the thorns in the ground cut my feet. When the militia saw us running, they started shooting at us, but we kept running and hid in the forest when we needed to rest.

Three days later, we reached El-Obeid province. I went to the market, scared, and got into a truck heading to Darfur. There, I was advised to go to Kouri Bougoudi, a region on the borders of Libya, Chad, and Sudan. I found work in the gold mines, washing tools for the workers in exchange for food. I was around 16 years old at the time.

While I was working there, the area was raided by Libyan militants. They took me hostage. Those with money were released, but since I had none, I was detained for a year and a half in Bani Walid detention camp. They gave me a phone and demanded I call my family to pay a ransom for my release.

They tortured me, setting fire to plastic bags and letting the melting plastic drip onto my skin. When I resisted their orders, they locked me in a cell for six months. They tied my hands and feet together and hit me with a metal rod. I hoped this would be the end because I was exhausted and had lost all hope. When I was finally released, the authorities took me to Ajdabiya for medical treatment. Some of my friends died—either from being shot in the feet or from the severe burns inflicted during the torture.

I found some work in Tripoli, but it was impossible to gain any kind of legal status or residency in Libya. The police presence made things even harder. I left for Misrata, where I stayed with other asylum-seekers for about a month in a camp, waiting for the right time to attempt the dangerous journey across the sea to Europe. The day we decided to travel, as we were about to get in the water, we were caught and imprisoned. I managed to escape and went back to Tripoli, where I immediately tried to get on a boat.

We were at sea for about two days before the boat broke, and people began to drown. The boat was overcrowded, and the tides were strong; we were stranded in the middle of the sea, helpless.

I have a terrifying memory of being underwater, struggling to get to the surface, but there were too many people above me. As I tried to rise, they pushed me down with their feet, forcing me deeper underwater. I panicked. When I finally managed to reach the surface, I saw people clinging to each other, even to the bodies of those who had already died. I held onto a cord for about three hours before we were rescued and taken onto a large American military ship. I searched for familiar faces but couldn’t find anyone; about nine of my friends had passed away.

We spent a few days on the ship before being taken to a camp in Ragusa, in the Italian mountains. I was exhausted and coughing up blood. I kept asking for a doctor because I was very sick, but I received no medical help during the two months I stayed in that camp.

I decided to go to France. After claiming asylum in Paris, I was deported to Italy due to the Dublin regulation. I spent two and a half days walking back to France. I stayed in the Calais Jungle for a long time, making many unsuccessful attempts to reach the UK. In July 2020, I managed to reach Dover by boat. The journey was incredibly difficult, especially after everything I had already endured.

The Home Office took me to Folkestone, to a place that looked like a military barracks. Once inside, I was locked in and couldn’t go out. It resembled a warehouse, with 50 people sleeping in separated areas using bedsheets.

By this point, I was around 20 or 21. After being detained so many times, I was convinced that safety didn’t exist, that it was just something I imagined. Life became harder and harder. I was trying to see a doctor for the leg and stomach pain caused by the torture and the unclean water in Libya. I repeatedly told the accommodation staff about my pain, but they kept saying I had to be patient.

When I finally received my refugee status, I felt both happy and sad. Happy because I knew I was finally safe, but sad because I was reminded of everything I had been through. Nothing had been easy. Now, I want to have hope and I want to help others who have experienced similar struggles. I still hope to find my sister. I don’t know if we would even recognise each other, but I hope that one day I can find her.