Writing for The Mirror, care worker Riffat Fahad says new migration laws are
I care for your parents. Your grandparents. The people you love more than anything in this world.
I sit beside them when they are frightened. I hold their hands when they shake. I whisper comfort into the quiet hours of the night. I help them walk again, eat again, feel human again.
Sometimes, I am the first person to make them smile in weeks. Every day, I give a part of myself to the people I look after — because they deserve dignity, compassion, and love.
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I am a migrant care worker. And I am deeply, quietly proud of the work I do. I do not offer care because it is written in a job description — I do it because it is who I am.
I came to the UK as an asylum seeker, searching for safety and a chance to rebuild my life. I started working as a carer, and through my work, I earned respect, thanks, and genuine appreciation from the people and families I helped.
That recognition gave me strength and purpose. But lately, I feel that the country I serve does not fully see me — the person behind the uniform, the one who gives so much every day.
I work long shifts that stretch into exhaustion. I pay my taxes like everyone else. Nothing is handed to me — everything I have, I earn through sweat, patience, and heart.
And yet, sometimes I hear people call workers like me a “burden” — even a “stranger.” A burden?
I wake before dawn so that someone else’s mother is washed, dressed, and comfortable. I stay beyond my hours so a family can go to work knowing their father is safe.
I fill jobs no one else is stepping forward to fill. Care homes stay open because of us. Hospitals keep moving because of us.
Families hold together because of us. If migrant carers disappeared tomorrow, the entire system would feel the shock — and millions of lives would be shaken. Now, with the proposal that people like me must wait *15 years* before applying for Indefinite Leave to Remain, there is a pain inside me I cannot hide.
Fifteen years of giving my strength, my time, my youth. Fifteen years of service, sacrifice, and loyalty — yet still being told, “You do not belong here yet.”
We aren’t asking for special treatment. We aren’t asking for applause or medals. We are asking for fairness. For humanity. How can we be called a burden when we carry so much? When we lift so many?
I don’t want to feel like a temporary guest in the place where I spend my days serving others with everything I have. I just want stability. Respect. A chance to build a future without waiting decade after decade to be trusted.
So to the UK, I say this from the deepest part of my heart: We are not here to take. We are here to give — and we have been giving since the day we arrived.
All I hope is that one day, the country I care for will look at us and care for us in return.