Escaping persecution to live in limbo

Amina and myself are almost the same age. We both have grown-up children. We are both grandmothers. We both left our country of birth and are living in Ireland. But because of an accident of birth, our lives could not be more different.

Amina (not her real name) has spent almost 10 years in the asylum process in Ireland, living in the system known as direct provision.

She had never heard of the Republic of Ireland before she arrived here. She had no choice about where the agent took her when she had to leave her country to seek a place of safety after she had suffered forced labour, rape, and kidnapping. She left behind her mother and children.

Amina has been waiting for a final decision on her application to remain in Ireland, not knowing what the outcome will be or when the final decision will come. For five years, she waited while her case was heard in the higher courts. She has no idea why there was such a delay. Her solicitor just said: “It’s the system.”

Amina has lived in three different accommodation centres in three different counties since she arrived. She doesn’t have the freedom to move around. For a start, she is limited by the small amount of money she has, but she also fears being stopped and asked for papers by the gardaí — papers she doesn’t have. She has no choice about what she eats or what time she eats. Food is provided in a shared canteen. She sometimes vomits the food back up because the years have taken a toll on her health, mental and physical.

She sees a psychiatrist every two months but what he can do is limited. He cannot change the situation that she is in.

Amina’s greatest pain is the separation from her mother and children. With the €19.10 a week she gets as an allowance — an amount that hasn’t changed in the five years she has been here — she cannot afford to keep in touch with them as she wishes. She cannot apply for them to join her. Her youngest was just nine years old when she left. About once a month, she is able to call them but for no more than 20 minutes and this is only when friends are able to let her use their cards or phones.

Amina sees the children around her and knows the way they suffer, because they don’t have the same chances as those that they go to school with. They ask their parents for things that they see other children have. But their parents cannot afford to buy them these things.

And for herself, the last time she bought anything, it was a jacket from a charity shop. The €100 allowance every six months (reduced last year from €150) doesn’t go very far on top of the €19.10, especially when you want to send something, no matter how small, to your family back home.

And me? I visit my mother and eldest daughter and her two children every two weeks. I talk on Skype every few days with my youngest daughter and my grandson, as I have wi-fi at the home I have chosen to live in, where the latest gadgets can keep me in touch. When my mum celebrates her 80th birthday in a few weeks, I will fly over for the family gathering. When my youngest daughter has a baby in May, I will go and see them and lend a hand for a while. And I have a regular income from my work, which enables me to make choices and which give me freedom. But then I travel on a European passport and for me borders — into and within Ireland — don’t really exist.

But for Amina? She waits and hopes and tries to find a way to keep occupied and have some strength for when the time comes that this nightmare will be over.

It doesn’t have to be like this. Amina could have control over her own life, even while she waits for a decision on her application. She could be making her own contribution to Ireland, supporting herself and her family.

But for that to happen we need to ensure that the system she is subjected to is changed, not just for her, but for all those that seek asylum in Ireland.

The Irish Refugee Council and others have called for an end to institutionalised living. We also need an end to what has been called the “institutionalisation of uncertainty”.

Sue Conlan is chief executive of the Irish Refugee Council