UK Immigration Reform and ILR. A Survivor of Modern Slavery Speaks Out By Mimi

When I heard that Labour is planning to change the path to Indefinite Leave to Remain from five years to ten, something inside me broke. It wasn’t just disappointment. It wasn’t just worry. It was a familiar terror rising in my chest, the same panic I felt when I was trapped in modern slavery. That feeling of having no control. No choices. No future I could rely on.

For years, I had been holding on to 2030 like a lifeline. I counted the years not because I was impatient, but because that date meant safety. It meant rest. It meant the possibility of finally breathing without fear. 2030 was the year I believed I could stop looking over my shoulder, stop fearing every letter, every policy change, every knock on the door. And now, with a single proposal, that hope feels like it’s being ripped away, without hesitation, without understanding, without compassion.

People talk about “policy changes” as if they are neutral, technical adjustments. As if they are just numbers on paper. But for me, this is not abstract. This is my life. This is my healing. This is my chance at freedom after years of abuse and exploitation. When they say five years will become ten, what they are really saying is this, your safety can wait, your healing can wait, your life can wait.

I am angry because the Home Office once laid out a path for me. A refugee who has already endured more than anyone ever should. That path suggested I could rebuild. It suggested I could belong. It suggested that survival would eventually be met with stability. And now, suddenly, everything might change again, and I have no voice in it. Once more, decisions about my future are being made by people who will never know what it is like to live through the things I have survived.

I want them to look me in the eye and explain why I must wait ten years for stability after escaping abuse, exploitation, and control. I want them to see the scars, not just the visible ones, but the emotional and psychological wounds that never fully fade. I want them to understand that pushing Indefinite Leave to Remain further away is not a minor inconvenience. It is another form of cruelty. It is another way of keeping survivors suspended in limbo, constantly reminded that even after escaping slavery, even after fighting for freedom, we are still not allowed to fully belong.

I rebuilt myself from nothing. I escaped violence, manipulation, and control. I fought my way out when everything was stacked against me. And just when I believed I could finally begin to heal, the government moves the finish line. They expect me to keep waiting, keep renewing, keep proving my worth, after everything I have already been through. It feels like punishment for being a refugee, as if surviving trauma is not enough, as if we must continue suffering to justify our existence here.

I am tired. Tired of being told to be patient. Tired of being strong. Tired of pretending I am okay when every visa renewal drags me back into the same fear that once ruled my life during my exploitation. Extending that fear for another five years is not compassion. It is not fairness. It is not justice. It is cruelty disguised as policy.

What angers me most is knowing that the people making these decisions will never feel their consequences. They will never wake up in the night terrified of losing everything they have built. They will never feel their heart stop when a letter from the Home Office arrives. They will never carry the weight of uncertainty in their chest for a decade. They will never know what it is like to have your entire future controlled by a system that sees you as a case number instead of a human being.

I survived modern slavery. I clawed my way out of fear and silence. I built a life here. I work hard. I contribute. I support others in my community. And now, I am raising my voice, not just for myself, but for refugees and migrant domestic workers who are afraid to speak. We are human beings. We deserve dignity. We deserve stability. We deserve honesty and fairness from a government that claims to protect the most vulnerable.

If Labour truly wants to reform the immigration system, they must start by listening. Listening to survivors. Listening to refugees. Listening to the people whose lives will be shattered by extending years of uncertainty and fear. Policy should never come at the cost of human lives and mental survival.

I am angry because I have fought so hard for my freedom, and once again, I feel it slipping through my fingers. But I refuse to stay quiet. I refuse to let policymakers reduce my life to a timeline they can casually stretch. I refuse to let them ignore the harm this causes.

I survived slavery. I am surviving the immigration system. But I am exhausted. And I am demanding better, not just for me, but for everyone who deserves the chance to finally feel safe, to finally heal, and to finally belong.

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