A New Home in Barnet by Mohammad Musa Azimee

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Many years ago, when I was just seven years old, I thought Mazar-E-Sharif was the whole world. 

I remember even the most ordinary days in Afghanistan—the dust in the morning air, beautiful blue skies filled with kites competing for space, the apricot tree in our courtyard, the bustle of the nearby market, and the smell of freshly cooked naan bread. That was my world—loud, familiar, and warm.

Back then, I wasn’t aware of the troubles plaguing our war-torn country. My mother had done an extraordinary job shielding my siblings and me from the dangers beyond our little island of safety. I didn’t know the word refugee—all I knew was that one day, my father—who was working as a doctor in London—was finally able to bring us safely to join him. 

I remember the horror of realising that the world was so much bigger than I’d imagined. Leaving behind school, friends, and family felt like being pulled out of a dream before it ended. My mother, siblings, and I arrived in London weary, draped in blankets of nervousness. Even during the plane journey, I held on to hope that somehow, things would feel the same. 

They didn’t. 

The moment we were reunited with my father and drove through the city, I felt overwhelmed. Everything felt so… different. The cold air was a shock to my bones. Towering skyscrapers loomed on the horizon. And the strangest thing of all—cars followed traffic rules. 

Our new life began in my father’s home in the Borough of Barnet, in a suburb called North Finchley. I felt like an outsider. How would I ever fit in? I couldn’t speak English. How would I make new friends? Those questions echoed constantly in my mind, eroding my self-esteem. 

The first few weeks were a blur of unfamiliar voices and my frozen fingers gripping a schoolbag too tightly. It was a year when London still had heavy snowfall, and I remember the frost forming on car windows even in early November. 

I started attending Northside Primary School—and I won’t lie, it was hard. I felt like an observer watching a show I couldn’t understand. But little by little, I learned that I could let go of the fear. 

It began with a teacher named Miss Glancy. She was patient and warm. Using a translator, she helped me learn basic English words and phrases. All the teachers showed kindness and grace. Their compassion slowly chipped away at the dam I’d built in my mind—the one that convinced me I didn’t belong. 

I remember the exact moment that changed everything. A boy stood in front of me with a football tucked under his arm. “Wanna play?” he asked. I didn’t understand the words, but the ball did. That was the first time since we arrived that I ran and laughed the way I used to back home. 

As the months turned into years, my confidence grew. I became fluent in English. My world expanded beyond school and home. 

Barnet began to bloom around me. It wasn’t loud like Mazar-E-Sharif, but it had its own music. 

On Fridays, the mosque became a second home—people from every corner of the world gathered there. On Sundays, I’d walk past a church where bells rang through the still morning air. My best friend at school was from Wales. My neighbour was Nigerian. My tutor was Indian. Barnet was a patchwork of stories, stitched together by faith, friendship, and quiet resilience. 

My mother joined English classes at the local community centre, helping other refugee women who never had the chance to go to school. My father continued working long shifts at Barnet Hospital. I never heard them complain. There was peace in their silent strength—steady like breath. Like prayer. 

As more years passed, I came to define Barnet with two words: hope and perseverance. 

I arrived terrified that I’d never belong. But through a patient and welcoming community, hardworking teachers, and the quiet kindness of strangers, a foundation was built beneath me—solid, lasting. 

Barnet may be far from Mazar-E-Sharif. The air is colder. The streets quieter. The hills and valleys replaced by flats and parks. But it holds something powerful—a quiet promise that no matter where you come from, you can begin again. 

If you listen closely, you’ll hear the stories carried in every accent, every prayer, every meal shared between neighbours. 

Barnet is more than streets and buildings. 

It’s where my hope took root. 

And where, every day, it still grows. 

Written by Mohammad Musa Azimee. Published 14 May 2025.

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