Rundale

A. Mohammed

I still remember the day when I got my PhD admission email. I was living in a remote small town in the countryside of Ireland. The Direct Provision centre I lived in was a repurposed convent on a hill, far from the closest town with a gate blocking us from the community. Surrounded by loneliness, isolation and exhausted faces of asylum seekers, this email of admission from college restored hope and excitement within me. However, this feeling did not last long…

When I arrived in Ireland, I was filled with high hopes and big dreams. I believed this was the place where I could unleash my potential and build the academic life I had always envisioned. However, once I found myself within the asylum system, those dreams began to fade, and education started to feel out of reach. Education is a fundamental right by the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, yet I soon realized that, for asylum seekers in Ireland, accessing it can be a hard battle. Despite holding a master’s degree, I am seen primarily as a resource for the job market—pursuing further education is viewed as unnecessary rather than as a right that deserves legal support.  

Life as an asylum seeker on arrival to Ireland is different from what one might expect, and far from ordinary. The first step in the asylum process is having your identity being stripped away. You become stateless as you must submit your original ID at International Protection Office (IPO). From this moment, you become controlled by the system—unable to work, access education, or travel. You are totally dehumanised, reduced to a case awaiting trial. You cannot choose where to live, what to eat or when to come or go from your allocated accommodation in Direct Provision Centres.

This dramatic change causes emotional distress, which cripples asylum seekers and makes them abandon their dreams. It is difficult to see oneself in a vulnerable and devalued position—one I never imagined I would experience. Instead of being supported to be integrated in the community while waiting for our asylum applications to be processed, we are mentally and physically occupied with handling daily barriers—such as queuing for food three times a day, coping with the pressure of shared accommodations, worrying about how to cover our needs with the €38 we receive per week, and trying to understand our rights as asylum seekers. With all these barriers, how can anyone be expected to work toward being an active member of society, to integrate, work, and contribute to the economy? I must admit that when I first entered the asylum system, I assumed it was a temporary stage that would be overcome and left behind, as I would move forward with my education and pursue my goals. However, this experience became a nightmare that still haunts me mentally and spiritually.

After being transferred from one hotel into another—staying only a few days in each—I was transferred to a reception centre in a large city. All asylum seekers must be sent to this centre to complete their application forms. For example, to fill the questionnaire book, receive a Blue Card or Temporary Residence Card, and apply for their PPSN. After this stage, they are moved into a more ‘permanent’ centre chosen for them by the International Protection Accommodation Service (IPAS). It was in this reception centre where I began drafting my PhD proposal on the challenges of integrating refugees’ children in the Irish mainstream education system. It was April, and I sent my proposal to one of the professors in the university I felt was the right place to support my project. She was interested in my research idea, which gave me hope that I might be able to join the program in September.  At the same time, I was transferred to the convent on the hill in a small, remote area in the west of Ireland. I tried to convince the management of the centre to transfer me into another centre, somewhere I could commute to university. But the response of the person responsible for transfer was cold and harsh. He made it clear that he was not interested in hearing about my education plans and, that I must get into the bus before he called the Gardaí. When I told him that I have qualifications and that I was ambitious to pursue my PhD, he responded mockingly “you want to do PhD?” His tone made it clear he found it impossible to believe that someone like me could ever achieve such a thing.

I was transferred to the convent on the hill. But I kept the rigor and faith within me that one day I will join this program and change my life. I believed that, through education, I could integrate and contribute to the Irish community. Once I arrived at this new centre, I was allocated shared accommodation. A cooking facility was available, and the management had introduced a point system. Each adult is given 40 points per week, which is equivalent to €40. There was a small grocery shop inside the convent where you could purchase what you needed using your points. Once you finished your 40 points, you were denied access to anything else you may need. People had no choice but to manage with these 40 points until the end of each week. Given that the convent was located in a small town with less than three thousand people, work opportunities were scarce, and communication with the outside was very challenging.

But I kept in contact with this university professor and one day she told me I had been accepted. I was overjoyed to learn that I had been accepted and that an admission letter had been issued. At the same time, I was shocked to learn that there was no funding support for me—not even a tuition fee waiver. Not only that, but I was considered as an international applicant, subject to international students’ fees, which are around €15,000, even though I had been granted international protection and received Stamp 4. Suddenly my happiness turned into frustration and stress over fees and lack of funding. On top of that, the distance from this village to college was too far with few trains operating. If I wanted to travel to the university, it could take me around 5 hours moving from one train station into another. I contacted IPAS and showed them the admission letter, requesting a transfer into a centre from which I could reasonably commute. They denied my request, making it clear that my education is none of their concern. I had to defer to the following year. A year was simply stolen from me. I had to spend another year in this centre I call prison—detached from community, work, education, opportunities and social life.

Despite the commendable efforts of community organisations such as Irish Refugee Council and Spirasi, we continue to face significant barriers. These barriers include unfair presumptions and dominant narratives that portray asylum seekers as ignorant, barbaric or dangerous people who take advantage of the system. Asylum seekers are also criticised for not integrating or contributing to Irish society, yet they are not given the opportunity to do so. How can a person be transferred to the middle of nowhere, and at the same time, be expected to participate in cultural life, integrate, work and pay tax? How can someone access education when the system makes it clear that those who wish to pursue higher education must fund themselves?

It is worth noting that asylum seekers are entitled to free education only up to third level, and only if they have been living in Ireland for at least three years. This applies to those with refugee status, subsidiary protection, or humanitarian leave to remain. There is a need for greater supports, particularly for refugees and asylum seekers pursuing doctoral studies, who should be designated as local students and charged Irish fees rather than higher international rates.

It is through education that a person can integrate meaningfully into society. After studying in an Irish university, they are more likely to secure a decent job, contributes to the economy, and support others in similar situations. Denying a person this basic right is deeply dehumanising. People fleeing war zones are not necessarily ignorant or barbaric, but human beings seeking peace, a new life and a chance to restore their dignity. The system needs to acknowledge the struggle these people endured to access education. Their educational background should be recognised and respected. Ultimately, the system plays a critical role: it can either help migrants become productive members of society or leave them dependent on government support.