Not Your Stereotype
Refugee Stories of Racism, Rejection, and Resilience
The Foreigner Everywhere
I’ve been a foreigner in Syria. A foreigner in Lebanon. A foreigner in Turkey. And somehow, still a foreigner in the UK. In Syria, I was surrounded by people who shared my language and culture, but tradition had its grip on everything on how I could dress, speak, move, and dream. In Lebanon, I saw a world that felt free women in shorts, people drinking openly, dancing in the streets. But as Syrians, we weren’t welcome in that freedom. I still remember signs in the street: “No Syrians Allowed.” I remember the tone they used when they spoke to my mother a single woman at the border with two children. Their eyes said: we don’t want you here.
According to the Cedar Centre for Legal Studies (2024), Syrian refugees in Lebanon face discriminatory policies that isolate them socially and economically. Many municipalities impose curfews specifically targeting Syrians, and incidents of police harassment have been widely reported (hrw.org).
In Turkey, the racism became direct. “You’re too pretty to be Syrian.” “Why is your skin white?” “How come your family didn’t force you to wear hijab?” I remember classmates asking why I had an iPhone if I was a refugee — as if I wasn’t allowed to have normal things. And when things were stolen from my bag, they told me I should stay quiet. “You’re taking our jobs anyway.” A respondent from my survey described a similar experience of exploitation and exhaustion: “Syrians working in Turkey every house, at least 3 people should work for 15 hours only to pay their bills.”
The NPR report (2022) documents how Syrian refugees in Turkey are often treated with suspicion and hostility. Rising nationalist sentiment frames them as “job-stealers” and “criminals,” reinforcing stereotypes that lead to exclusion (npr.org).
In the UK, it was quieter. People don’t shout it here but I could feel it. In the way someone mocked my accent after I rejected them. In the silence after I spoke. In the way some people tried hard to understand me… and some didn’t even bother.
The Migration Observatory (2024) reported that Middle Eastern migrants in the UK still face discrimination, particularly in the workplace. Accent bias is a common barrier, leading to fewer job opportunities and social exclusion (migrationobservatory.ox.ac.uk).
Racism doesn’t always scream. Sometimes it whispers. But it always leaves a mark.
Us vs Us
One of the hardest things to admit is this: sometimes, the people who make you feel the most different are your own. Middle Eastern communities our communities are full of words like "nawari," "shawi," "arbaṭi." These aren’t just slang. They carry judgement, shame, and classism. Words that say: You’re not like us. You’re beneath us. In Lebanon, we were seen as the backward Syrians. In Turkey, we were the poor religious refugees. In Syria, if you act or speak differently after living abroad, you’re “westernised,” or “too free.”
My identity was constantly under attack — not just by strangers, but by people who looked like me,
The struggle to belong is not just external — it’s internal too.
I eat kibbeh, I drink shay, and I listen to Fairouz when I travel in the morning. But I still get told I’ve changed too much. I’m too bold, too independent, too outspoken. Not “properly Syrian” anymore.
A study by Diverse Educators (2022) highlights how internalised racism within Arab communities can manifest as classism and colourism. These divisions often go unaddressed, deepening existing fractures between Middle Eastern communities (diverseeducators.co.uk).
Another respondent described how Arab communities in Europe sometimes avoid engaging with refugees: “In fact, I haven't had a personal experience, but I see many cases on social media. Many of them hate Arabs or see them as inferior, especially if they are hijabi.”
The hardest fight isn’t always with the world outside. Sometimes it’s the one inside your own community the one that tells you you don’t belong anywhere.
Who do I become?
So who am I now?
I’m Ayla, a girl shaped by Syria, Lebanon, Turkey, and the UK. A girl who speaks three languages. A girl who had to learn to speak even when no one was listening. I’ve experienced silence, judgement, separation, and racism. But I’ve also found freedom, friendship, and my voice.
But sometimes, the systems that are supposed to help us keep us apart instead.
When my mum left Syria for Turkey, she had already been separated from her husband for months. Six times, she applied for a visa to Turkey. Six times, she was rejected. Every rejection meant another trip to Lebanon, more money spent, more questions asked. Why was she travelling alone? Why did she want to go to Turkey? Why did she need to see her husband?
According to Human Rights Watch (2024), Syrian refugees in Lebanon face repeated visa rejections, often without clear explanations. These denials leave families stuck in limbo, forcing them to either remain separated or take alternative routes (hrw.org).
On the seventh attempt, the visa was granted. But the process didn’t end there. Once she arrived in Turkey, she applied for visas for us, her children. A mother wanting to be with her kids a basic right. But we were rejected. For two years, my sister and I stayed behind in Syria while my mum tried to settle in Turkey. She had to learn a new language, find a job, and navigate a country where she had no support system.
After nearly two years, we finally received the visa and joined her in Turkey. But by then, things had changed. My mum had taken on debt, and we had missed out on two years of being together.
Racism isn’t just about being called names. It’s about systems that force people to bend the rules just to keep their families together. It’s about governments that treat you as less worthy of protection, less deserving of dignity.
Reflection
In this project, I’ve looked at how racism travels through borders, language, policy, and culture. I’ve learned that being treated like a stranger isn’t just about place. It’s about power. The concept of Othering, as discussed in post-structuralist and existential philosophy, suggests that the 'self' constructs its identity by defining what it is not the 'Other'. Emmanuel Levinas takes this further, arguing that our ethical responsibility begins in the presence of the Other in acknowledging their humanity.
Throughout this project, I’ve been positioned as the Other a refugee, an outsider, someone who doesn't fit the expected image. Racism, in this context, becomes a tool of separation. It justifies exclusion, not just through hate, but through bureaucracy, silence, and control.
Xenophobia, as Oxford defines it, is a fear or hatred of people from other countries. But more than that, it's a fear of the unfamiliar. A fear of disruption. A fear of anyone who doesn’t match the majority's image of what is acceptable, civilised, or “normal.”
The “island of strangers” metaphor helped me understand what it feels like to live in between identities. I’ve been Syrian, refugee, student, foreigner and yet, none of these labels fully define me. Othering doesn’t just happen in immigration offices or school hallways it happens in the way we are seen, spoken to, or left out. And it happens internally too, when you start to question where you really belong.
"I’m not asking for pity. I’m asking to be seen not as a refugee, not as a problem, but as a person."
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