Ten years ago, one million migrants poured into Europe, fleeing conflict and poverty.
Many had travelled years in search of peace, prosperity or stability, and found it in countries like Italy, Germany and France. But the journey to truly belong continues. Even after a decade, after receiving asylum, getting new jobs, and learning new languages, four migrants who spoke to Reuters feel torn.
They are still homesick and wrestle with the possibility – or impossibility – of return. They remember the forests of northern Nigeria, a river through a town in Syria, the nightmare of child abuse in Afghanistan.
Meanwhile, their mere presence has altered communities across the continent.
They are lawyers, artists, care home workers and aspiring politicians. Their children are assimilated and have no memory of the land their parents left behind.
They are part of a new, transformed Europe.
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Naziru Usman Abubakar
When Naziru Usman Abubakar fled a campaign of violence by Boko Haram insurgents in the city of Maiduguri in northern Nigeria in 2014, he took his school certificate with him. Securing a higher education was vital, wherever he ended up, and he wanted proof that he’d attended school back home.
When the overcrowded migrant boat he took from Libya to Italy in April 2016 began to sink, the certificate got wet, but he held on to it. The document still bore the water stain when he used it to apply for a scholarship at Turin University years later.
“That watermark is very significant. Whenever I see it, the history comes back. It reminds me of the journey," he said.
His first home in Europe was a migrant reception centre in Turin, where, with no word of Italian, university felt like an impossibility. He started to learn the language, left the centre, worked as plumber at a golf course and as a dishwasher at a restaurant. But after rent and bills, he was penniless. He had no interaction with anyone.
He missed Nigeria, where he used to race his friends to school on bikes, and the forests, where the air was cooler on hot days. He missed his mother, who had always encouraged his learning.
“The dream of education fell away,” he said. “The way my friends narrated how life would be in Europe - I came here and couldn’t get even close. I thought my life was wasted. I lost the meaning of everything.”
Things changed eventually. He saw an advert online about university scholarships. After a long application process that included the use of his Nigerian school certificate, he got into Turin University on a scholarship to study law. He graduated in 2024.
Nearly ten years on, Europe had provided, but it was not easy.
As he was entering the gates on his first day at university, the only black man in sight, a security guard stopped him and told him that he couldn’t enter. The guard sent him to another entrance, which was locked. Eventually, he was let in, but the experience hurt.
“It felt so embarrassing and disappointing. I went through the gates where everyone is passing and no one was stopped, only me, just because I looked different.”
Now he works at a migrant centre, helping others get their asylum claims processed. He hopes to apply for citizenship in 2026.
“Life treats you the way you take it. The fact that I was able to attend school, and had some opportunities, I can say that Italy has treated me well,” he said.
“But working in the migration sector, looking at people who don’t think the way I think, I think it is one of the most difficult places to live for migrants.”
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Ihab Abdel Hakim
When Ihab Abdel Hakim and his wife Abeer Obaid arrived in Germany in 2015, the relief was overwhelming.
Their journey from Deir el-Zor in Syria, where they ricocheted between threats from Islamic State and government forces, through Turkey and the Balkans, had taken months. They had suffered from severe hunger and the constant risk of attacks.
And then, peace.
“I thought Europe was heaven… I never imagined I’d arrive in Germany, a civilized country and the fourth biggest economy in the world… that was the dream," Hakim, 41, said.
That dream soon faded. Adapting to a new language and culture, without friends, was difficult. Ihab became depressed, but he wanted to integrate for the sake of his children, Yasmine, 16 and Haneen, 13.
Ten years on, the family have settled in the northern German town of Lübeck. He works as a nurse in a care home. They live in a five-bedroom home.
Life is simple, they play with the children Yasmine, 16 and Haneen, 13, or gather around a table with his parents and siblings. Sharing meals feels like a sanctuary.
Hakim is grateful for the shelter Germany gave his family - it is all Yasmine and Haneen know.
“I like Germany for one reason: it stood by us,” he said.
He has never escaped the pull of home, but he cannot return, even though Syria's former President Assad has fled. He still does not have German citizenship, which prevents him from even visiting. He worries constantly about being deported from Germany.
"We live in a tornado — unable to visit our country or truly settle here,” he said.
So, in between worlds, he is left with images: the people, the land, the trees of home.
A canal that runs through Lubeck reminds him of a river in Deir el-Zor. He takes a bridge across it every day in his car, even when there is a shorter route home.
“My heart and soul are in Deir el-Zor. No money, no homes or luxury in the world can compensate for what I’ve lost there,” he said.
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Nadia Feyzi
It is nearly ten years since Nadia Feyzi arrived in Germany and still the 32-year-old Afghan refugee is in transit: living out of her car, separated from her daughter, and without valid residency in her adopted home.
She applied for more than 180 jobs over the past year and got none. She bounces between the houses of friends, siblings and her partner in the city of Bonn. But she relies on her beloved silver Volkswagen, her primary residence packed with her worldly belongings: clothes, hats, shoes, glassware, documents and a trusty makeup bag.
She survives on a little savings and some freelance photography work. And yet, after the hardships she experienced to reach Germany, Feyzi is "completely happy," she told Reuters.
"I thought Europe would give me a home and a good society and that's why I can't hate it here. I love it here. I love these German cold people."
Feyzi arrived in Germany in 2016 with her then eight-year-old daughter, marking the final step in a long journey from her native Afghanistan. She had first fled the country in 2001 after being forced into marriage at the age of 11 and giving birth at 14, later escaping to Iran and then Turkey.
Her story did not convince asylum authorities in Germany to grant her full refugee status. Instead, she was given a humanitarian title that needs annual renewal, acknowledging that she cannot be returned to her home country.
Last year, after her application to renew her temporary protection status received no response from the immigration office, she found herself without a work permit or state support. A spokesperson for the city of Cologne declined to comment in detail on her case but said that her permit could be renewed if she finished the paperwork.
Initially, things went well. Feyzi enrolled in media design studies at a vocational school in the city and immersed herself in film and theatre. She supported herself through part time gigs and secured a role as assistant director at a theatre in Cologne, what she hoped would be a turning point.
However, just months into her new job, child welfare authorities removed her daughter from her custody following an anonymous report citing concerns about her housing situation. The girl remained in state care until she turned 18 and now works as a model and TikTok content creator.
Still, Feyzi remains determined. With sharp eyes and freshly done blonde hair, she tries to keep a strong facade, but tears well up whenever she recalls her past. She dresses smartly and has aspirations. She is currently writing a book, inspired by the lives of Afghan women over generations.
"I want to do something big here. This book will say it all," she said.
Feyzi says she remains hopeful that her residency issues will be resolved and that she can return to her creative work full-time.
"This is my country now. I fought for 30 years to be here."
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Youssef Hammad – unedited
Youssef Hammad, 34,is Palestinian, born in Yemen but moved to Gaza when he was five years old. He earned a bachelor's degree in journalism and translation in Gaza in 2012, working as a journalist and translator. He left Gaza in December 2014, shortly after Israel ended its military operations in the strip, which included airstrikes and artillery bombardments that devastated neighborhoods. More than 2,100 Palestinians were killed, mostly civilians, while Israel reported 67 soldiers and six civilians dead. That escalation followed rocket attacks by Hamas and other militant groups on Israeli cities.
“Gaza, for me, is the homeland I don’t wish for, but it is still my homeland. I don’t wish for it because of the miseries, not because I don’t love my country. Seventy percent of my thoughts and life are about Gaza, while thirty percent is about facing the realities of life here. We live here, but our minds are in Gaza, and all our feelings are in Gaza. Pain comes to us from Gaza."
Tired of war, exhausted by harsh living conditions, and seeking a brighter future, he decided to leave. “I wanted to make my mother proud.” He first moved to Egypt and applied for a master's degree in psychology at a Cairo university—an opportunity he couldn’t afford.
Obtaining residency was a nightmare, and paperwork was a challenge. Palestinians in Egypt and the wider Arab region often face bureaucratic hurdles, suspicion, and difficulty securing basic rights, despite Egypt’s public support for Palestinian statehood. His stay lasted six months, during which he worked as a translator while studying. He then traveled to Turkey, enrolling in a language school. “But Turkey was even worse than Egypt.” Securing a work permit was difficult, especially as Turkey faced an economic crisis.
In 20 days, he attempted to cross to Greece from Izmir by boat six times, but he was intercepted by coastguards. On his seventh attempt, the boat’s engine failed in international waters, and a rescue organization saved them, bringing him to Lesbos Island.
“I was not scared; I saw it more as an adventure. The reality of the political and economic situation in Gaza made us fearless and unworried about anything. Even if I die, I’d die trying to achieve a part of my ambition, so it’s okay to die.”
“Unfortunately, we Palestinians inherit asylum from generation to generation,” he said. His grandfather was displaced from Ashkelon in 1948 and moved to Gaza. His father moved to Yemen, where Youssef was born and stayed until he was five years old, but returned to Gaza when his father died. He arrived in Greece in March 2016 and was detained at a migrant center, where food was scarce and poor in quality. Despite instructions from smugglers not to carry documents, he kept his Palestinian identity card, a phone, and some money, which helped him obtain a temporary six-month residence permit in Greece.
He moved to Athens, but he wanted to study translation at Dublin University, which offers many scholarships, he said. To travel, he arranged with a Syrian smuggler to use a British passport that belonged to someone who looked like him. But he was caught at Athens airport. He tried again and paid €2,500 for a French passport belonging to a man who looked more like him. This time it worked, and he managed to smoothly leave Greece and enter France.
On May 10, 2016, he arrived in Brussels by car, where his older brother lives. He applied for asylum there and, while awaiting processing, volunteered at several news outlets and studied Flemish. He obtained residency after 18 months. He then moved to Bruges and stayed in social housing for six months.
In February 2018, he settled in Torhout, a city in West Flanders.
He was in love with a Palestinian woman whom he met in Gaza a long time ago. After arriving in Belgium, he asked his parents in Gaza to go meet her parents and ask for her hand, “and they agreed.”
He tried to bring her to Belgium through a family reunification visa, but it was rejected.
He later asked a friend, a mayor in a Paris suburb, to send her an invitation, enabling her to apply for a visa. She had worked as a banker in Gaza, which helped her visa application. She arrived in Belgium in late 2018, applied for asylum, and received residency in five months.
By 2019, his life began to stabilize. He studied Flemish, volunteered with the Red Cross in Flanders, and worked in elderly care and migrant centers. Taking any job available, he eventually became a supervisor at a textile factory. He also works as a waiter on weekends and does freelance translation at police stations and migrant centers.
His wife, Minas, is working as an accountant in a nearby village. They have a five-year-old daughter, Ellia.
He faced many challenges, including securing his daughter’s citizenship, which he obtained after media pressure.
“Ten years on, because of the uncertainty and wars in my country, I feel a responsibility to prioritize my family over personal desires,” he said. “Instead of buying a house, I help my family. Instead of pursuing my personal ambitions, I focus on their needs. That’s the social norm we follow.”
“I feel I partially belong here after nearly a decade,” he added. “Despite the general support for Israel in Europe, I’ve built relationships and integrated into my community. I feel connected to this place and its people.”
He is ambitious: he ran in local elections and finished in third place.
He still dreams of pursuing a PhD and becoming an academic, but he’s waiting for the right time.
He dreams of visiting Gaza to see his family. Their conditions are dire. “They’re tired of counting how many times they’ve been displaced since the war began,” he said. His grandmother, who was 98, died when his family was escaping bombardment. "She couldn't handle it; she was too old."
His cousin was killed, one of his nephews was injured, and his home was destroyed.
“They are waiting for their terrible fate, hoping to die by shrapnel rather than being torn apart and their body parts scattered everywhere, like many Palestinians in this war," he said referring to his family.”
