What is it like to grow up in an Afghan village with no water or electricity, then to find yourself alone in London at 18, not speaking a word of English? How does it feel to have to wait for life to begin because you can’t get a driving licence, go to university or find a job until you get your papers?

Thousands of teenagers arrive in the UK every year seeking asylum, some with family members, many on their own. Many have missed out on an education and are scarred by war and having to flee their home countries. In the UK, they must navigate complex systems to get the support they need. Yet these are also young people with talent, pride, aspirations and dreams.

Through images and interviews, the photographer Caroline Irby and I have recorded the journeys of a series of refugees and asylum seekers who arrived in the UK as minors and are now coming of age. These young people are from Syria, Ivory Coast, Iran, Afghanistan, Nigeria, Ukraine and Pakistan. They talk about the lives they left behind and their new lives here – not only the hurdles and challenges they face, but also their hopes for the future. We decided to photograph each of them in the context of their dream jobs.

The portraits and interviews are part of an exhibition, Claiming a New Place on Earth, which was commissioned and curated by Breaking Barriers, a charity that helps refugees find meaningful employment here. This is our second collaboration with Breaking Barriers; last year, an exhibition portrayed refugees in the place where they first felt free or safe in the UK.

Caroline and I have worked together on a number of humanitarian stories overseas, particularly in Africa and Asia, and in the UK. We wanted to meet young refugees who have settled here, to learn what propels them to travel so far and hear about their efforts to make new lives. At a time when immigration is such a vexed issue, we wanted to let young refugees tell their stories in their own words.

Claiming a New Place on Earth is at Protein Studios, London EC2A; 10-15 October.

Sheun Odebiyi, 21, from Nigeria (main image, above)

Dream job: aeronautical engineer

When I was six, my parents left me and my one-year-old brother with relatives in Ibadan, and went to England. I was miserable. At school, if you didn’t understand, you got hit. I was always at the bottom of the class.

My mum came back to take us to London when I was 10. My dad had left, so she was on her own, so the three of us shared a small studio in Croydon. She used to work as a carer, but when her visa expired, she had to do jobs no one else wanted. She wanted us to have a better future: that’s why she risked prison for overstaying.

At primary school, I was surprised because everyone was kind and I did well. After primary school, we decided to try living in Scotland. I went to secondary school in Glasgow and it was the first time I experienced racism. I was the only black kid. I was bigger than anyone else and people made fun of my hair and many other things. My mother worked in a care home, but one day she heard that someone had called in the immigration services, so we left that day with just the clothes on our backs.

Back in Croydon, I started Year 8 in Peckham. There were lots of gangs there. I got involved just to fit in – and got into trouble. My mum couldn’t find a job, so she cleaned people’s houses. I had holes in my shoes. We could barely afford to eat. Even now, we share a room in a three-bedroom house with two other families. I sleep on the floor, my little brother in a cot and my mum in the bed. I never had any space of my own. It’s hard because I have a girlfriend.

I left the gangs when I left secondary school. I went to Kingston College to study electrical engineering and passed. In the second year, I studied aeronautical engineering and did well. I’ve always been fascinated by aeroplanes. The next step was a two-year paid apprenticeship with British Airways, but without my papers, I couldn’t go. I already had my uniform. I was torn apart. Finally, I had found something I was passionate about and it was taken from me.

I became very depressed. I stayed at home and wouldn’t go out for days. I didn’t have many friends and I had no confidence. But I got into bodybuilding and that helped. At the gym, you push your limits, you need willpower and you can apply that to other things.

Then five months ago, we got our leave to remain status (we have to re-apply in two and a half years, then twice more). I want to have a job and pay tax, so I can help my mother and contribute to society. But new challenges kept appearing. BA said I could go on the apprenticeship, but needed to get a driving licence first, and I can’t afford the lessons. Also, we need to find a new home because our landlord wants us out.

But next week, I am starting as a catering assistant at Ikea, a job I got through Breaking Barriers. I’m finally on my way up. I still want to work for BA, but in the meantime, I am gaining experience with a reputable business. I still have a long journey ahead of me, but I’m hoping that the hardest part is over.

Maheen Habib Gill, 19, from Pakistan

Dream job: accountant

Maheen Habib Gill: ‘When I started school I couldn’t communicate. Language wasn’t the problem – it was self-esteem.’ Photograph: Caroline Irby

I grew up in the Punjab region of Pakistan with my mum, dad and two younger brothers. My mum was a doctor and my dad a forest officer. It was a very good life with lots of cousins, friends, bike rides and going to school. Then someone tried to kill my father (his left side is now paralysed). Our lives were at risk. We didn’t want to leave our country, but we had no choice. I was 16.

We arrived in Newcastle and applied for asylum. After two months we were sent to Cardiff, then to Newport. We had no idea where it was. We were given a small house up a hill in Newport and went to Poundshop to buy everything we needed. When you move to a new country, you don’t know anything about life there but you just have to adapt.

When I started school I couldn’t communicate at first. We had been in an English school in Pakistan, so it wasn’t language that was the problem – it was self-esteem. I had very low self-esteem because I was an asylum seeker. Even now, I don’t like people to know. It’s something personal and private and only my very good friends know. A year ago, in assembly, our teacher mentioned asylum seekers and asked what they were, and no one knew. I’ve created a group with three friends who are also asylum seekers: we go around universities, explaining what an asylum seeker is and why they need financial help.

I was hoping to go to uni this year to study business and accounting, but I would have had to pay £25,000 in tuition fees per year as an international student. So I am going to college (which is free for asylum seekers). I’ve done business administration this year and will take accounting next year. I want to be an accountant. I did work experience in an accounting firm and thought that it was something I’d be good at.

As an asylum seeker, I’m not allowed to work. My parents cannot work either, but we receive £36 a week each from the Home Office. If my friends are going out, I have to think over and over, “Do I have enough money to go out with them?”

We have no idea when we’ll get our refugee status. Being an asylum seeker means waiting, always waiting. We’ve been waiting for four years now. It stops you achieving as much as you could: I would be driving by now, I would be working, I would be going to uni. What has helped me is going to college and working in a charity shop on Saturdays, having friends and having something to do.

Madina Bamba, 19, from Ivory Coast

Dream job: nurse

Madina Bamba: ‘The most painful thing is people thinking that I don’t want to work.’ Photograph: Caroline Irby

I lived in Abidjan with my dad, my sister and my little brother. My mother left when I was very young, but we had a normal childhood, going to school and all. Then, when I was 12 and my sister 14, my dad took us to London to escape female circumcision. We stayed with one of his friends in Croydon and went to the mosque. After prayers one day we didn’t see him at the door. We sat there and waited. After many hours, a lady approached us, but we spoke only French. She took us to her home and the next day to the police, then to the Home Office, where we were told to apply for asylum.

I was in shock. I couldn’t understand why our father had left us. I cried every night. We went in to foster care. The lady was very strict and it didn’t work, so I was separated from my sister and put with an emergency family, then in a children’s home. I was 13, the only girl there. It was violent, very intimidating. No one looked after me, but a boy there taught me to speak English. Three months later, I started year eight in a girls’ school in Croydon. I was bullied at first because of my accent and because my name is “Bamba”, but eventually I made friends.

I stayed for six months in the children’s home, then went to live with my sister with another foster family. The lady was very caring, cooked for us and made us feel comfortable. She was like a mother to me. It was the only time I was happy. But she got other children and we had to leave. We stayed with different foster families and my sister and I grew apart. At 16, I moved to a semi-independent place with three other girls.

At 18, I got moved to a hostel with two boys, then I got pregnant and was given this basement flat. Mark, my baby, is now 13 months old. I get along with his father, but he is French and lives in France most of the time. My son is French, but I have no status. I was considered an unaccompanied minor, but at 18 was supposed to apply for an extension. I didn’t receive the letter, so my status expired. I tried to get a solicitor, but I have no money. I receive £45 a week from the Home Office and my son £20, but I cannot work.

My baby makes me stronger because he needs to have a future, but my life would have been better if I had stayed in Africa. I wouldn’t have suffered that much. I am confused and unhappy most of the time. I stopped going to school after I had my baby. Now I just stay at home, alone, doing nothing. I have no money, no friends and no one to turn to. The most painful thing is not working and having people think that I don’t want to work, that I just want to sit here and take benefits.

But Young Roots (a charity for young refugees) has helped me enrol in a sixth-form college in Croydon to study for an extended diploma in social care. They have childcare, so I will start soon. Then I’ll feel a sense of accomplishment in my life. My dream job is to be a nurse because I enjoy people and caring for them and listening to them.

Ammar Alsaker, 22, from Syria

Dream job: visual merchandiser

Ammar Alsaker: ‘I’ve learned to appreciate everything: my mattress, my pillow, my food.’ Photograph: Caroline Irby

My life was more than perfect, but I didn’t know it until I had lost it. My dad had a tailoring factory in Damascus and we had everything we needed. I was studying accountancy at university and working as a visual merchandiser.

Then the war broke out. We lived in a government-controlled area; there was kidnapping and bullying at checkpoints, so in 2015, my mother made me leave. My dad drove me to Lebanon and from there I flew to Turkey, then paid a smuggler to take me to Greece. When I arrived in Idomeni, a small village in Greece, the border with Macedonia had just been closed. There were 15,000 people there desperate to cross, all shouting and pushing.

After a week, I realised the border was not going to re-open. I didn’t know what to do with myself, but thought: “Man up. You can do this.” Then one day, as I was standing in the food queue a journalist asked if anyone knew English. I’d picked up English through movies, so stepped forward. I became a translator and, because I am good at dealing with people and knew the refugees, a fixer too. She introduced me to Time magazine, which gave me my first paid job. This led to more work for other media, including This American Life and Channel 4.

I saved up enough money to pay a smuggler to get me to London. London was my dream because it’s the heart of the fashion industry. In my rucksack, I had my laptop, my phone, some clothes and my hairdryer and wax – I wanted to be ready for London. I was forced to be a refugee, but wanted to express my true identity.

A year after I left home, I arrived not in London, but in Glasgow. That year completely changed me. I’ve become more mature and appreciate the value of everything: my mattress, my pillow, my food. I learned who to trust and not trust and how to make money.

I applied for asylum in Glasgow but after two months, the Home Office transferred me to London. Now I’m settled in a hostel in Canning Town and I can start to focus on my goals. I want to be a visual merchandiser. I like to think how to attract customers into a store. It’s total creativity. I built my portfolio to apply to university, selecting pictures and doing sketches, working every minute of the day.

I was accepted at five universities and chose London College of Fashion because of its reputation. It is a big decision because I’ll have to pay about £60,000 over three years, including tuition and living fees, so I’ll try to work as a visual merchandiser while studying. My long-term aim is to be head of visual merchandising at Zara, then train other young people who are motivated, but don’t have many opportunities. I want to stay in London. London is the place to achieve what you are aiming for. This is where I belong.

Perveiz Wafa, 21, from Afghanistan

Dream job: car mechanic with my own garage

Perveiz Wafa: ‘The Taliban killed my father. When they came back for me, my uncle said I had to leave.’ Photograph: Caroline Irby

I grew up in Afghanistan in a small village north of Kabul. It is a very poor village: no running water, no gas, no electricity. Like everyone else there, my family grew vegetables and raised cows. I also cut trees to make fire and for cooking.

When I was small, the Taliban took my father away and after a year they killed him. My mother died of sadness. I was so young then I don’t even remember their faces. My uncle looked after me and my brother. Later, the Taliban came back for me, so my uncle said I had to leave. My brother had already left for the UK nine years earlier but we hadn’t been in touch with him because we had no internet and no phones in our village.

My uncle found an agent to bring me to the UK. I was 18. I sold my father’s house and took with me my ID card and $300 my uncle gave me. I didn’t take anything else because I had nothing else. The journey took six months by car, foot and lorry. It was long and difficult, but I wanted to get out.

The lorry dropped me in front of a Pakistani shop near Croydon. I speak a bit of Urdu, so I said: “I am new here. What do I do?” They called someone who took me to the Home Office where I applied for asylum. I asked the Home Office to help me find my brother – they couldn’t help me, but they gave me a place in a hostel in Croydon. I asked everyone if they knew my brother, then one day at the mosque the Imam told me he’d found him. When my brother came to my hostel, we hardly knew each other’s faces, we had both changed a lot, but I was so happy.

We now share his room in a house in Croydon with many people. I didn’t even know how to say “Hi” in English but my brother taught me. He also taught me about roads and zebra crossings and how to cook, and he took me to register at the GP to look at my leg. I had an accident in Afghanistan, then in France I had to jump from a lorry and injured my leg again. It’s better now, but I still can’t walk much on it.

Through my brother’s friends, I got a care worker from the South London Refugee Association (SLRA). She is so nice. She helped me apply to college to study Esol [English for speakers of other languages] and to find a solicitor. If I have a problem, I can call her. She and my brother and his friends are my family now.

I applied for asylum two-and-a-half years ago, but I am still waiting for an answer. I don’t know what will happen. I receive £36 a week and study at college three days a week, but I cannot work.

My brother works as a delivery person but he has damaged his back and hasn’t been able to work for a month. I worry because I want to help him and I can’t.

I’d like to be a mechanic, I’m good with my hands, but I need my papers to be able to work, even to train. And I need to improve my English. In Afghanistan I didn’t go to school. My uncle taught me to read and write some basic Pashto, but that’s all. One day, I hope to have my own garage.

(Interviews translated by Hadi Alame)

