By Zohra Bensemra, Edward McAllister, Amina Ismail and Riham Alkousaa
(Reuters) -Ten years ago, one million migrants poured into Europe, fleeing conflict and poverty. Many had travelled for years in search of peace, prosperity or stability, and went on to find it in countries like Italy, Germany and Belgium.
But the journey to truly belong continues. A decade on, after receiving asylum, finding work, 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, but also the nightmare of child abuse in Afghanistan. Meanwhile, their presence has altered communities across the continent. They are part of a new, transformed Europe.
NAZIRU USMAN ABUBAKAR
When Naziru Usman Abubakar fled the city of Maiduguri in northern Nigeria in 2014 after violence by Boko Haram insurgents, he took his school certificate with him. Securing a higher education was vital to him and he wanted proof that he had attended school.
The document got wet as he travelled on an overcrowded migrant boat from Libya to Italy in April 2016 and still bore the water stain when he used it to apply for a scholarship at Turin University years later.
"That water mark 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 moved into his own place, started to learn the language, worked as a plumber and as a dishwasher at a restaurant. But after paying rent and bills, he was penniless and lonely.
He missed Nigeria, where he used to race his friends to school on bikes and sought the cool air of the forests on hot days. He missed his mother, who had always encouraged his learning.
"The dream of education fell away," he said. "I thought my life was wasted. I lost the meaning of everything."
But things changed, eventually. He saw an advert online about scholarships and won one to study law at Turin University. He graduated in 2024.
Europe had provided, but it was not easy. He described repeated incidents of racism, including being stopped by security on his first day at university and asked why he was entering campus. Today, Abubakar works at a migrant centre, helping others with asylum applications. He hopes to apply for Italian citizenship in 2026.
"I was able to attend school and had some opportunities. I can say that Italy has treated me well," he said.
But for other migrants, he adds, Italy can be one of the most difficult places to live.
EHAB MZEAL
When Ehab Mzeal and his wife Aber Alabed arrived in Germany in 2015, the relief was overwhelming.
Their journey from Deir el-Zor in Syria, where they faced threats from both Islamic State and government forces, through Turkey and the Balkans, had taken months. They suffered 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," Mzeal, 41, said.
That dream soon faded. Adapting to a new language and culture, without friends, was difficult. Mzeal, a former state employee, became depressed, but wanted to integrate for the sake of his children, Yasmeen, 16 and Haneen, 13. What helped lift his depression was the birth of his third daughter, Seleen, now eight. A son followed, two-year-old Yussef.
Ten years on, the family lives in the northern German town of Luebeck. He works as a nurse in a care home.
Life is simple. Sharing meals feels like a sanctuary. Mzeal is grateful for the shelter Germany gave his family - it is all his children know.
"I like Germany for one reason: it stood by us," he said.
He has never escaped the pull of home, but says he cannot return, even though Syria's former President Bashar al-Assad has fled. He still does not have German citizenship, which prevents him visiting Syria, and he worries about being deported.
"We live in a tornado — unable to visit our country or truly settle here," he said.
In between worlds, he is left with images: the people, the land, the trees of home.
A canal that runs through Luebeck reminds him of a river in Deir el-Zor. He drives across it every day.
"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.
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, and without valid residency in her adopted home.
She arrived in Germany in 2016 with her then eight-year-old daughter. She had fled Afghanistan in 2001 after being forced into marriage at the age of 11 and giving birth at 14, later escaping to Iran and Turkey.
German asylum authorities did not grant her full refugee status. Instead, she was given a temporary protection permit that needs annual renewal.
Initially, things went well. Feyzi studied media design in Cologne. She worked as an assistant theatre director.
However, a few months later, child welfare authorities removed her daughter from her custody due to concerns over her housing situation and she remained in state care. Today they see each other but do not live together.
Last year, Feyzi's renewal application received no response, leaving her without a work permit or state support. A Cologne city spokesperson declined to comment in detail on her case but said the permit could be renewed if the application was fully completed.
Feyzi 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. 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.
Feyzi tries to keep strong, but tears well up whenever she recalls her past. She is writing a book, inspired by the lives of Afghan women over generations.
She survives on a little savings and some freelance photography work. Despite the hardship she faced, Feyzi said she is "completely happy."
She hopes her residency issues will be resolved. "This is my country now. I fought for 30 years to be here."
YOUSSEF HAMMAD
Palestinian Youssef Hammad, 35, was born in Yemen but moved to Gaza aged five. He left the enclave in December 2014, shortly after Israel ended its then military operation.
He had worked as a journalist and translator in Gaza after earning a degree in 2012. But exhausted by war and seeking a brighter future, he decided to leave.
He first travelled to Egypt, then to Turkey, from where he sought to reach Greece by boat.
He attempted to cross from the Turkish city of Izmir six times within 20 days, but was intercepted by coastguards. On his seventh attempt, the boat's engine failed in international waters, and a rescue organization took him to the Greek island of Lesbos.
"I was not scared; I saw it more as an adventure. The reality of the political and economic situation in Gaza made us fearless... Even if I die, I'd die trying to achieve a part of my ambition, so it's okay to die," he recalled.
On arrival in Greece in 2016, he was detained at a migrant centre. He had a phone, some money and his Palestinian identity card which helped him obtain a six-month residence permit.
He moved to Athens. An initial plan to study at Dublin University failed after he tried to travel with a British passport provided by a Syrian smuggler, but was caught at Athens airport. He then paid 2,500 euros ($2,890) for a French passport, with which he was able to enter France.
In 2016, Hammad went to the Belgian capital Brussels, where his older brother lives. He applied for asylum, did voluntary work and learned Flemish.
He obtained residency after 18 months. In February 2018, he settled in the city of Torhout.
Over the years, he had remained in love with a Palestinian woman, Minas, who he had met in Gaza. He asked his family to meet her parents and ask for her hand. They agreed.
He tried unsuccessfully to bring her to Belgium through a family reunification visa. He then asked a friend in France to send her an invitation, enabling her to apply for a visa. She arrived in Belgium in late 2018, applied for asylum, and later received residency.
Hammad eventually became a supervisor at a textile factory, but also works as a waiter at weekends and translates at police stations and migrant centers.
His wife works as an accountant and they have a five-year-old daughter, Ellia.
"I feel I partially belong here after nearly a decade," he said.
He is ambitious: he ran in local elections and finished third. He still dreams of further study and becoming an academic.
But he also dreams of visiting Gaza to see his family. Their conditions are dire. His grandmother, who was 98, died when his family was escaping bombardment. His cousin was killed, one of his nephews was injured, and his home was destroyed.
"Gaza, for me, is the homeland I don't wish for, but it is still my homeland... We live here, but our minds are in Gaza, and all our feelings are in Gaza. Pain comes to us from Gaza."
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(Editing by Alexandra Hudson)
