In Limbo: The Cost of Studying Abroad with Family
- Aysha Imtiaz
- 4 days ago
- 6 min read
When home is temporary and belonging conditional, even the smallest decisions become acts of hope or self-protection.
There are two types of winter coats. One is light on the pocket but good for a fast-fashion spin. Then there’s the down-filled workhorse, puffed with promise and designed to last year after year. Standing in the ‘Winter Essentials’ aisle, I stared at both and bought neither.
I wasn’t sure I was staying long enough to need either kind of warmth.
I am Aysha, a curriculum developer, freelance journalist, and early career researcher who grew up all over the world before settling and getting married in Karachi, Pakistan. During my 10 years of working in education as an English teacher, I fell in love with writing stories and assumed that with a degree, I’d be able to do more of the work I enjoyed and do it at scale. That hope is what brought me to London to pursue a Master’s in Journalism two years ago.
But the move itself came with the naiveté of children jumping off monkey bars, convinced that they would fly simply because they haven’t yet tasted failure. I’d been on the fence for months, but the final push came on May 9, 2023, when Pakistan’s former Prime Minister Imran Khan was arrested and violence tore through my city.
Our house, perched on one of Karachi’s major arteries, Shahra-e-Faisal, filled with thick tear gas. I saw my 6-year-old daughter blinking furiously, trying to make sense of a world that suddenly burned. In that moment, I felt two things—guilt (as my own childhood had been spent in the blissful California college town of UCDavis, with no tear gas in sight) and longing. I wanted her to trust me.
Scrambling to capitalise on patchy internet through the riots, I sent a rushed application for my MA programme. Things moved swiftly. Within half an hour, I had interest. In a week, I had an offer. And by October 22 (delayed by a whirlwind of visa processing), five weeks into my course and aided greatly by my employers, we were finally in London: my husband, myself, my now 10-year-old twin sons and my daughter.
Two years later though, the ground beneath us still feels shaky. We still haven’t arrived. I’m used to telling other people’s stories. Once, a sitar-maker I profiled from the lush valleys of Maharashtra told me, “In telling our story, you strung your words together like pearls. You made all of us feel seen.”
It’s different though, when it’s my own story — less pearls, more splinters. Harder to hold, harder to tell…but still, it’s ours.
The Fine Print of Belonging
I began my course in a landscape rife with headlines of reducing net migration numbers. It seemed international students — and their dependents — were suddenly framed as part of the record immigration numbers defined as a 'slap in the face' by politicians. I wondered if the five of us were tipping the scale, and though the dependent ban came into effect after we arrived, the rhetoric left a lingering aftertaste.
This was despite the eloquently argued view that, in many ways, students are 'the ideal migrant'. International healthcare surcharges, paid before one steps foot outside their home country, more than cover any burden on the NHS, and students contribute to diversified economic benefits.
International students often go to inordinate lengths to pursue a world-class education. Contrary to popular belief, we are not all scammers trying to overstay our visas. And, as I said for Al Jazeera last year, our dependents are not ‘our grandmas’ joining us for a joyride.
Before leaving from Pakistan, my professor told me, “There will be days you feel it would be easier to study without your family. But remember, they are your biggest support system.”
My children and husband have attended mayoral town hall meetings with me, flown to dusty Karachi archives last August for my dissertation, drawn comics to motivate Mama when a deadline looms, and been the bedrock of my education in every possible way. They are, I maintain, the best co-authors.
Perils of the Graduate Visa
Later, talk of the graduate visa being reduced led to multiple sleepless nights. Yet even without new restrictions, the Graduate Visa is a zero-sum game, especially in combination with higher salary thresholds for the skilled worker visa pathway.
To be clear, I am not searching for employment elsewhere, but even a fleeting glance at job ads will tell you, sometimes subtly, at times outright: ‘Graduate visa holders need not apply’. Employers simply don’t see a worker with an expiration date as worth the training investment.
And yet, it feels contradictory: why does a country that teaches you to understand and challenge its power structures also make it so hard to stay and put that knowledge to use?
I write this now for the benefit of other international students, not to discourage them, but to help them brace for a volatile policy landscape. Because the sad truth is, sometimes you can do everything right — I graduated with distinction, was selected to present my dissertation at Northwestern, Qatar, and grew my already robust portfolio of bylines to glowing praise — and still not feel welcome.
An Inventory of Impermanence
Pandemic studies have shown that uncertainties around visa security and family separation can fuel depression and post-traumatic stress symptoms. Other research shows that people on more stable, long-term visas tend to fare better. Their mental health and social functioning improve when life isn’t lived on a countdown clock.
But I argue a slow unravelling takes a far more insidious toll. Living in limbo heightens my vigilance. The tension settles not just in my news feed, but in my shoulders.
I went to 17 schools across three continents growing up, which means I carry a catalogue of almost-homes. My father moved us from California to Canada in 2005. In some ways, I envy how he had the clear push of Islamophobia in 9/11’s grisly aftermath to fuel the move. For us, it’s far more subtle, felt in the subtext of policy.
While I fully understand the logic behind these policies, the underlying sentiment hits hard. For us, this is not just abstract legislation — it has the power to shape my family’s future, our stability, and our sense of belonging.
Living in uncertainty erodes mental health. Arbitrary as it might seem, I only purchase items small enough to fit into hand luggage. Buy only what you can carry, I tell myself. These tiny anchors are souvenirs from an ongoing maybe.
I’ve become hyper-fixated on my own mental and physical health — “Wherever I end up, at least I’ll have my body,” I rationalise. Controlling the day-to-day gives me a fragile sense of stability in uncertain waters.
But what if I didn’t want to be tumbleweed forever?
What if, this time, I wanted to grow roots?
Straddling Two Worlds
Today, when I see my daughter marvel at the ease of leaving our house to walk in light, smog-free air, I don’t know whether to smile or cry.
How do you teach your children to enjoy their life in London — but not too much, in case we leave? Love fiercely, I whisper, but don’t hold on too tight.
Sometimes I wonder if it was the wrong decision, echoing the age-old question of whether it is better to have loved and lost or never loved at all. Is it better to have lived a tear-gas free existence for three years, or never known another reality?
There might be other pathways. My husband’s job in the healthcare administration sector offers a work permit building towards leave to remain. Recently, though, the proposed period has increased from five years to ten.
Once again, it’s jarring how policy updates can so callously flip our lives upside down. Double the birthdays, double the summers, double the winters without knowing if it will be our last.
Honestly, I’m not sure we’ll take it.
10 years seems like a long time to go without a coat.
This article has been sponsored by the Psychiatry Research Trust, who are dedicated to supporting young scientists in their groundbreaking research efforts within the field of mental health. If you wish to support their work, please consider donating.