Today marked an important milestone in our journey of building a life in the UK—my wife took her Life in the UK Test, and she passed.
For those unfamiliar with it, the test is a requirement for people who wish to settle permanently in the UK. It includes questions about British history, traditions, law, government, and daily life—many of which even British citizens might struggle to answer. It’s a symbolic rite of passage, and a bureaucratic one too. But for immigrants, it’s not just a quiz. It’s a checkpoint after years of emotional, financial, and logistical effort.
My wife had been studying diligently for the past week. Every evening, I saw her going through practice questions and guides, sometimes smiling when she got things right, other times pausing in frustration when she got them wrong. She took it seriously, like everything else she does. And I felt proud even before she stepped into the test centre.
We went together to the city centre. She walked in with her ID and documents. I waited in the reception area with my laptop, trying to focus on work—but honestly, I couldn’t. I watched people come and go, wondered how many of them were going through the same process. It’s easy to forget, when you’re deep in the middle of immigration procedures, just how many people around you are also holding their breath, just trying to make a life.
The Moment of Joy
When she came out, her face said it all. She passed.
We smiled at each other in a way only people who've shared the weight of this journey can. It was a small victory on paper—but it represented years of effort, sacrifice, and patience. It was our final step before we apply for Indefinite Leave to Remain—the UK’s version of permanent residency.
To celebrate, we went to a nearby coffee shop. The sun was out, and we sat by the window. I handed her a gift: a pair of Gucci sunglasses. Something she had her eye on for a while, but never got around to buying. This wasn’t just a celebration of her passing the test—it was a celebration of everything we had been through to get to this point.
She was happy. Genuinely happy. And so was I. We sipped our coffee in that rare kind of silence where both people feel completely seen and understood.
But Then Came the Questions
On the way back home, we naturally started talking about the next steps—how long the settlement process might take, what documents we’d need, and whether there would be another set of surprises along the way.
And then, the weight of the whole system started creeping back in. The joy of the moment had momentarily pushed it away, but as we returned to logistics and uncertainty, it came back.
Later that evening, my mom called from India to congratulate my wife. During the call, she casually mentioned that my uncle and aunt were travelling to another city for their visa interview—they’re applying for a US tourist visa. I knew what that meant: another round of application forms, appointments, document verifications, visa fees, waiting, hoping.
And that’s when the familiar pain came back. A quiet ache that most people who carry a "weak passport" understand all too well.
The Invisible Burden of a Weak Passport
There is an invisible kind of discrimination that follows us around the world—not based on who we are, what we do, or how we live, but based entirely on the country we were born in.
And it’s so unfair.
I’ve always wondered why mobility around the world isn't based on things like your financial standing, your education, your travel history, your respect for rules and systems. Why is citizenship the only thing that matters?
Why can’t they see us—the individuals? Why are we grouped and judged by the actions of strangers we've never met?
My friends and family are some of the most kind-hearted, honest, responsible people you’ll ever meet. We integrate wherever we go. We respect the rules. We contribute to society. We work hard. We pay taxes. We never overstay, never take shortcuts, never game the system.
And yet, the burden of mistrust falls on us.
We pay hundreds, sometimes thousands of pounds, just to apply for the right to visit or stay. We have to prove ourselves—again and again and again—just to enter countries where others with different passports can stroll in without a second thought.
The system doesn’t see the person. It sees the passport.
And when that passport ranks low on the global mobility index, you are assumed guilty until proven innocent.
When Celebration and Sadness Coexist
Today, we were happy. My wife passed her test, and that’s something to celebrate. We’re one step closer to calling this country our long-term home.
But there’s a quiet sadness in the background. Because even now, we know this is not the end of the road. There are more forms to fill, more fees to pay, more silent judgments to face. And even after we’ve done it all—there are still countries we’ll struggle to enter, just because of where we were born.
People often talk about privilege in terms of money or education. But there's another kind of privilege—mobility. The ability to travel freely. To explore without fear. To move without paperwork and suspicion. And that privilege is not equally distributed.
A Final Thought
I’m not bitter—I’m just tired. Tired of being seen as a risk instead of a person. Tired of watching loved ones jump through hoops just to visit a new place. Tired of a system that values citizenship over character.
I still believe in fairness. I still believe that people can build bridges instead of walls. But I also believe we need to start telling these stories. Because only when people understand the human cost of immigration policy, can we begin to reimagine it.
So today, I’m choosing to share mine.