By Liam Taylor / ANW , Paris, November 18, 2025
Afran huddles on a cracked Paris sidewalk, dwarfed by looming concrete slabs and the relentless roar of overhead trains.
The Iranian asylum seeker, whose real name is withheld for safety, stares blankly at the shelter across the street—a temporary haven that’s become a prison of fear.
Seven weeks ago, he was here, freshly deported from the UK under the controversial “one in, one out” immigration deal with France.
Now, on November 5, he’s back, the cycle of rejection grinding him down like a millstone.
“It’s France, UK, France, UK—none of it is my choice,” Afran says, his voice barely rising above the din. “I crossed to the UK twice because I had no other way out.
Smugglers in northern France beat me and threatened my life before my first Channel crossing on August 6.
When the Home Office sent me back, I knew they were still hunting me. Every step outside this shelter feels like a gamble with my life.”
Afran’s plight is no isolated horror story. He’s joined by three other recent returnees from the UK, including the scheme’s first female deportee, in a cramped café near a chaotic roundabout.
Their tales—of violence, betrayal, and bureaucratic cruelty—expose the raw human cost of a policy sold as deterrence but delivering only despair.
As the UK government rolls out even tougher measures to curb small-boat crossings, these survivors warn that survival instincts will always trump border controls.
Launched in September 2025 amid post-election pledges to “stop the boats,” the “one in, one out” agreement allows the UK to return Channel crossers to France in exchange for accepting a limited quota of vetted asylum seekers. So far, it’s a dismal ledger: 113 returns to France against just 84 arrivals to the UK.
Critics on the right decry it as toothless—Friday alone saw 217 people brave the treacherous waters, more than the total returns to date.
Human rights advocates, meanwhile, brand it punitive and capricious, arbitrarily deciding fates without due process.
The group’s makeshift camp is the second stop in France’s patchwork reception system: a brief hotel stay, then this marquee-like shelter with its rows of sagging single beds, before dispersal to scattered temporary housing.
For many, the endgame is invocation of Dublin Regulation rules, shuttling them to the first EU country where they were fingerprinted.
But building a life here? “It’s a dream that evaporates,” says the Eritrean woman, her hands trembling as she clutches a worn diary chronicling her odyssey.
Persecuted for her Christian faith in Eritrea, she fled through Africa’s perilous migrant routes—Libya’s torture camps, Europe’s shadowed borders—seeking her brother in the UK.
“I thought Britain would be my sanctuary,” she recounts, eyes downcast. “Instead, they caged me in a detention center.
It stripped my strength. I’m not begging for citizenship—just safety, family.” Even UK guards, she says, were stunned by her removal: “They whispered, ‘This is wrong.'”
Beside her, three men from Iran, Syria, and a former Soviet republic nod in grim solidarity, clad in mismatched donated tracksuits ill-suited to Paris’s biting November chill.
Laughter erupts sporadically—manic, hollow—punctuated by sobs. “We’ve been passed like a political football,” mutters the Syrian, who fled Assad’s regime in 2018.
“Smugglers hand us off, and we land in another jail. I saw four suicide attempts in UK detention. All I want is to stop running.”
The Eritrean man, the second returnee overall, echoes the dread. Detained twice, he describes his first UK removal as a descent into chaos. After charity medical aid in Paris for lingering injuries—trafficking scars from Libya—he returned late to his shelter, gates barred.
Sleeping rough, he was set upon by two assailants. “I was in shock,” he says. “I called home; they scraped together money for smugglers. France failed me that night—October 23. If they’d let me in, I’d still believe in protection here.”
Guardian-obtained documents corroborate his trauma: a UK detention doctor deemed his account “consistent with torture.” Yet the Home Office expedited his deportation, bypassing deeper scrutiny.
Lochlinn Parker, acting director of Detention Action, condemns the rush: “In their zeal to offload asylum seekers, officials deny them a voice, inflicting prison-like ordeals on the vulnerable—trafficking survivors, torture victims. Physical force awaits those who resist.”
Medical Justice’s survey of 33 detainees underscores the toll: 20 underwent expert assessments, revealing 17 torture survivors, 14 trafficking cases, and 15 with PTSD. “Deterrence theory crumbles against survival’s brutal math,” Parker adds
. “These aren’t statistics; they’re shattered lives.”
Across the Channel, the UK doubles down. Prime Minister Keir Starmer’s administration, facing backlash over record crossings, unveiled “draconian” reforms last week: expanded detention powers, faster removals, and tech-driven border surveillance.
But returnees like Afran see only futility. “I know the UK center’s routines now,” he quips bitterly, pushing uneaten fish fingers around his plate.
“I’ll be back for Christmas.” Tears follow, then resolve: Within days, French officials will train him to yet another outpost, scattering the group like chaff.
Afran buries his head in his hands. “In Iran, I was safe enough to stay—with family, a life. Now? My mind’s fractured. The Home Office doesn’t serve humans; it destroys them.
There’s no safe place left.” His companions murmur agreement, the café’s hum fading into their shared silence.
As winter grips the Continent, the “one in, one out” churns on—a grim carousel of hope deferred. For these four, deterrence isn’t a policy; it’s a verdict. And in the shadow of trains and concrete, survival whispers: Try again.
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