Thinking about offering a room to a Ukrainian refugee? Let me help

If you are one of the 20,000 Irish people who have volunteered to host refugees escaping the war in the Ukraine perhaps you have some questions about what it would be like to open your home to a stranger.

Let me help. In the autumn of 2015, I invited a Syrian refugee to stay with me in Old Trafford in Manchester. I was single at the time and living alone in a terrace house; everyone else my age (34) seemed to be getting married and having babies while I resolutely failed to find love. I figured I may as well make my life as interesting as possible while my friends talked to each other about primary school places and house prices.

Also, obviously, I felt guilty and wanted to help. I had spent the summer transfixed by Europe’s worsening refugee crisis, which reached its nadir with the death of three-year-old Alan Kurdi, the Syrian toddler who washed up on a beach in Bodrum. I was feeling particularly guilty because my friend Elizabeth and I had just gone on holiday to Greece, and had deliberately avoided the islands where we might be confronted with desperate Syrians tumbling out of inflatable boats on to the beaches while we were working on our tans.

I also felt sorry for Yasser, the 34-year-old Arabic teacher who ended up moving into my spare room. I had met him a few times in Manchester after I was introduced to him via a mutual friend in Turkey. I knew about the perilous 37-day journey he had taken to reach our rainy island by inflatable boat, train, foot and lorry. I had been to visit him in the grotty house off Manchester’s Curry Mile where the Home Office had dumped him while he waited for his asylum claim to be processed. I knew he would probably end up in a homeless hostel once he was “legit” and given refugee status, so offered my spare room “if you get stuck”.

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He ended up staying for six months – quite a bit longer than I had originally envisaged, but how can you evict a refugee? That is something I would urge anyone thinking of hosting to consider. The Irish Red Cross says rooms and homes will be needed for a minimum of six months to year but what about after that? It is quite a tall order for a new arrival to save enough money for a rental deposit in six months, and the competition for social housing is fierce.

Do set some ground rules, but bear in mind your guests will probably go out of their way not to inconvenience you. My dad told me to put a bolt on my bedroom door but I ignored him. I just gave Yasser a few dos and don’ts, like putting the deadlock on only if he was certain I was already home, and eating as much of my food as he liked as long as he didn’t finish anything off without checking. I also made a throwaway remark about how I often had to leave early and so needed the bathroom first. It later emerged he had taken the instruction to heart, and would lie in bed each day waiting for me to get up before he even went to the loo – a problem for his bladder given my unpredictable schedule, which often resulted in me not leaving the house until gone 9am and reading the paper in bed until the Today programme finished.

Understand that you are not just offering your spare room but also your time. Chances are your guest(s) will need a lot of help integrating into society and navigating bureaucracy, even if their English is good. I accompanied Yasser to the jobcentre when he was at risk of being sanctioned for not applying for enough jobs, and would regularly ring the bank and the doctors for him.

Do not underestimate the trauma of war. Yasser, understandably, was obsessed with what was going on back in Syria, and would try to show me harrowing videos he had received via Facebook or WhatsApp. Eventually, I had to implement a “no war at the dinner table” rule. I would steer him away from the news when we watched TV, introducing him to the trash telly I watched in secret.

Some shows were recognisable to him: they have the Voice in the Middle East too, for example. But Take Me Out, the dating show we both enjoyed at the time, did not translate. I gave up trying to explain Paddy McGuinness’s catchphrases (“let the squirrel see the nuts” etc), though Yasser did incorporate “no likey, no lighty” into his vocabulary, along with “love” and “hiya” and other northernisms. He became invested in my love life and would say that one day soon I would meet a nice man, “inshallah”.

Yasser left when his wife and daughter got visas to join him, and a rather grand petroleum engineer from Damascus moved into his room. I met my now husband two months later. Yasser and his family came to the wedding. They live a few miles away from me in Manchester and have had two more daughters, proper little Mancunians. Yasser works as a teacher and the family are thriving. I can only take the tiniest bit of credit for their happy ending, but it sure feels good to help.

Helen Pidd is North of England editor of the Guardian. This is an edited version of her article which originally appeared in the Guardian