“Aged 28, and a newly married man, I walked out of my job and found myself unemployed for the first time in my adult life. I was a police officer of seven years, a ‘job for life’ as society would have you believe. Well paid, respected (depending on who you’re talking to), a career to make your parents proud and impress new in-laws.

The general response was, “You’re going to be a stay-at-home dad, that’s cool, lots of guys do that these days”. Just one slight problem there. When I left work I didn’t have any children, and we weren’t expecting any either. I was simply a stay-at-home man.

To say men can’t look after the home for the good of their family would be as narrow-minded as saying women shouldn’t be offered the same career opportunities as men

So what does a stay-at-home man do? Well, the same things a housewife does, I guess. The commitments imposed by my wife’s work means she is glad to have me there each evening, rather than coming home at all hours. I bake, I clean, I organise house affairs, budgets and bills. I have dinner ready for her return every day, and I clean up afterwards. I’m a support network of one.

Do I feel any less masculine because of this? Not in the slightest. To say men can’t look after the home for the good of their family would be as narrow-minded as saying women shouldn’t be offered the same career opportunities as men.

A rather gross selfie taken six months into our marriage, complete with pee-covered stick, marked the second pregnancy test of that week. Four months in, and our little sprout was growing well. Despite my protests, we didn’t discover the gender. My wife wanted something to push for.

In July 2015 I was officially promoted from stay-at-home man to stay-at-home dad. It took 26 hours from contractions in a restaurant, to our son Toby taking his first breath. And there our next little adventure began.

My wife runs a successful business and has a baby – some might say she has it all. But does that then suggest I have nothing? My wife is the perfect mum, and our home life strikes the perfect balance. Having it all, it turns out, is all about what makes you happy, and we couldn’t be happier.”

This article was originally published by Being ManKind 

Images: Priya Dabasia for Being ManKind

Read our feature Rewriting the Man Code: the new masculinity

This article is featured in issue 90 of Positive News magazine. Become a subscriber member to receive Positive News magazine delivered to your door, plus you’ll get access to exclusive member benefits.

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“We walked for 11 days and nights to the Iranian border. It was pouring with rain and Saddam’s helicopters were surrounding us. We lost my sister and her husband.”

These are the memories of Salah Rasool, a Welsh-Kurdish father and humanitarian. His missing relatives were found alive three months after they sought refuge that night, but this wasn’t the first or the last time they would be forced to flee Iraqi Kurdistan.

The first exodus came in 1975, when Rasool was just a baby. His family had to abandon home again during the Iran-Iraq war when he was 16, just before his pregnant mother suffered a stillbirth. Then the Kurdish civil war hit and they fled a third time in 1996.

Rasool describes how each time they returned to an empty house, having lost everything: “I felt that nothing could be permanent as there was never political or social stability,” he says. “It made me feel powerless and hopeless. I realised that our lives and future were in the power of a dictator and his brutal regimes.”

After the family’s third exodus, Rasool felt he could not endure another. The young biology graduate trekked across Iran’s mountains in search of a new home. To get to the UK, he spent nine months working as a tailor, hidden in a shop, where he was “at the mercy of the greedy, inhumane owner”. He earned just enough to make it to mainland Europe by foot and endured a long, harrowing journey to the UK, where he was finally granted leave to remain. “I was free to work, study, to be treated as a human. My world had opened,” he says.

I was free to work, study, to be treated as a human. My world had opened

But his journey wasn’t over quite yet. After several weeks visiting Liverpool, Manchester, Birmingham and Leeds, Rasool followed a friend’s suggestion and ventured into Wales. The hills dotted with houses descending to the city of Swansea immediately reminded Rasool of his native landscape. “My heart felt open and for the first time in many years I was ready to make my life,” he says. “I felt I was free.”

The Welsh concept of hiraeth is similar to homesickness. It is nostalgia for a loss of some kind, often connected to a sense of homeland, hovering between sad and wistful. This bittersweetness is part of Rasool’s new life: “While I’m here in Wales, I still count Kurdistan as a home. And when I’m in Kurdistan, I feel that Wales is where I’ve made my home,” he explains. “If I dwell too much it makes me sad, so instead I think both are home – my life has been enriched. I feel privileged.”

Rasool’s first job in the UK was in a factory that made crisps, and in his spare time, he volunteered as an interpreter. Before long he was offered a full-time role with the Welsh Refugee Council, helping others seeking new lives in Wales. “It made me feel like I could contribute and build bridges,” he says. “I felt valued.”

Rasool’s love for his adopted home is clear. “Wales made it possible for me to find a house, get a job, join English and Welsh classes and to meet people – warm, humorous and honest people. There really is something magical about this land.”

He met his Welsh wife while working at the Welsh Refugee Council and the couple now have two children: “I became part of something permanent, bright and happy,” he says. The couple’s wedding, nearly 10 years ago, made national headlines for their decision to take the vows in Welsh – a celebration of Rasool’s new homeland.

Wales made it possible for me to find a house, get a job, learn English and meet warm, humorous and honest people

Now living in Cardiff, Rasool is an active member of the Kurdish-Welsh community, and is keen to help others settle in. His advice for newcomers? “Learn the language, meet local people and other communities and step out of your comfort zone,” he says. “Volunteer, set yourself challenges and give something back to the UK.”

He admits it can be difficult to strike a balance between looking back and moving forwards. “Don’t live in the past, but don’t forget your roots,” he says. “Appreciate the freedom and make the most of your new lives.”[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_separator][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_raw_html]JTNDaDMlM0VXYW50JTIwbW9yZSUyMG9mJTIwb3VyJTIwY29udGVudCUzRiUzQyUyRmgzJTNF[/vc_raw_html][vc_column_text][contact-form-7 id=”19770″ title=”Mailchimp Homepage Form”][/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row]

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The tiny house movement is pretty self-explanatory; people downsize their homes in the name of sustainability. But if you’ve ever seen pictures of these tiny homes, you might wonder just how practical it is to live in one – I certainly did. So last spring, my family and I embarked on a tiny house adventure that had us live in five of these houses across two US states over a period of four weeks.

The houses ranged in size from 220-500 square feet, and varied in terms of amenities and sleeping arrangements. Some were on concrete pads, one was on wheels, and one was floating on a river. What they had in common was that each qualified as a tiny house for three residents and gave us a glimpse of abbreviated living. During the trip I kept a journal and we documented what became affectionately known as our ‘big and tiny adventure’ with a video diary.

This opportunity allowed us to see first-hand what it might be like to reduce our housing footprint and it made very clear for us what we actually needed to be happy; tiny house living was an important reminder of simplified life.

Tiny house living was an important reminder of simplified life

We pared down to only the essentials, sharing one suitcase on this 34-day trip. We each had three outfits, as well as a bathing suit, pyjamas and a raincoat. My daughter took a snuggly, her favourite book, and a couple of little toys that fit into her pint-sized backpack. I can honestly say that I didn’t miss a single thing and I actually found myself feeling irritated by the amount of stuff I had to unpack at each of our tiny house rentals.

Tracey with her husband and daughter outside one of the tiny houses they stayed in as part of her research adventure

Without surplus stuff to clean, sort, recycle, give away or eventually throw out, we ended up having, as I noted in my diary, “a trip that was about having new experiences, rather than acquiring stuff”. We went on more hikes than I can remember, visited many museums and places of learning and inspiration. We talked to so many people. The trip focused on adventure rather than accumulation. I learned that I need my family, friends, and my companion animals. I need contact with inspiring people and places, taking part in meaningful work, and spending time in nature. I learned that the size of my home or the stuff that I fill it with do not define me as a person or make me feel complete.

Less stuff and space meant that focusing was much easier in a tiny house – whether it was my daughter doing her homework, us grown-ups reading, or me writing an article. I felt as though all of the cobwebs in my brain had been swept away and I was left with this additional space to fill with knowledge, experiences, and ideas.

Tiny house living also changed the way we communicate with each other. We talked more in one month than we probably do over three or four months in our non-tiny house. Improved communication is something I can thank our tiny house experience for.

I felt as though all of the cobwebs in my brain had been swept away and I was left with this additional space to fill with knowledge, experiences and ideas

We learned what we actually need in order to have meaningful lives. This might sound obvious but there are a lot of things that people in wealthy nations are socialised to believe they need. Surprisingly for us, most of these things became completely unnecessary to our wellbeing. I found myself wondering how different our lives might have been if we had taken this much care before buying our home and especially before buying all of the stuff we put in it.

Why did we feel the need to furnish every room straight away, even if that meant that we ended up buying something that we didn’t necessarily love, only to consider replacing it when we had more time and money? This cycle of stuff is common in consumer-based countries and leads to overconsumption, overspending, and so much environmental waste.

Tracey with her daughter

So if it was so blissful in a tiny house, why aren’t we living in one permanently? This is a valid question. When we first returned home I desperately wanted to put a ‘for sale’ sign on the front lawn. I did struggle when we returned. Even though we still lived together I missed my partner and daughter, being with them, in the same room, within sightline, all of the time.

But we decided, as a family, to stay in our current home for now. We love our neighbourhood and the neighbours that we are happy to call our friends. Our daughter loves her school. But, we continue to talk about tiny house living, and continue to actively downsize our stuff, trying to be more mindful of our consumptive choices, as we slowly move towards the plan that will have us one day living in a tiny house for good.

Tracey Harris is assistant professor of sociology at Cape Breton University in Nova Scotia, Canada. This work was supported by a research policy grant from the university.

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Words by Veronique Mistiaen, photography by Caroline Irby

Hodan Omar
27, from Somalia

I felt capable. It freed me of that negative cloud

I was born in Somalia in the middle of war. I was one of the few lucky girls able to take my GCSEs. Then I got a scholarship to study international business in Malaysia. I stayed there for six years, then went back to Somalia, but I had to leave at the age of 25 to escape a forced marriage. My mother paid a smuggler to take me to London in November, 2014. He dropped me in an area where there were Somalis. It was so cold. I spent the first night with a woman I’d met on the streets.

I went to the Home Office and applied for asylum. They sent me to Liverpool, then Manchester and put me in shared accommodation. I couldn’t work. When I finally got my papers in February 2015, I was told to move out of my accommodation. I had no money so I stayed with a Somali family and, in October, moved to London where I stayed with Somali cousins. I started to look for a job: I sent loads of applications and went for a few interviews, but they all wanted UK experience. Then I found Breaking Barriers [a charity helping refugees to find meaningful employment] and everything changed. They found me this two-month placement at Source8 [a corporate services company], working as an analyst and doing research. At first, I couldn’t speak. I was so shy. But step by step, my confidence grew.

As a refugee, all you hear is negative. Everything seems to conspire to put you down, so you think that maybe you are never going to make it. But at Source8, I felt positive. They trusted me with important things. I felt capable. It freed me of that negative cloud. I’ve gained skills, experience and confidence. Now, I am hopeful I can find a good job.

Eiad Zinah
29, from Syria

I first felt at home when I started teaching about my country

I grew up in Damascus in a middle class, moderate Muslim family. I graduated as a dentist in 2012, but I would have had to do military service under Assad’s regime, so I fled to Beirut, then to Egypt. I applied twice to go to Canada but got rejected, so in 2014 decided to go to Europe. From Alexandria, I paid a smuggler $2,000 (£1,370) and boarded a small boat with 400 other people. After seven days at sea, we were rescued by a Korean ship and two days later reached Italy.

In Paris, I was told not to go to the UK via Calais because they check the lorries, so I went to Brussels where I worked in a Syrian restaurant illegally to raise the $1,000 (£685) the smuggler wanted. I finally made it to Dover aboard a German lorry – four months after I had set out.

In Dover, I was taken to a refugee centre full of people from all over the world. I was sent to Yorkshire in December 2014 and a few months later, got my asylum status, so I decided to move to London. For a month, I slept in churches and mosques, then I found a room in a house in Chiswick with 10 others. A journalist interviewed me on the BBC and that led to a job at Starbucks during weekends and to speaking engagements in schools.

I first felt at home when I started teaching about my country. Students are very involved; they ask lots of questions. My life in London was difficult, but at school I could forget how I feel. I am happy. I am teaching people about my country and the revolution – I am doing something important. I still dream about working as a dentist, but I need to pass two exams and each costs £3,000.

I love Shepherd’s Bush because there are a lot of Syrian restaurants and shops there. Here people speak with Syrian accents. I am in London, but I am in Syria.

Pipash Mahabubur Rahaman

34, from Bangladesh

I met people who knew me from back home; I could speak my language

I am from the southern part of Bangladesh. I worked as a political journalist for a large opposition newspaper until it was banned by the government. We were arrested and tortured several times. I decided to go to the UK because the son of our former prime minister and senior vice chairman of the Bangladesh Nationalist Party live here. I arrived in September 2014 and my wife and baby daughter joined me in July 2015.

At first, I was anxious. I was not sure where to go or what to do, but friends told me to go to Brick Lane where there is a large Bangladeshi community. I met people who knew me from back home; I could speak my language and eat Bangladeshi food. I used to come every day to meet up with friends and discuss politics. I still try to come once a week.

I feel safe here, but I need to adjust; in Bangladesh, I was on the highest echelons of society and here I am at the bottom. Life is stressful – the costs of living are so high. When I got my refugee status, I started to look for a job. Most Bangladeshi people here work in restaurants or in retail, but I want to work in journalism. I went to the Jobcentre and they said I could get a Jobseeker’s Allowance, but I would prefer if they could help me build my skills so I could work in my profession. I sent out thousands of applications and finally, in January, found a job as an invigilator. I also write for Bangladeshi newspapers and blogs. I try to understand the culture here, so I volunteer at Citizens Advice and attend political events.

I like it here: the education, the lifestyle and transport, and people are friendly. They believe in morality and obey the rules. People stop at red lights even at night! But I think about my country, my mother and my editor. I worry about my friends and family. I would go back to Bangladesh if it were a peaceful country. I still write and work towards this.

Vejdan Efravi
46, from Iran

Imagine you have been kept in a cage then the door suddenly opens

I am a cultural and human rights activist from Ahwaz, a region where much of Iran’s Arab minority lives. The government wants to destroy our language, culture and even our land. When I was 14, I was arrested and tortured after a protest. After that, my name was in the system and I got tortured a lot. In 2000, we decided to leave. Seven of my friends were arrested while fleeing and three were hung, but I made it to Turkey on horse and on foot across the mountains. My wife and our children joined me there. But we couldn’t make a living, so after three years my wife returned to Iran and I went to Italy, France and Holland, and finally arrived in Coventry in June 2003, smuggled aboard a lorry.

I went to London’s Elephant and Castle, which has a large Ahwazi Arab population. In February 2004, I got my indefinite leave to remain. From the first day I arrived in England, dirty, exhausted and hungry, I felt like a newborn. Imagine that you have been kept in a cage for years then the door suddenly opens. I am safe here. I never felt at home in my own country because I was a second, third-class citizen. But here, I feel myself. I feel part of the country – 100 per cent British.

Now I try to give something back: I work as a mental health nurse and volunteer to help other refugees.

Charles (he prefers not to give his surname)
47, from Senegal

The place where I feel most at home is the British Library

I was born in Dakar, the capital of Senegal, but my father’s work took us to various African countries. I went back to Senegal to go to secondary school, then went to medical school and passed a very prestigious exam that opened doors for me to work in hospital, do research and teach at university.

After completing my speciality medical training in Bordeaux, I also worked for the UN as a consultant in reproductive health, female genital mutilation (FGM), gender-based violence and HIV, and created an association to cater to the needs of the lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender (LGBT) community.

That’s when my problems started. I was repeatedly assaulted by masked men who said that the work I was doing was “haram” [forbidden under Islamic law] and sinful. I couldn’t report the attacks to the police because homosexuality is illegal in Senegal. The last attack was the worst: I was kept in a room for three days with no food or water. I thought I was going to die.

In 2011, I fled to England because it is a tolerant country where people are open-minded and respect differences. Things were very difficult, but now I have permission to work, have passed my last exam to register as a doctor and recently got an opportunity to do a six-month training stint in a London hospital.

Things are getting better, but I am away from my country, from my people, and sometimes I think: “I studied hard for 11 good years, I had a good job, yet I lost almost a decade of my life living in limbo. Why should I have to go through all of this?”

But I have no regrets. Those who want to change the world have to face big challenges. And here I can have a future. I want to feel safe, work as a doctor and live in a quieter, greener place.

The place where I feel most at home is the British Library. I spent a lot of time there, studying for my exams, writing, thinking. It’s a place full of history. When you study there, your motivation is boosted by the legacy of all the great people, like Karl Marx, who did research there.

Breaking Barriers is hosting a photography exhibition, sponsored by Mishcon de Reya, displaying portraits of London-based refugees and telling the stories of how they fled persecution or war and have now found freedom in the UK.
When: 11 – 18 July
Where: The Proud Archivist, 2-10 Hertford Road, London, N1 5ET
More info: facebook.com/BreakingBarriersUK

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Receiving its own home – the Rachel Carson Centre, after the late author of pioneering environmental book, Silent Spring – the college’s purpose is to train biodynamic farmers and growers, who will practice ways of producing food that are healthy for the planet, the soil and human beings.

At the moment, farming, food transport and processing use 10 calories of fossil fuel for every one calorie of food energy it produces, explains the college. Meanwhile, the average age of farmers in the UK is 55, and 60,000 new farmers will be needed over the next decade to fill the positions of those retiring.

The college is offering young people a way to be part of the solutions for sustainable food production. Biodynamic farming views the farm as an organism in itself; not just a place where food is produced, but a self-contained entity. It requires a process known as ‘mixed farming’ – a symbiotic balance of crops and animals, where nutrients, energy and waste are all recycled, and special homeopathic preparations are used to revitalise the soil. Biodynamic farms offer opportunities for people to meet, live, develop communities and gain a truly holistic relationship with the land.
At the college’s official inauguration on October 9th, representatives from the Biodynamic Association, St. Anthony’s Trust, Emerson Village, JSH College in Norway and Warmonderhof College in the Netherlands, as well as a large group of students, alumni and well wishers, gathered to celebrate.

The evening was highlighted by a ceremony to mark the official handing over of the deeds to St. Anthony’s Trust and the key of the new building to the director of the Biodynamic Agricultural College, Arjen Huese. In his acceptance speech, he said: “To be a grower is to provide the ideal conditions for growth and development. However, the grower cannot do the actual growing; after you have toiled and sweated, you can only watch and wait. The Biodynamic Agricultural College has been given its new home and new conditions, and now we must all watch for its growth.”

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