Every ACT OF KINDNESS HELPS

Affi Parvizi-Wayne, whose family fled Iran when she was a child, is determined to make a difference

- KIM WILLIS AND TANYA PEAREY

When the WhatsApp message came through from my sister-in-law Izzi, I had to help. She was volunteering at a hostel housing Ukrainian refugees near where she lives in Germany. They needed clothes and shoes for children. Immediately, I sent money, so they could buy what they needed.

Like everyone, I watched the TV in horror as Ukranians fled their homes in February. I registered to host a Ukrainian family at my home in north London as soon as the scheme was launched. I haven't had a placement yet, but I am ready. It was an easy decision. For most people, having to leave the place they call home in order to survive is a distant, unlikely fear. But, even in my 50s, it still brings back painful memories of the time my family and I had to do just that.

Our home in Iran was a safe and happy place. Mum always cooked as if we were expecting guests. Friends and family often popped by, while my dad - we called him Baba-worked as a diplomat. I loved going to school and had a great circle of friends.

In 1976, Baba heard rumours of trouble brewing in Iran. So, when I was just 12, I was sent 4,000 miles to England, to live with my aunt. I'd never felt so scared and alone. I desperately missed my family and friends, I didn't speak a word of English and everything was different in this new country.

In Iran, mealtimes were a social affair. Mum had an open-door policy, with friends and family joining at a moment's notice. In England, by contrast, I was bewildered when I was sent home from a friend's house as they set the table for dinner. In retrospect, I can see that everyone - my aunt, teachers, friends - was welcoming and tried their best to help me adjust, but I hated being there.