By Charlotte Ndupuechi.
When Ukrainian families arrived in Britain in 2022, the government showed what it can do when it chooses compassion. Visas were fast-tracked, red tape was cut, and people were allowed to work and study from the day they arrived. Councils received funding to prioritise school places, and communities opened their homes through the Homes for Ukraine scheme. It wasn’t flawless, but it was humane, practical, and it worked.
Three years later, the government is considering a very different approach for other asylum seekers: allowing officials to seize personal belongings, including jewellery, to offset accommodation costs. Ministers insist “sentimental items” will be exempt, but that distinction is subjective. A wedding ring might be safe; a grandmother’s necklace may not be. For people who have fled with only what they can carry, these items often hold the last threads of a life left behind. Treating them as assets to be taken sends a stark message about who is welcome and who is not.
This contrast matters. The response to Ukrainians showed the UK has the capacity to support refugees quickly and effectively when the political will exists. Ukrainians were given the right to work immediately, access to healthcare and schooling, and government-funded support to help them settle. In many cases, they integrated swiftly, found jobs, and became active parts of their new communities. Allowing people to rebuild their lives reduced long-term costs by avoiding prolonged hotel stays and enabling people to contribute to the economy.
The proposed jewellery-seizure policy does the opposite. Rather than encouraging integration, it risks humiliation and deepens the narrative that asylum seekers are a burden. It echoes Denmark’s controversial “jewellery law”, widely criticised as degrading. And it raises uncomfortable questions about fairness: why are some refugees met with sponsorship schemes and solidarity, while others face the possibility of having their possessions taken at the border?
It’s easy to claim that the Ukrainian response was unique because the conflict was so visible and so sudden. But the reality is simpler: Britain chose to act generously, and it proved that a more humane refugee system is entirely possible. The fact that such generosity is not extended to others fleeing conflict — from Sudan to Syria to Afghanistan — reflects political choices, not practical limitations.
So why does the government — and sometimes the public — draw such stark lines between who is welcomed and who is treated with suspicion?
Why are some families met at the airport with placards and warm clothes, and others met with policies designed to confiscate their belongings?
A Ukrainian-style policy for all refugees wouldn’t mean duplicating the exact scheme, but it would mean adopting its principles: safe routes, clear processes, the right to work, and proper support for councils. It would treat people with dignity and reduce the very costs that punitive policies supposedly aim to manage. It would place integration at the centre, rather than deterrence.
When Ukrainians arrived, ordinary people changed their Facebook banners to blue and yellow in support. They opened their spare rooms. This wasn’t because Ukrainians were uniquely deserving; it was because the country recognised their suffering and felt compelled to help. The generosity shown towards Ukrainians offers an uncomfortable mirror. It shows what is possible, but also what is political.
If Britain could act with urgency and generosity in 2022, why not now? Why not for others?
A fair asylum system should not depend on nationality.
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