Inside Britain's asylum hotels: life, risk and the path to ending a controversial program

A BBC File on 4 investigation into four asylum hotels in the United Kingdom finds that, while some rooms appear comfortable in online listings, life inside is defined by delays in asylum decisions, crowded corridors, and repeated moves that keep families in a state of uncertainty.

In one hotel, Kadir and his wife Mira, who fled Iraq, cook meals in a shower tray using an improvised setup: an electric cable extended into the bathroom, with a smoke sensor sealed in plastic bags. The arrangement is illegal and unsafe, but Kadir says residents prefer to take the risk rather than rely on the hotel restaurant, which they describe as delivering only “chips and chicken nuggets.” Kadir adds, “We all do it, but we do it undercover.” Across the four sites I visited this summer, the pattern was the same among families and single men alike: improvised routines to cope, a constant sense of limbo, and a steady stream of moves from one hotel to another. The rooms look neat in review photos, but the wear and tear, plus the accumulation of belongings over months and years, tell a different story. To protect residents and staff, authorities do not disclose the hotels’ locations.

image: Interior view of an asylum hotel

Families, including young children, are a growing presence in the asylum hotel network. In the hotels that host families, there are numerous prams and toddlers, and corridors are often used as play spaces in the absence of real communal areas. A security guard, Curtis, shows a makeshift running track he has created in an unused car park and repairs bikes in a storeroom for the children. The Home Office has said it does not publish figures on how many children have been born to asylum-seeker families in hotels, and asylum advocates say births do occur, though the official data are unavailable. The Home Office also notes that it can still deport people who have babies in the UK, though Jon Featonby of the Refugee Council says safeguards exist that make forcible removal harder in practice.

Kadir and Mira’s family life illustrates the broader personal toll: nine years of hotel-to-hotel moves across the country, two older children, and a baby born since arriving. The couple’s asylum claim was initially rejected for lack of proof, followed by two unsuccessful appeals; a third is under way. The family occupies two adjoining hotel rooms—one shared by Kadir, Mira, and their baby, and the other used by their 12-year-old daughter, Shayan, and 14-year-old son, Roman. Kadir expresses a desire to work, but says he will not take illegal work. Yet he knows many hotel residents who supplement a government allowance of about £9.95 per week through informal work, a pattern echoed by others encountered in the four hotels.

Mohammed, another resident from Afghanistan whom I met through Kadir, says he managed to secure a job before arriving in the UK. Now he earns about £20 a day on shifts that can last 10 hours or longer. He says he started working illegally to support his family, who owe money to people-smugglers, and he hopes to send money back home so his wife can join him if he is allowed to stay. This is a common thread in the hotels: people seeking means to support loved ones while navigating an asylum system that often keeps them in limbo.

Across the sites, there is a constant flow of taxis and delivery drivers. The Home Office has conducted a UK-wide crackdown on illegal delivery work, with 1,780 individuals stopped and spoken to in July and 280 arrests for illegal working, according to government data. About 53 people are facing reviews of their asylum or welfare support as a result. Staff at the hotels say they are not responsible for policing workers, but security personnel note the pattern is hard to ignore when residents move in and out on a regular basis. The Home Office says it does not have figures on how much it spends on taxi travel associated with asylum hotels.

A bus pass is issued for one return journey per week; other travel requires a taxi, with a receipt and proof of an appointment at the reception desk where a taxi is booked on an automated system. For example, Kadir says a knee problem forced him to take a 250‑mile taxi to see a consultant he had previously treated while at his old address; the driver reportedly told him the return fare could reach £600. “Should the Home Office give me the ticket for the train? This is the easy way, and they know they spend too much money,” Kadir says. “We know as well, but we don’t have any choice. It’s crazy.”

Mira and 12-year-old Shayan accompany me on a walk to a local chemist for a prescription, a quiet moment punctuated by a line of protesters shouting “Go home!” outside the hotel complex. Police escort the family through as Shayan talks about how the protests affect her and her brother. The siblings say they are sometimes reluctant to take the school bus that comes to collect them each weekday, and Shayan expresses a mix of curiosity and fear about the protesters: “Me and my friends have always wanted to go up to them and speak to them face-to-face. What is their problem with the kids as well?” She adds that she would like to stay in the United Kingdom, but her life has been spent in uncertainty, moving between hotels and having to learn new places and new schools again and again.

Since our interview, Kadir and his family have been told they will be moved again—to two hotels in separate cities, nearly 200 miles apart. The plan would place the baby with one hotel while Mira, Shayan, and Roman would go to another, but the family has refused to be split. Kadir has already been told he will lose his weekly benefit and could be deemed intentionally homeless. Their future, like that of many other asylum seekers, remains uncertain as the government pursues its pledge to end the asylum-hotel program by 2029.

The four hotels featured in this report typify a broader system that has become a flashpoint in recent months. The government says the use of asylum hotels is a transitional measure while casework is completed, but critics argue that stability is impossible when families are moved repeatedly and when significant costs are incurred for transport and security. Protests this summer, including the August 2025 demonstrations in Epping, Essex, underscored the political sensitivity of the housing program as residents, supporters, and campaigners pressed for faster decisions and better care.

Context is key. The government’s plan to end the use of asylum hotels by 2029 comes as officials say the program is shrinking: about 32,000 people are housed in asylum hotels today, down from roughly 51,000 in 2023. Yet for families like Kadir’s, the promise of an eventual departure from hotel life coexists with daily realities that can stretch into years, not months. The four hotels visited for this report illustrate both the human cost and the logistical complexity of a policy that seeks to balance security, cost, and humanitarian considerations while the asylum system works to process a growing backlog of cases.

Image at the midpoint: A security desk at one of the hotels stands where a reception once was, with bollards and restricted access marking the perimeter. The contrast between the glossy listing photos and the everyday bustle marked by security screens, waiting rooms, and families moving through corridors is stark.

image: Exterior security perimeter of an asylum hotel

Back at the policy level, the Home Office notes that it cannot share figures on births within asylum hotels, though advocates say children are born in these settings and live much of their early lives there. The Refugee Council’s Jon Featonby cautions that while more safeguards exist for families with babies, the deportation landscape remains complex and highly context-specific. The broader question, critics say, is whether a short-term housing solution can or should function as a long-term settlement mechanism for people seeking asylum.

As the government and civil society debate the future of asylum hotels, families like Kadir’s continue to navigate a landscape of ambiguity. The buses and taxis, the crowded hallways, the lines for prescriptions, the line of protesters outside the gate—all of these are part of daily life for residents who arrived seeking safety but found themselves living with the consequences of policy choices that play out far from the public eye. The remarkable resilience of many residents—the elderly couple who help others with food and emotional support, the children who adapt to new schools after frequent moves—speaks to a quiet, persistent human dignity even as the system searches for a more permanent solution.