Uran Ferizi, PhD, is the Ambassador of Albania to the UK and Ireland. Born in Albania, he first arrived in Britain in 1998 as a 17-year-old undocumented immigrant. He went on to study Mathematics at the University of Oxford, earn a PhD in Neuroscience at University College London, and build a career spanning investment banking and academic research at institutions including NYU and Stanford.
In his writing, Ferizi turns a rare insider’s gaze on the human realities of migration, shame, and resilience. Meet Your Shame. And Mine. is his unflinching literary series on the lives of young Albanian men navigating ambition, trafficking, and the British prison system.
Meet your shame. And mine. Part 2.
By Uran Ferizi, PhD
21 March 2026. My diary has a networking conference for Albanian businessmen of the UK. I was feeling a little worse for wear, having worked in the consular office the week before (I do this not just to help, but to learn from it too – and it seems to collect all the bugs and viruses that do the rounds). But in this job, there are very few excuses. So I get ready and hit the road. To network with the Albanian businessmen.
The conference is very well organised. Men and women in suits. Suave and cheery. They look rich, and eager to show it. I notice their fine watches. They lead with their company. In my world, names come first.
I give a short speech there. I let go of another not-quite-so-diplomatic rant, joking that I had had enough of people who know nothing about my job tell me how to do it.
This was my payback. I say that doing business is fine; making a fortune even better. And suggest that we (that is they, with the money) might support the arts a bit more. And the less privileged. I mention prisoners, and the British habit of trying to rehabilitate them; I stress it is something we should learn from. They probably thought I had lost it.
****
That day I was being followed by a Channel 4 crew filming a documentary. With my permission, of course. But it feels weird being recorded. At first. After 10-15 mins I get over it and forget they’re there. They want the Albanian story, which in British television still mostly means crime.
So I take them to my next meeting. Visiting my countrymen in His Majesty’s Prison at Wormwood Scrubs. But first I have to go to the bathroom. Out of the suit, into the neutral gear. Unlike in my first prison visit, there’s no belt and hoodie this time.
The drive is 25-35 mins. Wormwood scrubs looks Victorian from the outside. Imposing architecture. But it feels cold, and scary.
The Albanian charity Shoqata Nënë Tereza has arranged my visit this time. They provide inmates the occasional quiet and steady support. Three of them, Adelina, Esat and Ana accompany me and my colleague Flamur inside.
The recording crew wait outside. Ninety minutes later I come out of the prison gates. And into the car with the crew. The moment I get in, they start recording.
“So, Uran, what did you see?”
****
The prison holds around 30 Albanians in total.
From one wing, only one man (depressed, possibly suicidal) chose not to come out to the meeting area. Of the 14 I met, eleven were between 20 and 30, average age 24. One was 44. One 46. From every corner of Albania. None had come to the UK with a visa. All had borrowed money to pay the traffickers.
The eleven of the younger men were in for drugs. Roughly half cannabis, half cocaine. All but two or three had been users themselves. Three others were there for violence. Their cells are about two metres by two; two men to a cell, locked in for 23 hours a day. There is a hole in the room for a toilet. They get 45 minutes in a small yard covered in chicken wire; this is usually closer to 30, once you subtract the logistics. Once in the yard they just walk around the inner perimeter. If lucky, they work or study for an hour. No such thing as internet. They all wear grey sweatpants. They mention that the prison has also housed doctors, former members of parliament, lawyers. A reminder that decline is not just for empires, but humans too.
They speak quietly. They say that for the past year Albanians have effectively been excluded from electronic tagging. Too many are stuck on remand. One had finished his sentence three months ago; still waiting for deportation. They can call their family, but only if they speak in English. For fear of coded messages. Their English is limited; their families speak none. So conversation is mostly calling each other’s name, followed by silence, and then the line drops.
Staff told me the Albanians there are some of the best behaved, if not the best. They treat staff with deference. I asked whether they were trying to flatter me. They said no. “That’s what the statistics say. We never see reports of violence or rioting from the Albanians.”
They are considerate, sharp. No self-pity. Zero. Gallows humour instead. An hour passed too quickly. Something that struck me again is that they’re fanatic about not interrupting another. No interruptions, no offence taken.
I push a little. Ask about their journey, and what they think. I want to know what their evil is.
They feel shame. Society is disgusted and embarrassed by them.
****
I told the crew I felt sad leaving them. Realising how easily things harden into this.
And how hard it is to get out of it.
When they get out, these men will carry a criminal record with them. Here or back in Albania, it follows. Who will hire them? Mostly, the same people who got them here in the first place.
Whose fault is that?
Yours.
Mine.
The Galway Review 