Settled migrants in the UK are showing new ones how to cope with our baffling culture

​To newly arrived migrants, this can seem a strange land. Nell Frizzell meets the former Syrian writer, now settled here, who's helping them find their feet

Is this my stop? 'George' explains to Nell why using public transport can be hard (Peter Macdiarmid)

Standing in a busy street, just a few metres away from the hostels and international arrivals of St Pancras railway station, I'm suddenly brought up short by quite how confusing England can be. The request-only bus stops, the self-checkouts, the fluttering departures boards, mysterious vegetables, wildly expansive coffee menus, public transport's Oyster Card readers and nuanced queuing etiquette all seem, abruptly, unfathomable.

I am with George – not his real name, of course – a Syrian refugee who came here in 2012, fleeing not just war but direct personal threat. He's smoking a Malboro Red, laughing at our matching scarves and playing with his lighter as we drink instant coffee out of paper cups. After three and a half years in the country, George now helps newly arrived refugees with that tricky thing, integration. This includes learning bus routes, finding language lessons, shopping, learning to stick to a budget – many of the things which, in fact, even native UK residents struggle with.

With the Prime Minister's controversial new plans to extradite immigrants who earn less than £35,000 or who are deemed not to speak good enough English, things can seem tough for newly arrived migrants and refugees. Especially when they are routinely sent to towns such as Port Talbot or Middlesbrough, where there may not be the industry, infrastructure or established community to support them.

As we've recently seen in the so-called red door scandal in Middlesbrough, the responsibility for welcoming, informing and assisting those who have often fled war, famine and assassination is not exactly joined up. The Home Office and local authorities look to charities to connect the dots; it is the British Red Cross that welcomes people on arrival and organisations such as Migrant Voice that help them access legal information in a language they can actually read.

But private firms such as G4S are often responsible for housing; it was the Clearsprings Ready Homes private firm in Cardiff who, earlier this week issued (and then retracted, following pressure) refugees with red wristbands to be worn at all times. So, in such a confused landscape, who exactly explains about heating bills? Who points out London's travel-zone pricing policy? Who teaches single men to shop and cook on a budget for the first time? Who helps with applications, forms and post?

“When I arrived I knew nothing at all,” says George, as we finish our coffee. “Which direction the bus went, what the currency was worth, how to buy things. I had no money. After three months, when I got refugee status, I got £36 per week from the Post Office. I would eat at my friends' houses as much as I could, because there wasn't enough money to live on. You would have to eat like birds.”

As a writer, George had been arrested and tortured for his views; and as much as he wanted to go home, returning to Syria would almost certainly have been the death of him. So instead he focused his attention on settling in England. “I met English people through charities like Migrant Voice; coming to social afternoons where we would drink tea and tell our stories. All those charities and organisations treated me nicely; I felt so welcomed and wasn't judged. The English are kind people. They feel your suffering, they show compassion.”

As we walk down a busy central London street, George and I come to a Tube station. “The most important thing is how to get around,” he explains. “I used to write down the name of the station and that would become the most precious piece of paper in the world. I would ask the bus driver to tell me when I needed to get off. It's like teaching children.”

Once, George says, he got lost trying to change from one Tube line to another and spent 10 minutes wandering around the bowels of the city before someone literally took him by the hand and walked him to the right platform. “The first day I was in London I had a map, which showed the area I was living in and the area my friend lived in. I was terrified in case I went off that road. I wouldn't turn left or right in case I got lost. I knew which shops to walk past, the post office. I would take photos of the station I had come from and the name of the place I was going. Then, as long as I stayed near the station, I felt safe.”

Near the Tube station is a fruit and veg stall. “Some vegetables are international; onions, coriander, salad,” he explains, “but here there were all sorts of things I didn't recognise. I didn't even know if they were vegetables or fruit. There were so many types of meat. I would take a photo of the cheese so, if I liked it, next time I could go buy the right one.”

As we walk around, reading bus-stop timetables, looking across shelves, standing by ticket machines, it's clear to what extent newly arrived refugees are infantilised. They may, like George, be eloquent, educated, professional people; but without work, a stable home or local knowledge, they are lost. “What people need is kindness,” he explains. “Someone to embrace them, because they've lost everything. They have no knowledge, no status.”

When it comes to integration, the most useful thing, says George, would be to have information in people's own languages, rather than English. “There should be a programme for people, as soon as they arrive, where they can learn the language and culture, rather than being left on their own for a year or two.”

It seems such an obvious point. Finally, says George, newly-arrived refugees must make the effort to adjust to their new home. “Think about the host community. You need to put yourself in their shoes. You should behave how would you expect a guest to behave. As a guest here, your personal freedom will be respected. But you must also do the same; respect other people's way of life and culture.”

Before we part, George stops at the fruit and veg stall. He picks up three bananas – one for me, one for Peter the photographer, one for him – and walks straight to the front of the queue. It is a perfect example of how tiny social codes can go unnoticed. In trying to do a kind and generous thing, George has broken the unspoken, sacrosanct British code of queuing. But the other customers say nothing. The stallholder says nothing. So I just stand beside George, and eat my banana.