I used to live a comfortable life in Damascus. My husband had his own business, and I was an agricultural engineer. Leaving was never part of the plan.
Everything changed in 2012. There was an explosion under our building, and another near my daughter’s school. In that moment, I knew we had to leave. Fear replaced certainty.
When we arrived in Canada, we thought it would be temporary. We even kept our return tickets. Our bags stayed packed by the door, as if we were ready to go back at any moment.
The first years were the hardest. We went from stability to starting over. Our qualifications were not recognized, and even entry-level jobs were difficult to find. I remember looking around and asking myself, Where am I?
Language made everything harder. I thought I spoke English—until I had to answer the phone. Sometimes my husband and I would push each other to answer, hoping the other would do it.
We tried to rebuild step by step. We opened a business, but it became unsustainable. After closing it, we started again. I volunteered, studied, and kept moving forward, even when I felt invisible.
Eventually, I found my path again through social service work and later in immigration and law. Today, I help others navigate the system that once felt impossible to me.
Returning to Syria years later, I realized I no longer belonged there either. Immigration changes you—you don’t fully belong to one place anymore.
At some point, I understood that if you don’t accept your new country, it won’t accept you back. The moment we decided Canada was home, everything began to shift. Buying our house was the first time I felt grounded again.
The most important thing I carry is a cassette tape that belonged to my brother, who passed away. It is the only thing I kept from Syria. I don’t listen to it—I can’t—but I keep it as a memory of where I come from, and of who I was.