The Journal
A blog about the journeys of migrants and refugees.
Aleppo, Syria // Photo by Sofia Ijaz
My story as an advocate begins in a café in Damascus in 2010, one year before the war in Syria began and authoritarian regimes across the region fell like dominos.
I was 21 years old and a recent university graduate, with only some vague idea that I liked to write and tell stories about human struggles. I decided to apply for law school and drafted my application from that small café. I had no idea then how much would soon change or that my path to becoming a refugee lawyer would unfold alongside the largest migrant crisis in modern history.
Since July 2015, I have acted as legal counsel for hundreds of refugees and migrants in Canada. Those who I have had the privilege of representing include unaccompanied minors from Somalia, journalists from Iraq and Eritrea, activists and human right defenders from Syria, Sudan, and Turkey, women civil society leaders from Afghanistan, and survivors of torture from repressive regimes globally.
My path to becoming a lawyer is rooted in my love for telling stories in a form and space that has the potential to alter the course of a person’s life for the better. As lawyers, we relay narratives in courtrooms and before tribunals every day, though often in silos and away from society at large.
In this journal, I will share snippets of stories I have come across in my work as a migrant rights advocate — of parents and grandparents, farmers and construction workers, activists and ordinary people who left their homeland and crossed borders to find themselves here. The names will be changed and only those who wish to tell their stories, and are safe to do so, will be shared here.
My hope is that, through these posts, we learn —about each other, the resilience of migrants and refugees, and the brutality of borders and anti-immigration policies.
Stories: On Burials & Borders
The death of a parent stirs emotions which many can relate to in similar ways. For migrants and refugees, the ability to grieve and move through this moment can be infinitely more complex.
24 February 2025 // Written by Sofia Ijaz
Tijuana, Mexico // Photo by Max Böhme
The death of a parent or parental figure stirs emotions which many can relate to in similar ways – pain from the loss, regret for words unsaid, and confusion as to how to say goodbye. For migrants and refugees, the ability to grieve and move through this moment can be infinitely more complex.
I represent Vincent*, a father of two Canadian children and a migrant from a small Caribbean country. He has been in immigration limbo in Canada for nearly a decade. Last month, we received the email we have been long awaiting: his application for permanent residency on humanitarian grounds had been ‘approved in principle’. This means that, assuming he passes background, security, and medical screening, Vincent will become a Permanent Resident of Canada.
When I called to share the news, Vincent was in a state of disbelief. He asked me to read the decision back to him three times before reality settled in. He then immediately said, “I’m going to get to see my dad. He’s been holding on for this moment.” Because of his precarious immigration status, Vincent has been unable to travel to his home country to see his elderly and ailing father as departure from Canada could result in permanent separation from his children.
Six days later, Vincent’s father passed away.
We wrote to the Canadian immigration authorities, pleading for the impossible: to expedite the final stage of processing so that Vincent could travel freely, not to reunite with, but rather to bury his father. He wished to stand side by side with his siblings as they lay the man who raised them from birth to his final resting place.
The response from immigration was entirely expected and somehow still came like a kick in the gut. Vincent was told that he was ‘free to leave Canada’ - but in doing so, he would be putting himself at risk of being denied re-entry. This was despite the fact that his humanitarian application had been approved in principle.
The so-called ‘freedom’ to leave was no freedom at all. Vincent was left to make an impossible choice: the chance to say goodbye to his father or the certainty of remaining with his children.
And it is in these moments – when parents and children are separated in life and in death – that the brutality of borders is laid bare. In the end, Vincent stayed to protect his future with his children in Canada. His father will be buried this week without him.
*Not his real name. This post was published after his review and with his consent.
Reflections: Syria After Assad
Ayaa Dakkak reflects on the stunning fall of the Assad regime and the challenges for Syrian refugees caught between their desire to return home and the realities of present-day Syria.
9 February 2025 // Written by Ayaa Dakkak
Dummar, Damascus, Syria // Photo by: T Foz
It has been 12 years, 6 months, and 20 days since I last set foot in my beloved homeland, Syria. The regime I lived under has now fallen. Last December, in less than two weeks, the rebels stormed across the country and collapsed the regime forces like a house of cards. My city, Aleppo, was the first to be liberated. I walked Aleppo’s streets as a protestor in the early days of the revolution, not realizing the long struggle my people would endure for freedom.
After forcing millions of us to flee – leaving behind the homes we grew up in, the land we tended to, and the loved ones who raised us – Bashar Al-Assad and his elite are now the ones living in exile. We, the Syrian people, now have hope to return.
And yet, the realities of returning is fraught with complications. Images of prisoners climbing out of dungeons in the ground at Sednaya prison and of mothers embracing sons they thought had been forever lost long ago remind us that we are a nation with deep wounds. Frequent power cuts, water shortages, poverty and insecurity remain. The task before our new leaders is enormous. They must not only rebuild basic infrastructure but also establish governance and draft a constitution to reflect the desires and needs of our diverse country. Most certainly, it will take us time to heal and rebuild.
In addition to the practical challenges of returning, my heart is also now torn between two places – my homeland, and my country of refuge. Like many Syrian refugees, I have established a fulsome life abroad since I was forced to flee. While part of me will always long to return to Syria – to the sounds of Fairouz in the early morning and the azaan from atop the minarets, to the smells of my dusty neighbourhood and fresh baked bread from the bustling market – Canada is now my home too. It is a country I love and one that granted me, along with thousands of other Syrians, protection and opportunity when others closed their doors.
So, although return to my beloved Syria still seems elusive, I will remain steadfast, as my people have for so long, and continue to advocate for the rights of Syrian refugees and other forcibly displaced people here in Canada.