When I saw the photo of Aylan Kurdi, like many, I was overcome with emotion. Then my thoughts raced: that, but for the grace of God, could have been me. Not on the sands of a Turkish beach, but in the dust of a Pakistani desert.
At three years old, I fled Iran with my family. I had been one tiny misstep from death. So today, I observe the world - and respond to that image - not solely as a refugee lawyer for the Canadian Department of Justice, but also as a former refugee.
In the aftermath of Iran's Islamic Revolution, my uncle was imprisoned, tortured, and executed solely on account of his membership in the Baha'i Faith. In danger for our own lives, my parents, sister, and I were forced to flee our homeland. We made the treacherous journey on foot into Pakistan where, with the help of the UNHCR, we spent a year eking out a transitory existence as urban refugees. Then Canada became our adopted home.
The process of our integration began before we stepped foot on Canadian soil: it began in the hearts and minds of those who welcomed us. In the small town where we settled, my family was the object of questions and the subject of conversations. But the conversations included us.
Canadians were mindful of the value we brought to them and were genuinely interested in benefiting from our presence. So we exchanged everything from recipes to worldviews, earning each other's trust in the process. My parents availed themselves of opportunities to become active in the community. Canadians regarded them as examples of resilience and determination. It was a steep learning curve, to be sure, but we also laughed a lot!
Growing up, I felt like a transplanted seedling. Nourished by the fertile soil of respect, I embraced all aspects of my identity, including as a member of the '1.5 generation.' I pursued an education in law in order to contribute to the society that gave me the gem that is justice.
Now, I sit on the other side of the table that I sat at so many years ago. Integration is an ongoing adventure, and I often reflect on the responsibilities I hold.
Recently, I reunited with the Canadian immigration officer who interviewed my family in Pakistan thirty years ago. I showed him the worn-out immigration document that brought me to Canada. On it he deciphered the letters of his signature, which he no longer recognized. To him, they spelled his name. To me, they spelled freedom. They still do.
This post is part of a series produced by The Huffington Post to mark the occasion of two critical conferences at the UN on the Refugee and Migrant crisis: the UN Summit for Refugees and Migrants (Sept. 19th, a UN conference) and the Leaders Summit on Refugees (Sept. 20th, hosted by U.S. Pres. Barack Obama, at the UN). To see all the posts in the series, visit here. To follow the conversation on Twitter, see #UN4RefugeesMigrants.