By Diary Marif
I fled Iraqi Kurdistan in search of safety, dignity, and the freedom to pursue my purpose. But when I arrived in Canada, I found myself in crisis. On September 7, 2017, I left Seattle by taxi and crossed the Canadian border, where I was immediately arrested. After completing my immigration process in Vancouver, the next day, I was released into the unknown, with no place to go.
For 74 days, I was homeless—sleeping on the streets and in shelters. It was a far cry from the life I had left behind, where I worked as a respected documentary TV researcher and lived in a three-bedroom apartment provided by the station. But I have never regretted coming. I did not seek comfort—I sought a future where I could live freely, tell the truth, and stand by my principles.
In the shelter, I shared a room with five others. Every night, someone snored loudly. One man, lost in delusions, believed he was a restaurant manager—he’d pace the room talking about firing staff and hiring “some cool new guys.” On my left, a sleepwalker often called out to his father in the night. I would sometimes sit on my bed and laugh quietly at myself, unable to believe where I had ended up.
I had no freedom to sleep or wake on my own schedule. I couldn’t cook my favourite meals or invite friends. There was no privacy, no freedom to come and go. I had to leave the room early in the morning and couldn’t return until late in the afternoon. Most days, I suffered from migraines.
But even in that difficult space, I found moments of meaning. I met people from many different backgrounds. I listened to their stories, learned to connect and communicate, and most importantly, I received advice that changed the course of my life.
One morning over breakfast, a kind man at the shelter asked me, “Why did you come to Canada? What are your goals?”
I sensed a trace of bias in his tone, shaped by the stereotypes often attached to immigrants and refugees.
My answer was honest and firm. To cut a long story short, I told him: “I didn’t come to Canada to chase money or live in luxury. I didn’t come to cause harm, bring crime, or represent a dangerous culture. I didn’t come to take advantage of the government or its systems. I came with a strong educational background, a desire to contribute, to grow, and to be part of something bigger. I came to achieve my dreams—to be a researcher again, to restart my journalism, and to share Kurdish stories.”
He smiled. “Isn’t that possible?” I asked, unsure whether he was mocking me.
But he looked me in the eye and said, “Everything is possible. You just have to work hard, be patient, and never give up.”
He seemed to mean it.
From that day on, I carried those words with me.
For the rest of my days in the shelter, I spent most of my time at the central public library on West Georgia Street. I went there to read, research, and stay connected with the world. I attended seminars and events in the Alice MacKay Room and other spaces, watching the speakers and quietly wishing I could one day express myself as they did. Each time I passed by the CBC building on my way to the library, I looked at it with hope. I dreamed of working there. I even asked someone if there was a way I could volunteer. He laughed and said, “No, that’s not for you.”
Eventually, I left the shelter and rented a place of my own. I began working hard and chasing my goals. I read every morning when I woke up, during commutes, on breaks—every free moment I could find. I sent out my resume to countless places. Most never responded. If I were rejected dozens of times, it felt like hundreds. I pitched stories to media outlets, including CBC. A few replied, but most said, “Your pitch doesn’t fit our publication.”
I was desperate to find a meaningful job. I wanted success immediately. But then I remembered the words of the man from the shelter: Be patient.
There were moments when I thought, “I’m tired. Maybe I should stop trying.” But his voice echoed in my mind again: Don’t give up.
After more than seven years, I returned to the Alice MacKay Room—not as a participant or a listener, but as a speaker. On June 20, 2025, I was honoured to speak at the World Refugee Day event, hosted by the Multi-Agency Partnership (MAP) in collaboration with the Vancouver Public Library and supported by the City of Vancouver.
As the first speaker, I stood in front of the audience and shared my story of resilience and determination. I said,
“Canada is not a paradise—there are real challenges and obstacles. I’ve faced homelessness, illness, car accidents, job losses, and the pain of losing loved ones back home. But through it all, I have never regretted coming to Canada.”
Eventually, CBC accepted my pitches, and I began writing for them. I also research for Culturico in Italy, New Canadian Media, and others. This was a breakthrough.
Since then, I’ve written for CBC and numerous other outlets, including Rabble, Asparagus, the Washington Institute, The Markaz Review, and The Source. I’ve shared my story—and Kurdish stories—in universities, libraries, and community centers across Canada. I’ve received awards, grants, scholarships, and fellowships that once felt out of reach. In Kurdistan, I wrote in Kurdish for a few thousand people. Now, I write in English, and millions can understand my perspective.
Every morning, I wake up with a purpose. My life has become a staircase—I climb step by step. I know I’m not at the top yet, but I’m on the right path. I’ve learned not to compare myself to others or to my past life. This journey is long, and for newcomers, it often starts from scratch. If someone born here works ten hours, you might need to work fifteen. But it’s possible.
Canada is a country that can either build you or break you. If you keep going—no matter how slow—you will succeed. You will become the leader of your own life. Just be patient, work hard, and never give up.