Maryam is a confident, strong woman who proudly kept her religious identity by practicing full Hijab through two rounds of exclusion: first at Tehran University, where she was sidelined as a Chadori woman, and then in Canada, where she encountered a new form of the same pressure. In Canada, she found herself excluded not only from local communities but also from many Iranian communities abroad, labeled as “pro-government” simply for wearing hijab.

“I’m tired of explaining myself to some ignorant people… tired of being stared at in the buses, trains, and gyms, like I shouldn’t exercise like other people. It’s a multicultural country and women like me are still dealing with racism.”

The stares did not change her. Maryam sees Hijab as part of who she is and refuses to let societal pressure reshape her identity. Her goal is not to change herself to fit Canada — it is to change how Canada sees Iranians and Muslims.

Farhad is an outgoing, politically engaged software developer who was active in Iran’s 2009 presidential protests. After being investigated by the government, he left Iran seeking freedom — only to discover new forms of exclusion in Canada. When his parents applied for a visa to attend his graduation, they were rejected. Not for any personal reason. Because they were Iranian.

“I came to Canada to get rid of the social and political pressures in my country. They got rejected just because we are Iranians… if I was a German international student then I had the right to see my parents.”

His view of Canada as a “peaceful and welcoming country” cracked further on his PhD convocation day, when a stranger on the train told him to “get back to your country.” Despite years in Canada, the idea of returning to his roots prevailed in every moment of his life abroad.

Borhan is a funny, energetic young man who discovered his Palestinian identity at age 10, when he saw his father crying over news footage of a Palestinian boy killed by soldiers. That moment changed everything. Born in Jordan, raised in the Emirates, he considers himself neither Jordanian nor Emirati — but proudly, fiercely Palestinian.

“Look at this… this is the Palestinian map where you will never find Palestine, it’s just called Israel. It’s just like my homeland does not exist anymore. So I always think that I need to revive Palestine first, to have it exist, and then to think about getting back there.”

Borhan wants to become a doctor in Canada — not as a final destination, but as a stepping stone. His plan has never changed: return home and help his people. Canada is the path, not the ending.

Olaa’s father was forced to flee Gaza after the 1967 war. She grew up stateless in Jordan — a Palestinian refugee picked on at school and pushed to the margins. Her mother refused to let that define her daughter’s future. She pushed Olaa to be the brightest student in her class, and Olaa became exactly that: an activist for refugee rights who eventually earned admission to the University of Alberta.

“They took our lands, took our culture, and took our Palestinian identity… we are not a nation with a state anymore and this is horrendous.”

Canada is her first and only real home — the first place she could finally fit in and experience peace. She is dedicated to reviving Palestinian identity by retelling her stories. For Olaa, storytelling is not memory. It is resistance.

Sarah grew up in a Syrian household in Saudi Arabia, always planning to return home — until war destroyed that dream. She watched the pressure of being Arab abroad reshape the people around her. Her own brother changed his Arabic name after being repeatedly questioned at airports. The world told him his name was a problem, and eventually he believed it.

“The way the world treats Arab people makes them hate who they are and where they come from. While my brother is ashamed of being an Arab, I have found myself grounded. I know what I want and value the culture and the place I come from.”

Sarah chose the opposite path. She is a political activist who refuses to apologize for her origins. Where her brother hid, she stood firm — determined to show the West that Middle Eastern people carry strong morals, deep ethics, and rich cultural traditions.

Born to a Kurdish father and a Syrian mother, Adnan was raised in the rigid class system of Saudi Arabia. He was bullied for his accent, his clothing, his food — everything that marked him as different. His father spent a lifetime working far from home, saving everything to return to his olive tree lands in Syria. The war destroyed those lands and every plan built around them.

“My dad is 78 years old. He saved all his money working far from his home to get back to his root… But our lands were attacked in the war. Now we have nothing but a destructed historic land, the fear for our extended family, and the loss of hope.”

In Vancouver, Adnan found new barriers: social isolation, closed circles that would not let him in. But his goal has not changed. He wants to make Canada the home he could never make in Saudi Arabia — a place where he finally belongs.

Nada and Farooq are siblings displaced twice — first from Baghdad to Syria when the 2003 war destroyed their father’s city, then from Syria to Canada when the 2011 unrest erupted. Their father, a university professor, had a heart attack during the war. The shattered health system in Syria nearly cost his life. The family carried that fear across every border.

“You left your home because you wanted to be safe. Then you came here and got involved in daily struggles as a Middle Eastern Muslim student. You try hard to feel belonged… but suddenly you remember that you are not wanted here if you don’t have a status. You can’t get back there and can’t stay here. It’s like a dead end.”
— Farooq

Farooq sees a dead end. Nada sees the same reality and draws a line under it: “Enough is enough. I’m done with displacement and resettlement. I want to work hard to make Canada my home.”