Iranian nationals arrive in Turkey after passing through the Razi-Kapiköy border crossing in Van, north-eastern Turkey, on March 3.ALI IHSAN OZTURK/AFP/Getty Images
Hon. Ratna Omidvar is a retired senator from Ontario.
As I read reports about Iranians fleeing into Turkey, I find myself reliving our own flight along that same route in 1979.
My family crossed the border into Turkey early one cold morning. We had pulled together the essentials in great haste – papers, powdered milk for our infant child, some food and water – as we took the long and chaotic bus ride from Tehran to the northern border. Along the way we were stopped by armed guards multiple times. A journey that should have taken eight hours took almost four times as long.
Some 45 years later, I see myself and our family in the faces of those who are living through that journey today. The slogans are different. The world is different. But the human experience is not.
When my family crossed into Turkey more than four decades ago, we were not thinking about geopolitics or ideological struggles. We were only thinking about survival. We had no clear destination and no plan beyond getting to safety. Like so many people forced to flee, we left behind a life that only days earlier had seemed stable and predictable.
Trump administration issues order that could lead to arrest of thousands of legal refugees
That moment – when the ground suddenly shifts under you, and you realize you have no choice but to go – is what turns an ordinary citizen into a refugee. It is, sadly, also the moment the world often forgets.
For many Iranians now making their way into Turkey, the story will feel painfully familiar. These are people leaving homes, careers, friends and communities built over a lifetime. They are leaving the small details that make up daily life: favourite streets, family routines, the easy comfort of being able to speak one’s own language and be understood.
They are also stepping into profound uncertainty. Displacement leaves a lasting scar. Even when life stabilizes – even when, as in my case, one is fortunate enough to rebuild in a country like Canada – the rupture never fully disappears. Refugees often measure their lives in two chapters: before and after. Far too often, between the before and after is a prolonged state of limbo.
That is why I find it troubling when refugee movements are reduced to numbers or political talking points. Governments understandably debate capacity, border management and the integrity of asylum systems. These are legitimate policy questions.
But behind every statistic is a deeply personal moment: the hurried packing of a bag, the quiet goodbye to a home that may never be seen again, the crossing of a border with little certainty about what comes next.
Most refugees did not imagine their lives unfolding this way. Most are not explicitly political actors or activists. They are teachers, engineers, shopkeepers, students – ordinary people like you or me. But in my life I’ve learned a crucial lesson that has stayed with me: No matter what, you cannot isolate yourself from the politics that are raging around you. Politics affects the way we all live. This is why I am today a “political” person.
Canada has been shaped by successive waves of people who arrived through moments of upheaval – from postwar Europe to Southeast Asia, from the Balkans to Syria. Many came with little more than resilience and hope. But over time, they became Canadians. They built businesses, strengthened institutions, raised families and contributed to the social and economic life of the country that welcomed them. I am one of those people.
Today, Canada is once again debating immigration and refugee policy with intensity. We are tightening numbers, making it more difficult for refugees to find safety in Canada. This is not just a signal of concern about our capacity and management, but also a real reflection of a growing political narrative that constrains our compassion. It threatens to make us lose sight of the human stories at the heart of these debates.
Granted, none of the contributions refugees eventually make are visible at the moment they cross a border. At that moment, refugees often look like uncertainty itself. They arrive tired, anxious and unsure about whether the world will make room for them.
But the refugee story does not end at the border. In many ways, it is where the next chapter begins.
When I see images today of Iranians gathering at the Turkish border, I do not see strangers; I see families standing at the threshold of the same uncertain journey that my own family began almost five decades ago. And I am reminded that the line between an ordinary life and exile can appear faster than anyone expects – and that what happens next for them goes beyond those people, and into politics.