From Damascus to Vancouver: A journey of resilience, loss and new beginnings

The journey from immigrant to active community member and citizen

I made the difficult decision to leave my hometown of Damascus, Syria, just over ten years ago, in 2013. The move wasn’t exclusively a physical thing, but a representation of a new era: my life was packed and compartmentalized into bags, but with those trinkets of life — my dreams, memories and the essence of my youth — were to be left behind as I stepped into the unknown. The Syrian conflict was dominating the news, with daily reports of people being killed, going missing or getting kidnapped. “Go, this chaotic place is not meant for you,” I remember my mother saying to me before I left, kissing my forehead.

Coming from a middle-class family with no prior travel experience and very limited options for Syrians seeking refuge, Lebanon was the most practical destination. I watched many Syrians risk their lives trying to reach Europe illegally, but I lacked the courage to attempt that perilous journey. Before leaving for good, I returned to Syria one last time to say farewell to my father, who had passed away from cancer. That was the end of a chapter in life: the final time I ever set foot in my home.

In March 2014, I moved to Malaysia, where, as a Syrian immigrant, my options were extremely limited and obtaining a visa to most countries was nearly impossible. At that time, a large number of Syrians were fleeing persecution, and borders around the world were largely closed to us. I was fortunate to secure a student visa, which allowed me to enter Malaysia and begin my studies toward a bachelor of arts in design. I lived there for five years while waiting for my private sponsorship file to be processed. I vividly remember checking my email every day, hoping to receive the acceptance letter from Immigration, Refugees and Citizenship Canada.

By December 2019, the wait was over, and suddenly I was moving to Edmonton, Canada, where my sister, who was also my sponsor, lived. The shock of the -30°C weather hit me hard. I moved into a crowded household where I felt like a stranger, even among my own family. Despite the emotional turmoil, I was determined not to let anything spoil the joy of finally arriving in Canada.

A few months later, the pandemic struck. Like everyone else, I felt lost, scared and stuck at home with five family members. I searched tirelessly for job opportunities but faced constant rejection. Every employer wanted Canadian experience, dismissing my past skills, education and passion. Eventually, I took a warehouse job located an hour from home, working from midnight to 11 a.m., standing the entire shift, packing and sorting online orders. On my days off, I worked deliveries and Uber Eats just to make ends meet.

Social life was nonexistent; the pandemic meant everyone kept to their own circles. I couldn’t make friends or even go on a date. In 2021, I decided to move to British Columbia to regain independence and build my own life, landing in Vancouver, one of Canada’s most expensive cities. The challenges began immediately. The only affordable place I could find was a tiny basement with no natural light. I couldn’t even invite my mother over, ashamed of the bleak living conditions. I lied to my sister over the phone, pretending everything was perfect.

Physically, I couldn’t keep doing warehouse work, and mentally, I refused to be treated like a slave. I was unaware of my rights or eligibility for employment insurance at the time. Stressed about money, I sent out over 100 job applications and finally secured a retail position at minimum wage, which I was grateful for.

Despite working hard, life remained tough — paying rent and bills, standing all day, facing rude customers and pressure from supervisors to increase sales. Thoughts of returning to Edmonton, encouraged by my family, often crossed my mind. I struggled to find a sense of community and had a hard time making friends. I didn’t realize how difficult it would be to build connections in Vancouver — it can be an isolating city. In an effort to meet people, I turned to online apps, hoping to find others who just wanted to hang out and make friends. But I quickly discovered that most people on those platforms were only interested in sexual connections, which left me feeling even more discouraged.

A breakthrough came when I landed a job at a nonprofit organization supporting LGBTQIA+ refugees and newcomers. I couldn’t have been happier. For the first time, I was in a role where I could be my true self, connect with people who shared similar experiences, and openly share my own journey.

But the work was emotionally intense. Every client’s story echoed my own, and I carried those emotions with me long after the day ended. Each suitcase I saw reminded me of the emotional baggage I carried through my own journey. I had to stay strong and supportive, even when it was hard.

One moment that stays with me was when a client said, “I ran away without being able to say goodbye to my parents.” I couldn’t hold back my tears — I started sobbing. It brought back the memory of not being able to say a final goodbye to my father.

Yet, there were also moments that filled my heart with hope. Every time a client received the news that their refugee claim had been accepted, I felt overwhelming gratitude. It reminded me that the work I was doing mattered deeply.

Working with a queer team added another meaningful layer to the experience. Being completely myself in the workplace was not only empowering — it was a blessing. At the same time, this job opened doors to friendships, community involvement, advocacy, workshops, conferences and outreach programs. It became a space where I felt a true sense of belonging. Some of my colleagues became a chosen family, and I can’t imagine Vancouver without them.

July 2023 marked a major milestone: I became a Canadian citizen. I’ll never forget the judge’s words, “Congratulations, you are now a Canadian citizen!” Holding that Canadian passport, able to travel freely without suspicion, felt like a dream. I was once considered blacklisted by almost the entire world because I was born in Syria. Now, I am welcomed simply because of this precious document. Still, anxiety hits me at checkpoints, and I have a complicated love-hate relationship with airports — I love to travel but dread the process. In 2024, I returned to what I once called home — Syria — after ten years. Returning to Damascus was indescribable, but I didn’t feel I truly belonged anymore. The country I grew up in seemed changed, unfamiliar. Yet my heart was full seeing my brother and meeting his three children for the first time.

Back in Vancouver, I still struggle to feel at home and build a stable life. Feeling mentally drained from nonprofit work, I started applying for other jobs and was accepted by the City of Vancouver. Transitioning from nonprofit to a government role is challenging, but I am ready.

Working at the Equity Office felt like a natural fit, as its mission closely aligns with my own values. The meaningful work being done there affirmed for me that this is exactly where I want to be — continuing my journey of serving and supporting the community.

Today, I am proud and grateful for all I’ve achieved. Being an ally, a person of colour and an immigrant is a heavy burden. Starting over in a new country after 25 is tough. Yes, I am a racial minority, yes, I am an immigrant, yes, I speak with an accent — but look at what I have accomplished so far. And I’m just getting started. Much more is yet to come.

Alexander Helwah (he/him) is a queer Syrian newcomer and community advocate based in Vancouver. After arriving in Canada in 2019, he rebuilt his life from the ground up — working across sectors and supporting 2SLGBTQIA+ refugees. Now a Canadian citizen, Alexander works at the City of Vancouver’s Equity Office, where he continues to champion inclusion, belonging, and human rights.