On October 10, I received a short text message from Iran: “Uncle Reza passed away. I hope his memory lives on forever.” I didn’t know how to reply. For immigrants like me, stuck in Canada, this is sadly normal. Our loved ones pass away, and we can’t attend their funerals. Our friends and family have babies, and we watch them grow only through photos and videos.

I have been in Canada for over one year on an Open Work Permit that is valid for three years, but it doesn’t allow me to leave the country, even for a day, and be allowed back in. People like me, if we leave, cannot return, even if we have a job offer. We have to restart the process of obtaining a work permit, and there is no guarantee we will succeed.

This situation is far from normal. I have had dreams about my family and friends almost every night—sometimes, they’re nightmares because I see them in danger, sick, or on their deathbeds. You don’t need to be a psychologist to understand where these nightmares come from.

Since March 2023, I haven’t been able to leave Canada and visit my family and friends. First, I was waiting for a work permit, and now I’m waiting for a re-entry visa. During this time, I lost a childhood friend, but no one told me until after the 40-day mourning period had passed to make sure I wouldn’t try to go back for the funeral.

My father’s heart condition has gotten worse, but again, no one told me until recently. My uncle’s brain tumour came back, and my mother, who has struggled with depression for years, has suffered even more because she hasn’t been able to see me for over 18 months.

Then you might ask why I came to Canada at all—why not just go back to where I was born? Would you ask the same question of an American, French, Belgian, or Swiss person coming to Canada for a better life or job? Americans, in particular, might even be praised for making that move, especially now that Donald Trump is poised to rule the country again. But what about Iranians? Can’t we have the same ambitions? 

This is how Canada’s immigration system perceives and treats people from the Global South. If you are not a refugee and not a millionaire, then suffer. If you are a refugee, suffer—but if you are lucky, slightly less.

But the October 10 message hit me differently. It reminded me of the calls I get every three months from the office of Sameer Zuberi, a member of Canada’s Parliament from Montreal’s Pierrefonds. They said they will assist me with my case. But why every three months? People at his office told me that this is the protocol they follow, regardless of my situation. 

Getting a call from a politician’s office might sound impressive, but it’s not. The repeated conversations are frustrating. From Zuberi’s office, they call me to give updates on my request to Immigration, Refugees, and Citizenship Canada (IRCC) in September 2023.

What do they tell me? Nothing useful. They give me the same answer I hear every time I contact the IRCC: your case is in process.

My request was nothing complicated, like immigrating to Canada, applying for permanent residency, or even a tourist visa. It was for what they call a Temporary Resident Visa (TRV) or a re-entry visa. This means that, as a worker, if I leave the country for a short time, I would have permission to come back to my job.

My case has been in process since September 2023, even though IRCC says it should only take three to four weeks to issue a re-entry visa.

But why am I writing all this? Why should I have to justify my need for the basic right to move freely? Because here in Canada, immigrants don’t have the same rights. I work and pay taxes, but I don’t have health insurance, a pension, or the right to take courses, and I can’t even leave the country and return.

This situation leaves me vulnerable, but who cares? I don’t even have health care here. The more I need mental and physical health care, the more I pay out of pocket, which benefits the economy. The same applies when I need legal support.

But this is not just about me—it is affecting my family, too, even though they are thousands of miles away. I wonder if the immigration officer handling my case knows how much my mother suffers from not being able to visit me. I wonder if that officer has a family, too. 

This is not just about me and my family but also about Canada. When I requested the IRCC to release all the notes on my case—and had to pay for it—I found out that my case was flagged for a security background check. Zuberi’s office confirmed that a third-party agency was doing this. So, they shared all my personal information with the U.S.—something that, according to an immigration lawyer, is usually only done for people applying for permanent residency or citizenship.

If you think someone might be a threat to your country, wouldn’t you want to quickly carry out a background check to determine as soon as possible whether they pose a danger? More than a year has passed, and they still need to decide. During this time, I secured a job with various responsibilities, sometimes even serving on a hiring committee for a federal research program worth hundreds of millions of dollars. If I were a threat, shouldn’t they have figured that out by now?

Canada is not the first country I have lived in outside my homeland, but it is the only place where I have felt like an “immigrant.” In other places, I always saw myself as an expat journalist. Canada made me feel like an immigrant, or, as they like to call us, a “newcomer.” Meanwhile, it promotes itself as welcoming to immigrants.

I am scared—scared that I might hear that my father is very sick, that I might miss the chance to tell him goodbye, or to my uncle with his brain tumour, or to my mom with her depression. What will I do then? I know I will pack up and leave. But what about all my work here to build a new life, contribute to Canada’s economy, and make personal and emotional ties? Should I just give it all up?