From Refugee to Advocate: A First-Generation Lawyer’s Journey to the Law 

When I think about how I became a lawyer, I don’t picture a classroom or a courtroom. 

I picture a small suitcase and my family leaving everything behind. 

I was a little girl in Iraq when violence and religious persecution forced my family to flee. It quickly became clear that staying was no longer safe for us. As Christians, we were restricted in how we could live and practice our faith. Overnight, home became unsafe. 

We didn’t leave because we wanted to. 

We left because we had to. 

We fled to Turkey with almost nothing, uncertain if we would ever return. For three years, we lived in limbo, not quite settled, not quite safe. I remember fear, but I also remember faith. My family believed that God was guiding us somewhere better, even when we couldn’t yet see where that place might be. Eventually, we were granted refugee status and given the opportunity to come to the United States. 

America wasn’t just a new country. It was safety. 

Freedom to practice our religion. Freedom to learn. Freedom to dream. 

Long before we arrived, though, I already knew what I wanted to be. 

At nine years old, after witnessing how broken and fragile justice could be in Iraq, I told myself I wanted to become a lawyer. I didn’t have the words for it then, but I knew I wanted to help fix systems that failed people like my family. I wanted to be someone others could turn to when they felt powerless. 

Starting over in the United States wasn’t easy. I had to learn English. I had to adapt to a new culture. As a first-generation refugee, I had no one in my family who could explain college applications, internships, or how to navigate the legal profession. Every step felt like walking into the unknown without a guide. 

Still, education became my way forward. 

I learned the language. I studied relentlessly. I earned my bachelor’s degree, then my master’s degree, and later my Juris Doctor. I worked while studying, took every opportunity I could find, and slowly built a life my younger self could only imagine. 

My path to the law became clearer when I began working alongside attorneys and investigators in San Diego. Sitting in courtrooms, assisting with cases, and watching lawyers advocate for people who didn’t have a voice, I saw something that stayed with me: the law could be more than rules and procedures. It could be protection. It could be dignity. It could be hope.

That realization brought me back to the promise I made to myself at nine years old. 

I wasn’t just pursuing a career. I was fulfilling a calling. 

Entering the legal profession as a first-generation refugee came with its own challenges. There were unwritten rules and expectations that everyone else seemed to understand instinctively. At times, it felt like learning yet another language, but this time, the language of the legal world. 

But over time, I realized something important: the very things that once made me feel behind were the same things that made me strong. 

When you’ve rebuilt your life from nothing, you learn resilience. 

When you’ve learned a new language from scratch, you learn persistence. 

When you’ve navigated unfamiliar systems your entire life, you learn adaptability. 

And when you’ve experienced injustice personally, you develop empathy that no textbook can teach. 

Those lessons shape how I practice law every day. I listen closely. I prepare thoroughly. I never forget that behind every case file is a person who may feel just as overwhelmed as my family once did. 

If there is one message I hope to share with other first-generation students, refugees, immigrants, or anyone who feels discouraged by language or background, it is this: do not let those barriers convince you that you don’t belong. 

There is no single path to becoming a lawyer. 

Some of us have mentors at home. 

Some of us have to figure it out alone. 

Some of us learn English and legal terminology at the same time. 

But we belong here just the same. 

Today, when I stand in court as an attorney, I often think about the little girl who left Iraq with a suitcase and a dream. 

She could never have imagined this life. 

But she knew one thing for certain: justice matters. 

Now, I have the privilege of helping protect it for others.