At the airport, I learned to expect the pauses, the extra questions, the glances at my passport that lingered a second too long. I did everything right—got into McGill, applied for my visa, and carried proof that I would leave once my degree was over. Even in places I call home, I keep the justifications ready, prepared to defend my right to be there. As I grew older, I realized that my movement through the world has never been as simple as it is for others. The opportunity to move and start again may seem universal, but belonging is not. For people like me, moving remains a privilege––something we must earn again and again.
Every winter, thousands of birds from Siberia migrate to Bangladesh, drawn to its temperate climate. My dad used to take me to see them, scattered across the glistening lakes of his university campus. I was fascinated by the way they flew, crossing borders in search of food, shelter, and a better future for their offspring. Their journey felt natural, almost inevitable.
My parents’ move from Dhaka to Dubai followed the same instinct. It was driven by the promise of a future where my sister and I could thrive. I grew up believing that this kind of movement rewarded effort, that merit and mobility would work hand in hand to open up the world to us.
So, we worked hard in a place that celebrated diversity on the surface. I scrubbed off the traces of Bengali in my accent while my parents learned to adapt to what was expected of them. But beneath the surface, not everyone moved through that space the same way. As one of the few Bangladeshi families in those professional circles, we learned early that we had to work harder to be taken seriously.
Over time, I began to see that belonging wasn’t simply about effort. No matter where we went, the question of our citizenship followed us, drawing a line we could not cross. Overlooked in offices, scrutinized at embassies, and constantly expected to prove that we were not like the others.
This is when I realized that, unlike the frictionless mobility of Western passport holders, my movement through the world will always be conditional and precarious. My passport does not simply state where I am from, but it dictates how far I can go and how much I must prove that I can belong, reminding me that merit does not carry the same weight for everyone.
Students from around the world secure admission to top universities, only to face visa denials. While a Canadian student can live in Europe for months as a digital nomad with little-to-no restriction, merit alone was not enough to guarantee a place for the Gazan students accepted into McGill. Skilled workers fill essential labour shortages, yet remain trapped in systems that treat them as expendable and replaceable. In this world, mobility is not a right but a privilege, unevenly distributed and shaped by manmade borders.
We are welcomed for what we can contribute to society, but are never fully trusted to stay. We are expected to prove that we deserve to remain, and are quickly dismissed when deemed not ‘good enough.’ It makes me wonder—are we valued as people, or simply as resources to be extracted from?
The Siberian birds are never asked where they’re truly from or how long they plan to stay. They are simply admired wherever they land. And yet, just as they return year after year, I find myself already preparing for the next cycle—graduating, thinking about the next permit, the next approval, the next justification.
The world does not fairly dole out the right to belong. But I’ve learned that, when the time comes, belonging is something you can define, not because the system allows it, but because living through its limits has taught me to claim it for myself. And no system, no border, and no passport will ever take that away from me.