By Isabela Restrepo
Warning: At the risk of sounding cliché, this is yet another story about growing up as a first-generation immigrant in Canada. No matter how I recall these past 4 months, my story always returns to an identitarian journey, guiding my experience through law school and my recent four months in Costa Rica.
Growing up a part of the diaspora
To provide some context, Colombia has the highest number of internally displaced people in the world, due to the ongoing civil war that began decades ago. The UNHCR reports almost 7 million internally displaced people in Colombia and the latest data it reports, in 2022, estimates the Colombian diaspora at 6.8 million Colombians abroad.1 During the three years I lived in Colombia, my family moved four times, in search of safety. I was born near the Ecuadorian border, yet my roots stretch from the North coast city of Barranquilla to a small village in the coffee region, Filandia. My favourite food, Ajiaco, comes from Bogotá, and so does my accent when I speak Spanish, even though I didn’t set foot in the capital city until I was 21. I feel at home on the Caribbean coast in Santa Marta, but also on the quaint streets of the Plateau.
My colleagues and I having gallo pinto for lunch, Costa Rica’s national dish at the nearby soda.
On May 6th, I took my first uphill walk to the court—a routine that soon became daily for four months. I arrived, out of breath, at the now familiar white house in Los Yoses, San José. I met the other interns, who would quickly become close friends, and we exchanged the usual details. When asked, “Where are you from?” I hesitated. If I said Canadian, they’d ask about my fluent Spanish, leading to a discussion of my Colombian roots. But when I said Colombian, they would ask, “Where in Colombia are you from?”—a question that never had a simple answer.
Over time, I crafted a response that felt true to my roots and usually satisfied others: “I am Colombian, but I live in Canada. I am from everywhere and nowhere in Colombia.”
This answer succinctly encapsulated my identity and shaped how my peers viewed me. It allowed me to engage in discussions about the Colombian conflict and experience, while also relating to topics like growing up in the snow and sharing present human rights issues in Canada. I cooked arepas for my friends weekly, but I also complained about the sugary water they call Maple Syrup when we eat pancakes at hostels during our weekend trips. On road trips, we all sang along to the same Hispanic songs that shaped our childhoods, but when it was my turn with the aux cord, I would sneak in a song by Safia Nolin or Les Cowboys Fringants. I quickly felt at ease within the diverse group I shared these months with. For the first time in a while, I felt both equally Canadian and Colombian, without need for justification. Growing up, navigating between two identities felt like a mental battlefield, but at the court and in the diverse cultures surrounding me, it highlighted the richness of my experience.
To listen is to learn
Before arriving in San José, I envisioned my time at the court as an opportunity to engage with issues that shape our continent, to understand the realities faced by lawyers and jurists from different parts of South America, and to reflect on what my life might have been like had my family not moved to Canada. My expectations were not only met but exceeded in ways I could never have anticipated.
During my first week, I had the pleasure of exchanging with a colleague who then became a close friend of mine, a lawyer from Caracas. For hours, we discussed the political situations in our homelands, unpacking the hopes and fears of both the diaspora and those who stayed behind, and the challenges of staying or leaving. While working in immigration law, I always understood why people left, but this exchange gave me insight into those who remain. It was the first of many encounters that shaped my perspective on the Latin American experience of living and leaving.
The after-hours exchanges with my colleagues were enriching, but the ones I encountered between the walls of the court were eye-opening. During those months, I delved into issues spanning the continent, from transitional justice and femicides to torture, forced disappearances, autocracy, and climate change. On one of those occasions, I had the privilege of attending the 168th session of the court, where I heard the testimony of Denise Perez-Crispin, a victim of the worst case of torture during Brazil’s military dictatorship. Her recollection, over 50 years later, moved us all and prompted deep reflection on the impact of military dictatorships and ongoing conflicts in our countries.
Back to my new reality
Returning to Canada, I couldn’t help but feel as if I was running away from these issues. While some of my peers return to politically unstable conditions where human rights defenders are persecuted and killed, I return to a country where I have the privilege of defending human rights openly and fearlessly.
My time at the court has been both intellectually challenging and deeply rewarding. I researched laws from different member states, explored issues unfamiliar to Canadian law, and navigated cultural differences in interpreting justice. As I mentioned in my last post, this experience has strengthened my motivation to pursue international law, equipping me with knowledge and skills beyond what textbooks could offer.
Back in Montreal, working in immigration law, I now have a deeper understanding of the contexts my clients come from. I see why professionals leave countries like Chile or Brazil, despite their economic growth, and I better grasp the complexities of my own country and why some choose to stay despite the challenges. The cultural barriers that once seemed opaque to me, as someone who straddles the line between local and foreign, have become clearer, and I’ve developed a sensitivity to issues I had never fully understood before. I have yet much to learn, but I also created long-lasting connections and friendships across the continent which will support me in this quest.
Reflections on a wounded past and an uncertain future
I didn’t come to Costa Rica expecting to change the world, but I did expect the experience to change me. On a personal level, I don’t feel more Colombian or more Canadian, but I feel more in touch with my identity and the validity of my experience as part of a growing diaspora. This experience has given me hope in international law, but more importantly, hope in the people who bring it to life. The late-night conversations with friends, lunches with my supervising lawyer, and morning coffees with my host—a Costa Rican housing lawyer—have helped me understand the country I was in and the potential future of Latin America.
While I don’t have a clear answer on what the future holds for the court or the continent, I feel more like an ethnographer, with a collection of perspectives and lived experiences that offer insight into what the legal and political future might entail for Latinos living both within and outside of the continent.
Receiving my diploma of completion from Pablo Saavedra Alessandri, the Executive Secretary of the IACtHR (left), and Gabriela Pacheco Arias (right), the Deputy Registrar of the IACtHR.
- UNHCR. 2024. “Colombia Situation.” UNHCR Operational Data Portal. https://reporting.unhcr.org/operational/situations/colombia-situation. ↩︎