This morning, while my husband and I were sitting at the breakfast table at my parents’ house in Belgium, my parents began sharing their story—one I had heard parts of before, but never quite like this. They were speaking about their journey as refugees, fleeing from Iraq to Europe.

As you may or may not know, my parents are Armenian. Their ancestors fled what is now modern-day Turkey during the Armenian Genocide and found refuge in Iraq. But even Iraq was not a safe haven for long. My father became a soldier and lived through war, trauma, and hardship. But it wasn’t just his struggle. As they spoke, we listened—not just to his story, but to our story.

That’s when it hit me.

Waw, Rita—all this time, you’ve distanced yourself from the stories of other refugees. Maybe not consciously, but out of convenience. You forgot that you and your parents were once in their shoes.

And suddenly, I felt the weight of it all.

How easily we forget where we came from.

How ungrateful we humans can become when comfort dulls our memory.

I grew up having everything I wanted. I rarely stopped to think that my parents, while raising us, were also carrying the weight of trauma—of being refugees, of surviving displacement, and still showing up as parents every single day.

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My mother was 30 weeks pregnant with me when she fled from Turkey to Greece. My father was in prison for being a refugee, so he wasn’t with her. She was just 16 years old—pregnant, terrified, and alone—walking through mud and water to escape. At one point, her pants were soaked, and an old woman looked at her and said, “Oh my, you’re in labor!” My mother panicked. She had no one with her, and her body was giving up.

Eventually, everyone traveling with her left her behind, afraid of being caught by the authorities. They left my mother alone—in the middle of nowhere, in the forest. She screamed so loudly that some people heard her and called an ambulance. They rushed her to a hospital in Alexandroupoli, Greece.

By the time she arrived, doctors discovered she was in labor and that I was suffocating—her water had been broken for hours. When I was born, I had no pulse. They took me away immediately and performed CPR. I survived and was placed in an incubator for eight weeks. But my mother didn’t know that. She didn’t speak Greek. For three days, she believed I had died. She sat crying on the hospital stairs, mourning a child she thought she lost.

Then, a Greek woman brought in an Assyrian translator who could finally explain the situation. When the woman took my mother to the neonatal unit, she saw me and burst into tears. “She’s so small,” she said. “She will die.” But the Greek woman pointed to the other babies—some born even earlier—and with comforting gestures reassured her: “They survived. Your daughter will too.”

Back in her hospital room, there was a small phone for public use. The Greek woman paid for my mother’s call. She called my Aunt Ordak and told her everything. Then she asked, “What should we name her? Should we name her after her grandmother?”—as is tradition. But my aunt said, “No. Give her a meaningful name. Name her after a saint.” Saint Rita, a Catholic saint known for her answered prayers, was born on May 22. I was born on June 22. My mother took her advice.That’s how I became Rita Khatchadorian, born with a miracle, in Alexandroupoli. The Red Cross paid for my mother her hospital bills.

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When I was just over 40 days old, my parents traveled to Italy on a small boat with other refugees. When the organizers spotted police in the distance, they shouted for everyone to jump into the water. My father jumped and asked my mother to hand me to him. She hesitated—holding me in one arm and the boat in the other. She couldn’t swim, and the ocean was deep. A tall Arab man, already in the water, reached out and said, “Sister, hand me your daughter. I will hold her.” She did. Then, before she could jump, three men grabbed her by the arms and legs and threw her into the sea. My father swam to her and held her. After a while, once it was safe, the group returned to the boat and continued toward Italy. My parents said the boat was so small it rocked dangerously with every wave. It felt like it could disappear beneath them at any moment. But eventually, they arrived in Italy and made their way to Milan.

Their first night there, they slept in a park with other refugees. My father stayed awake while my mother slept, then they switched roles. Eventually, they were accepted into an asylum seekers’ center. One day, my father left to get milk, but while he was gone, I started crying from hunger. My mother couldn’t breastfeed—I was too weak, and she had no milk. A man offered a bottle of cow’s milk. My mother, desperate, fed it to me. I turned blue. I couldn’t breathe. It turns out the milk was raw, cold, and possibly expired. I had an allergic reaction.

An ambulance rushed me to the hospital. My father returned and couldn’t find us. He didn’t speak Italian and grew frantic. He started yelling and running through the building. Eventually, a Catholic priest came, trying to calm him down. They shouted back and forth, not understanding each other. Finally, someone who spoke Arabic and Italian translated. The center called hospitals until someone reached my mother. She told my father where she was, and he rushed to be with us. I stayed in the hospital for 8 days. There, a kind woman from Cyprus brought a bag filled with baby essentials—milk, diapers, clothes, medicine. She gave it to my mother and said, “This is for you and your daughter.” She even visited us later at the refugee center. There’s a photo of her holding me with my parents. I’ll try to share it once we’re back home.
The Red Cross paid the bills here too.

Eventually, my parents took a train from Milan to Belgium—our final destination. And the rest, as they say, is history.

And as we remember, we must also be grateful. Grateful for safety. Grateful for peace. Grateful for the simple things that so many people in this world are still desperately searching for—like a roof, a warm meal, or a place where bombs don’t fall. But above all, we must never judge.

No one leaves their home lightly.
No one risks drowning at sea because they prefer the waves over dry land.
No one walks for miles, sleeps in forests, or hands their baby to a stranger in the middle of the ocean—unless they’re running from something unbearable.
Refugees, migrants, displaced people—they are not “others.” They are not criminals. They are not a burden.
They are people. People who want the same things we do: safety, dignity, and a future.
So let us never look down on anyone seeking safety.
Let us never speak from a place of comfort with contempt for those in crisis.

Because once upon a time—for many of us or our families—we were the ones on the run. We were the ones crying in hospital stairwells, praying for a miracle. We were the ones looking for a safe place to call home. Let’s carry that truth with humility. Let’s meet others with compassion instead of judgment.

And let’s never forget where we came from.