“Your experiences are your strength. You don’t need to have everything figured out—just begin.”
This is the advice Robina Aryubwal would give to those starting out in her field. Robina is a women’s rights activist, living in Toronto, building a career in policy and aid. She grew up in Taliban-controlled Afghanistan, spending eight years as a refugee in Pakistan, an experience that has profoundly shaped Robina’s approach to her work.
Her work was recognized last year when she and Journalists for Human Rights, a Toronto-based non-profit, were jointly awarded the Marie-Ange Garrigue Prize. The prize, awarded for helping foreign writers, recognized their significant achievement in evacuating, aiding, and resettling hundreds of Afghans between 2021 and 2024, where care, efficiency and dignity, were prioritized.
This year’s Marie-Ange Garrigue Prize is currently open for nominations. The public is encouraged to fill out a nomination form before the deadline of Monday June 16, 2025.
Before then, we caught up with the previous recipient. Robina tells us about joy, justice and quiet acts of resistance:
PEN Canada: Tell me about lived experience. As someone who grew up under Taliban rule and later sought refuge in Canada, how has your own story shaped the way you advocate for others navigating displacement and resettlement?
Aryubwal: Under Taliban rule, fear was part of daily life. I saw how women’s rights, voices, and dreams were taken away. Later, as a refugee in Pakistan, I lived in uncertainty for years—waiting, hoping, and often feeling invisible.
Coming to Canada, I carried those memories with me, along with a deep sense of responsibility. My journey taught me to speak up for others facing the same struggles. I advocate with both urgency and care, because I know what it’s like to feel forgotten. I don’t want anyone else to feel that way if I can help it.
At just 14, and from your family’s apartment, you were teaching English to women, openly defying Taliban restrictions against women and education. You’ve talked about how knowledge can become a powerful form of resistance. How does that early experience continue to shape your approach to advocacy today?
I taught those women even though it was risky. We believed that knowledge gave us strength. Each class felt like a quiet way of standing up against the rules.
That experience showed me you don’t need a big stage to make a difference—you just need to take the first step and trust the people around you. If you want to help women and lift them out of darkness, you start by giving them the tools to learn and grow. That’s still how I work today.
Last year, you jointly won the Marie-Ange Garrigue Prize with Journalists for Human Rights (JHR), for your efforts in evacuating Afghans after the 2021 Taliban takeover. Jordan MacInnis (Director, Domestic Programs, JHR) described how you worked around the clock to ensure that JHR’s evacuation of hundreds of families to Pakistan was both humane and efficient.
What did that actually look like on a day-to-day basis, and how did you ensure families felt supported through every step of the process?
During the evacuation effort, every day felt urgent. I was in constant contact with vulnerable families, international partners, government officials, and our team at JHR. I coordinated everything from gathering detailed case information for humanitarian referrals, to managing financial logistics in extremely fragile situations. I often worked through the night, because families needed answers—and reassurance—at all hours.
One of my most important roles was being a focal point for families. Many were in hiding or under threat, and I made it my job to ensure they felt supported, seen, and never alone. I helped them understand each step of the process and stayed with them—emotionally and logistically—until they were safely across the border.
There were many challenges—sudden policy changes, border closures, unreliable communications, and overwhelming fear on the ground. But we pushed through every obstacle, because we knew lives were at stake. It was exhausting, but deeply meaningful. I carry those families’ strength with me every day.
Tell us about the field trip you organized for Afghan women and girls living in exile in Pakistan. What inspired that idea, and what impact did these trips have on the participants?
Those trips were meant to give women and girls a breath of freedom. Life in exile is heavy—you’re always waiting, worrying, and unsure of what tomorrow holds. I wanted to offer them a moment of peace, joy, and simply feeling human again.
The impact was profound. Some told me it was the first time they had laughed or felt any hope in years. That reminded me how much small acts of care can mean.
As a refugee, I lived that same life alongside my mother and sisters. I know what it feels like to lose your sense of self and joy. That’s why I created these moments—not just for comfort, but for healing.
What advice would you give to young women, especially those with lived experience of displacement, who want to build a career in human rights work?
Your experiences are your strength. You don’t need to have everything figured out—just begin. Speak up. Connect with others. You belong in this field. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Find mentors, support one another, and keep going. Your voice matters, and it can make a real difference.
Now that you’re pursuing a master’s in public and international affairs, how do you see this next chapter of your life connecting to the work you’ve done and the causes you care about?
My master’s is helping me turn my passion into real policy change. Previously, I was directly helping people in crisis. Now, I want to shape the systems behind that work. I want to make sure policies respond to people’s needs—especially those of displaced communities. Pursuing my education is the next step to doing that.
What do you want Canadians to know about your field, and what challenges does it face?
Human rights and refugee support isn’t about charity—it’s about justice. This work is deeply personal and deeply important. But the field faces real challenges: heavy bureaucracy, burnout, limited funding, and too few people with lived experience in leadership roles. We need to cut through the red tape, include those voices, and support them. That’s how real change happens.
