Mir Rahimi — IACBA Speech, Ireland, 12 December 2025

Across Mountains, Land and Sea: Toward Justice and Humanity

Distinguished guests, members of the Bar, ladies and gentlemen, 

It is a profound honour to be with you today — among those who stand at the intersection of law and humanity.

Before I start, may ask you: 

Have you ever tried to imagine what war looks like through the eyes of a child — and what it asks of us as adults when innocence meets violence?

That question lies at the heart of my book, Across Mountains, Land and Sea — a memoir shaped not only by my own journey, but by the journeys of countless others whose lives have been shattered by war, loss, and unimaginable destructions – around the world. It is not merely a personal story. It is a mosaic of exiled hearts — a tapestry woven from the voices of children whose lullabies were gunfire, and whose childhoods vanished in the long shadows of war.

I was born in Afghanistan to a persecuted ethnic group called the Hazaras — a nation long scarred by violence, exile, and erasure. For more than a century, we have faced waves after waves of persecutions and genocide — a tragedy that began in the 1890s and still bleeds into the present day.
My earliest memories are not of innocence, but of the sound of machine-gun fire piercing the night, and of my mother whispering, “God is kind. Everything will be all right,” as rockets split the night sky.

When I was just a boy, she touched the back of my head — a silent goodbye — as I left our home. I crossed mountains, lands and seas, clinging to the thinnest thread of hope. On the Mediterranean Sea, as a storm rose, I almost drowned. A boy beside me called Bilal cried, “I don’t want to drown. I want to see my mother again.” I still hear his voice.

In 2015, along the same route, I saw the photograph of the three-year-old Alan Kurdi — lifeless on a Turkish beach — for a brief period a single image forced the world to look. But for every Alan, there are thousands whose names we will never know.
I eventually reached Dover hidden beneath a lorry — a boy who had seen too much and understood too little. Yet I was one of the lucky ones. I found safety, rebuilt my life, and I was even given the chance to go to university to search for the answers that had haunted me since childhood.

Can peace be more than a pause?
Can justice be more than a promise?
Can humanity be more than just a word?

I still don’t have those answers. But I have learned that how we approach these questions — determines who we are as a society.

Later, after my studies, I worked as a humanitarian with displaced people, particularly young people and children across Africa, the Middle East, and Europe — and I saw how the machinery of migration can both protect and fail. I met children who had been born and raised entirely in refugee camps, never once seen the world beyond their fences; families torn apart across borders whilst grieving for their loved ones left behind and those who lost their sense of identity long before they even crossed a border. 

And yet, amid all this, I witnessed the profound impact of those who serve with empathy: volunteers— caseworkers, advocates and lawyers —people who restore dignity one person at a time. Because every asylum claim, every appeal, every judgment is ultimately an act of recognition: a reminder that behind every file lies a heartbeat, a story, a life.

You, more than most, know that the law has a soul. And when it listens — when it sees the human being before the case — it has the power to restore what conflict and cruelty have tried to destroy: dignity, justice, and hope.

Across Mountains, Land and Sea was written to honour that very truth. It is not only my story — it is theirs. It speaks for those infants crushed under bombs and bullets in their homes and hospitals before they could even open their eyes, for the boys who drowned before they could write their names, for the girls who kidnapped, raped and vanished in the battlefields, for families displaced across borders while still holding onto the thinnest thread of hope for peace and justice.

When we tell these stories, we return dignity.
When we listen, we begin to heal.
When we uphold justice, we protect the moral fabric that holds our shared humanity together.

That is why your work matters so deeply. You operate in the delicate space between law and life — where policy meets the human story. You give shape to justice in ways most people will never see.

Let us be clear: All these tragedies—the deaths, destructions and mass displacements—are no acts of fate, nor tempests of nature. They are man-made: the bitter harvest of war, greed, and injustice. They are born of systems that exalt profit over people and power over principle – and they are sustained by a media machine that distorts truth and dulls our collective conscience. It decides whose suffering is seen and whose is forgotten.

As headlines flicker and fade, the trade in weapons thrives—worth billions—turning pain into profit and human lives into collateral. While the powerless bury their children, the powerful count their gains. For them, nothing is sacred and everything is up for grabs – for profit: our homes, our lives—even our dreams, and the light within our souls.

But it does not have to be this way. We can choose a different story — one grounded in empathy, fairness, and the rule of law. Because justice is more than just the interpretations of legislations; it is the restoration of humanity, of rights, and of dignity itself.

So, I ask you:
If not us, then who will challenge these injustices? Who will speak for those who cannot speak for themselves?

I know the challenges are immense and we cannot fix everything. We are living through a pivotal moment in time in in which far too many political leaders are driven by the pursuit of self-interest and politics of division. 

And yet—even in this climate—the flame of hope persists, quiet, steady, and resilient.
While, we may not be able to undo every injustice, but we can humanise every encounter. We can ensure that every decision made—whether in a courtroom, a chamber, or a simple conversation—reflects fairness, compassion, and an unyielding respect for human dignity.
As I look around this room, I do not see only lawyers or policymakers — I see custodians of compassion, guardians of fairness, and defenders of human dignity.

And so, as we leave this conference today, let us remember:
The most transformative revolutions begin quietly — not in the corridors of power, but in the hearts of those who choose fairness and empathy over indifference and cruelty. 

The world will always have those who thrive on division, despair and exploitation of others. But it will also have us — those who believe in the quiet power of decency, in the strength of our shared humanity, and in the enduring light of hope.

Hope for peace.
Hope for justice. And
Hope for humanity

So, let us be that light.

Let us carry it forward — together — across mountains, lands, and sea.

Thank you.