Many of the newly-arrived Syrians are haunted by the war. They're heartbroken about being separated from family members who are stranded in refugee camps or in conflict zones.

Ali Barsan, a father of three from the city of Aleppo — a UNESCO world heritage site before the war — still remembers what life was like before the conflict began in 2011, while he was working in building construction.

"Things were good, before," he says through a translator. "You'd wake up in the morning, feel a beautiful breeze. You'd hear the sound of your mother cooking breakfast in the background. I lived in a big house, with our whole family. I'd see all my brothers. While going to work, the whole neighbourhood would say hello to me as I walked by. We had a really strong community. And after finishing work, I'd have time to sit with your family and friends, drinking coffee or tea, chatting and catching up."

Today, however, that life is a distant memory. Like Seham, he's consumed with dread for family members who couldn't make it to safety.

"It's been five years since I've seen my parents. My mother and father, as well as my disabled brother, are stranded in Syria and surrounded by IS (Islamic State)," he says. "My other brother reached Turkey, after 15 days of walking, climbing over mountains. He's homeless now, sleeping on the streets in Adana. Also, two brothers — Hassan and Yasser — went to work in Lebanon, and they simply disappeared. There's also my sister, and her child..."

Barsan says he left with his family in 2011, once it became clear he would have to choose sides in a violent civil war. There are a dizzying number of groups in Syria's multi-front war, and he didn't want to join any of them.

"Even though I'd already done my (mandatory) military service, the Syrian (government) army approached me and asked me to join again. But I didn't want to use weapons on my own countrymen. Right after that, the Syria Free Army also approached me to fight on their side. That's why I left."

Asked if he knows friends or neighbours who were forced to join the fight, Barsan covers his eyes and and walks away, excusing himself. Someone comforts him as he stands with his back turned, trying to collect himself. After half a minute, he returns.

"Since this war started, every family has at least one member captured, one killed," he says heavily.

Suddenly, Barsan pulls out printouts of photos from a folder. They're graphic photos of dead toddlers, limp and lifeless, babies covered in dust.

"These were children in Syria, killed during Eid," he says, referencing Eid al-Fitr — one of the most important holidays observed by Muslims, marking the end of Ramadan.

A Canadian resident extends her hand to prevent a nearby Syrian child from catching a glimpse of the photos, but it's soon evident that these images are nothing new for children who escaped the war.

Barsan's son, Hazim, takes one of the photos from the pile and holds it up. Barsan says his three children — two boys and a daughter — have trouble sleeping, and ask him what happened to their uncles. Barsan has worked with a translator to send letters to the Canadian government, pleading for them to approve applications for his siblings to come to Canada.

Like Seham Alomar, they feel fortunate for making it to Canada—they're among a tiny minority of applicants who cleared all the hurdles to get here.

But it is obvious they are only partly present for the celebration in Langley, preoccupied with thoughts of relatives who haven't been as lucky.

After her speech, young Seham looks distraught when asked about her sister.

"I can't describe her, because she's like an angel," she says, her whole body stiffening. "I feel I'm going to go crazy without her here."