I set the The Kite Runner against a backdrop of the troubled history of Afghanistan over the last three decades. The story of Amir and Hassan unfolded against 30 long years of conflict and massive human suffering, during which millions of Afghans fled and sought sanctuary in Pakistan, Iran and beyond. Including my own family.

I remember the night that news of the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan broke. My family was in Paris, where my father worked as a diplomat for the Afghan embassy. When pictures of those Soviet tanks rolling on Afghan soil appeared on the screen of our small black and white television, I remember the solemn look on my parents' faces. Their life, at least as they had known it thus far, was over. Afghanistan was central to my parents' identity, to how they understood themselves. It was a heart-wrenching blow to their self-image, to their identity, when they realised that Afghanistan was lost to them.

In many ways, through my books, I have tried to find my way back to the home of my childhood. I think the heart of every refugee beats with the deep desire to return home.

As a UNHCR goodwill ambassador I've been back to Afghanistan with the UN Refugee Agency several times to help shine a spotlight on their vital, life-saving work and on refugee issues more broadly. My latest trip with UNHCR was not to the country of my birth but to Iraq. Kawergosk camp is one of seven refugee camps in the Kurdish region of northern Iraq. Coordinated and managed by UNHCR, the camps provide shelter and services to tens of thousands of Syrians who have escaped the war that, three years on, continues to ravage their country.

In Kawergosk I met with people whose experiences paralleled those of the Afghan refugees in so many ways: lives turned upside down, communities bombed to shreds, dreams trampled upon. I met traumatised children who had seen things that no child should ever hear about let alone witness. I saw children who could not go to school anymore, whose childhoods had been savagely interrupted, ended even, by violence.

But, like Afghans, Syrians are a determined and resilient people. At dusk, sitting on a nearby hill and looking out over the camp, I marvelled at how beauty can emerge, so improbably, even from the greatest of human tragedies. Women were cooking. Children ate popsicles and flew kites. Music was playing. I heard laughter and chatter and shouting coming from the salons and shops that enterprising refugees have set up along the main drag through the camp. Despite enormous challenges, these people who had lost everything were doing their best to rebuild their lives and create a sense of home and normality in the camp. Their hearts may be broken but they were pushing on, making something out of nothing, acting on the fundamental human instinct to create community and reach for hope and dignity. It was an unexpected beauty and I was deeply moved.