To stand up for what is right is to be honest with yourself about your complicity. But it also means acknowledging the value that you hold as a human in delivering courage in places where it is scarce. I spent my childhood sheltered from the politics that surrounded my upbringing, but its effects still seeped into my little microcosm of a world. At five years old, I would curiously look at the young children who lined up the streets of Khartoum and wonder where they went to school, when they returned home. At seven, I learned they didn’t have homes and felt stricken. By eleven, I would make sandwiches and hand them out at the foot of my door. Watching my parents create rapport with individuals who needed assistance within our community fueled me to reflect on the position of privilege I had been blessed with, and so I tried to do the same. Being your friendly neighborhood do-gooder came easy for me, but using my voice didn’t come so easily. I didn’t participate in civil events and I never voiced my political opinion. I chose to isolate myself from politics and cultural disputes because all I understood was a system that perpetuated hate. I found no hope in fixing a broken system; my hope lay in fixing a broken community, much like William Du Bois. But just like Du Bois I was, as a result, not striving for more for my people. At fourteen, the revolution started and I was finally put in the position to acknowledge the social responsibility I had been avoiding. The Sudanese Revolution of 2019 was a cultural healing for me. Within myself, I was able to reconcile my history and my country’s history. We weren’t condemned to helplessness even if colonization after regime after another made it seem so. We always had a national dream. We were now one. We were joyous creatives from the desert, determined pursuers of justice, and gentle-toned workers. We used those mixed heritages to fight through resistance art, organizing protests, and education. I was finally honest with myself. I chose to acknowledge the value my voice and actions held in my life. Those moments, as I stood under a billboard painted with words of resistance, and felt the collective sadness of a nation, created a cascade of unforgettable emotions that are continuously shaping my advocacy today. Mohamed was one of those life events. Advocacy didn't come easily to me, but even in school, Mohamed had already lived a life of advocacy. Not once have I thought of social advocacy and not been inspired by his generous and courageous spirit. May Allah grant him Jannah. And so those cascades led to others: I spent my junior year of High school participating in my school’s Flood Relief Initiative, collecting donations for flooded regions, and became the President in my senior year. I was the Head of Media for my school’s Ramadan Baskets Initiative and later a mentor for the following cohort. During my gap year, I was a K-5 Classroom Assistant at a refugee school and was inspired to pursue a career in Educational Neuroscience. I am now nineteen and no longer hopeless in the face of a system. I understand the value of both community and system, the extent of loss, and also what remains to be seen. My voice has a responsibility and I plan to continue using it to provide research that can support children in regions of educational disparity, especially amongst the lost voices of refugees and war-torn immigrants of Sudan.