The words ``We Teach Life Sir'' resonated through my eighth-grade English classroom. Rafeef Ziadah’s poem fights the negative stereotypes against Palestinians, and yet, it seemed as if her words were simply echoing through the room, unaffecting the students’ paradigm. As the motif “We Teach Life Sir'' repeats, heads turn towards me followed by whispers. The last chorus of the motif echoes through the room, when someone remarks the word “terrorist.” My teacher asks me if I have anything to add to which I stay silent. While I was aware of my Palestinian roots, I knew little of them in actuality. Without this wisdom, I felt as if I was trapped in a self-made mental prison. I had denied my identity just to fit in and avert attention from myself––I rejected parts of me. Living in New York post 9-11 as a Palestinian Muslim often subjected me to strange looks and harmful stereotypes. As a result, I eliminated physical traces of my Palestinian DNA, sporting chemically straightened hair and tinted moisturizers three shades too light. The aromas of spice that existed in my lunchbox had been replaced with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The summer I turned fourteen, my family and I visited Palestine for the first time. Once we arrived, I surprisingly noticed a weight on my chest dissipate. I found myself falling into a rhythm, slowly embracing my once ignored roots and finding comfort in my self-realized identity. Wake up, have sage-tea with my great-grandmother, eat zaatar bread with freshly cracked olives, walk my younger cousins to the bodega helping them practice their Arabic, and then explore both my surroundings and my identity. When we first arrived at the souk, the smells of cardamom and allspice wafted through the air tickling my nose. I ran my fingers across the finest silk and tasted the most refreshing date juice. I noticed Palestinians around me of all colors and religions, each considering the Holy Land their home, greeting one another like old friends. I marveled at how diversity was celebrated rather than scrutinized. Witnessing this possibility firsthand was a breakthrough for me. Each intricate piece of Palestine allowed me to realize my efforts of suppressing my identity were so much more than me merely trying to fit in, I was stripping myself of my own unique qualities. Prior to my visit, I was uncomfortable with my ethnicity. Through my experience in Palestine, I felt the doors of my mental prison slowly open, until they were wide enough, to set me free from the misconceived notion fed to me by society. This acceptance of my identity was greater than simply an acceptance of my ethnicity. This served as a catalyst for me to be able to embrace myself for all that is me. I embraced my autonomy in every facet of myself whether it was enjoying doodling to philosophical podcasts. I ceased to shy away from my idiosyncrasies. All along I had surrendered myself to fear, afraid that vocalizing my true-self might excommunicate me from society. My visit to Jerusalem therefore strikes a passion within me, as it became a pilgrimage for my very own self-actualization. Being in Jerusalem urged me to discover who I truly was. Overcoming this did not only lead to my own self-realization, but also allowed me to be a vehicle for others. I reflected beyond this; living in a country which parades acceptance, I questioned why it was that I had trouble with this very acceptance. My success story was one, yet there are many more with similar experiences—I feel responsible to reclaim this American ideal.

When I volunteered with Greater NYC Families for Syria, I was met by a pregnant Muslim woman and her three daughters with gifts in hand. Once welcomed into their home, we sat in an intimate circle drinking traditional Syrian coffee. As I spoke with her eldest daughter, I was amazed by her positive outlook on life. Despite her recent arrival to this foreign land, never once did she complain. At this moment I wondered why these people, who had suffered greatly, were offering us gifts? What compelled them to do so, and why did they honor us in such a way? Through my reflection, I came to an inarguable conclusion- these people with tangibly so little had so much because of Islam. Islam gave them peace of mind and heart and guided them to an enlightened mindset where they appreciated goodness rather than being unaware of what they may already have. Seeing how full their hearts were and how appreciative they were of the little nimeh they had emboldened me to desire the same outlook on life. Allah allowed me to meet this family and gave me the opportunity to; while I believed I was helping them settle as refugees in the United States, they, unknowingly, were role models for me. I yearned to embody their mindset and outlook on the dunya and embraced their frame of mind. As I journey closer to Islam I find blessings in the smallest of instances. These blessings lift me and show me how to act as a Muslim- highlighting the morals of Islam. Being a part of a religion of service Speech Pathology is a perfect career that meets at the intersections of helping, being of service, and showcasing the good that Islam is. I first handedly witnessed this when helping my younger cousin’s pronunciation of Arabic. Helping him pronounce letters correctly, and telling him how to manipulate his tongue to best create a sound instilled confidence in my cousin. This cousin now continues to work on memorizing the Qur’an utilizing the skills I had the privilege to give to them. As a speech pathologist, a career dominated by non-muslims, I will have the opportunity to beautifully represent Islam and to practice my religion every day through my work. This scholarship will allow me to be one step closer to fulfilling my dreams and fulfilling the Sunnah of the Prophet (SAW) by helping those in need every day and giving them the courage and a voice to be who they are while also spreading the message of Islam. I hope to be a bilingual Speech Pathologist and to aid Muslims in their Quranic pronunciations so they can recite the Qur’an confidently and with ease.

When I volunteered with Greater NYC Families for Syria, I was met by a pregnant woman and her three daughters with gifts in hand. Once welcomed into their home, we sat in an intimate circle drinking traditional Syrian coffee. As I spoke with her eldest daughter in Arabic, I was amazed by her positive outlook on life. Despite her recent arrival to this foreign land, never once did she complain. At this moment I wondered why these people, who had suffered greatly, were offering us gifts? What compelled them to do so, and why did they honor us in such a way? Why do people become prone to certain ways of life? Could it have something to do with a cultural or religious standing? This small seed of thought expanded into something more. These questions resonated in my mind, leaving markings of who I was destined to become. I yearned to analyze the intersections between anthropology and sociology and how pieces of art or literature show the development of a nation and its people.