I am Harari. The chances of understanding what that means are very slim, and I wish it weren’t that way. Harari people come from a small tribe in Ethiopia, and we have the most unique culture. From the deliciously spicy food to the ornate traditional clothes, I have grown to love everything about being Harari. The only thing that depresses me about it is our size. Harari people were once very prevalent in Ethiopia and were once the majority in our hometown of Harar, but years of persecution caused our numbers to diminish by thousands. This persecution even caused my dad to fear for his life at such a young age and to flee from Harar, jump from country to country, and finally land in America. Because of this, my parents never went to high school, let alone college. My dad worked harder than anyone I’ve ever met for his whole life and managed to provide an amazing life for my family- even without a formal education. Though they moved so far from their home, my parents never failed to instill a strong Harari identity into me. We have a Geygar (a small room with handmade cultural decorations and Quran verses adorning the walls) in our house, which is very common in Harar. My parents taught me the endangered language of Geysinan, in hopes to keep it alive through my sister and me. Every summer, Hararis worldwide meet up in one city, with Harar, Ethiopia being the designated city every 5 years. There is also a small, but strong, Harari community in Memphis. They have always supported me, and when they found out I was going to Rice, they had such high hopes for me and expected me to be a doctor. With my heart full, I realized that everyone who has helped me get to where I am today is counting on me to be successful, and I would not let them down. Everyone told me to be a doctor, so that is what I thought I would do. I used to be a pre-med This all changed when I began to do intensive research about the physician profession. I had to do a research paper for one of my classes in junior year, and since I wanted to be a doctor, I wanted to learn more about the medical field. I came across the topic of physician burnout, and it instantly pulled me in. I learned so much about what medical residents go through and the long hours they have to work, and I began to doubt my choice. I learned that the suicide rate for physicians is almost triple the average person, and I was officially swayed. I have always wanted to work in the medical field though, so I was lost. When I found the physician assistant (PA) profession, I realized I found a new career plan. They get to treat and diagnose patients just like a doctor does but with supervision. I also liked the lateral mobility PAs are offered, and specializing in one thing for the rest of my life always stressed me out. I also liked the shorter schooling time, as I hope to start a family soon and it would be easier without the long path that future doctors must endure. I also found that the career satisfaction for PAs is very high. I am very excited to treat patients and be a PA, but I know that I still have a long road ahead of me. I will make my family and all the Hararis proud one day, doctor or not.

When I was in eighth grade, my best friend, Ruweida, confided in me and told me a girl physically choked her on the school bus because she was wearing a hijab. At that young age, I couldn't understand why someone would want to do that. Even our classmates called her a terrorist because of her hijab in front of me, and it made my blood boil. I know it was simply out of hate, and I became determined to change how Islam is perceived. Islamophobia is a major problem in our world today, and I am determined to change it through community service. “Ummah” translated from Arabic means community. Until the Memphis area code was slapped onto the front, I never knew the meaning of this wonderful word. My Islamic faith has grown immensely since 901Ummah partnered with our local mosque (MIC) to make sure the youth are passionate about our religion and helping the community. Whether it was for Friday prayer, Quran classes, or a 901Ummah event, I was at the mosque; MIC became my second home. 901Ummah helped me gain a new perspective on service by teaching me that giving is an integral part of Islam, so I began to implement this principle into my life. I also realized that by being kind and helping out the community, people could see that Islam is peaceful. Now, I look for any way to make someone’s day easier without expecting anything in return. From cleaning up poorer parts of Memphis to cheering on marathon runners, the smiles of people who appreciate the work we do always make my day. It makes me feel as though my actions are unraveling any past assumptions they have made about me because of the scarf on my head, and it makes me feel strong. My years spent with 901Ummah have shaped me into who I am today, and I couldn't be more grateful. The fear people may have of Muslims can and will be dissipated through my volunteer work as well as the generosity Muslims naturally show toward others. Being a black Muslim doesn’t make it any easier, but with this scholarship, I could continue to make an impact. It wasn’t fair for Ruweida, and it isn’t fair for any other Muslims in the world who are discriminated against. I hope to spread knowledge about Islam in the Houston community, where my university is, and show how peaceful we really are. I strive to become one of the few hijabi physician assistants (PA) and work alongside doctors and nurses as well. As I do my best to heal people in the hospitals one day, they will begin to see the kindness and peacefulness Muslims bring to the world. It has been my dream to work as a PA for several years, but schooling is so expensive that I am always scared about how I will afford it all. Without help from this scholarship, I would struggle even more to afford school, and I would be forced to spend more time working instead doing my best in school. All I want is to show how non-threatnening Muslims are to those who are more close-minded through my kindness and willingness to help, and I can easily do that one patient at a time as a PA. I will work hard to achieve my goals and spread my message, and I will let nothing stop me. No one should ever be choked for their faith, and I will do my part to make sure that never happens again.

When I was in eighth grade, my best friend, Ruweida, confided in me and told me a girl physically choked her on the school bus because she was wearing a hijab. At that young age, I couldn't understand why someone would want to do that. Even our classmates called her a terrorist because of her hijab in front of me, and it made my blood boil. I know it was simply out of hate, and I became determined to change how Islam is perceived. Islamophobia is a major negative part of my environment, and I am determined to change it through community service. “Ummah” translated from Arabic means community. Until the Memphis area code was slapped onto the front, I never knew the meaning of this wonderful word. My Islamic faith has grown immensely since 901Ummah partnered with our local mosque (MIC) to make sure the youth are passionate about our religion and helping the community. Whether it was for Friday prayer, Quran classes, or a 901Ummah event, I was at the mosque; MIC became my second home. 901Ummah helped me gain a new perspective on service by teaching me that giving is an integral part of Islam, so I began to implement this principle into my life. I also realized that by being kind and helping out the community, people could see that Islam is peaceful. Now, I look for any way to make someone’s day easier without expecting anything in return. From cleaning up poorer parts of Memphis to cheering on marathon runners, the smiles of people who appreciate the work we do always make my day. It makes me feel as though my actions are unraveling any past assumptions they have made about me because of the scarf on my head, and it makes me feel strong. My years spent with 901Ummah have shaped me into who I am today, and I couldn't be more grateful. The fear people may have of Muslims can and will be dissipated through my volunteer work as well as the generosity Muslims naturally show toward others. Being a black Muslim doesn’t make it any easier, but with this scholarship, I could continue to make an impact. It wasn’t fair for Ruweida, and it isn’t fair for any other Muslims in the world who are discriminated against. I hope to spread knowledge about Islam in the Houston community, where my university is, and show how peaceful we really are. I strive to become one of the few hijabi physician assistants (PA) and work alongside doctors and nurses as well. The classes are tough, but I know I have Allah on my side always. As I do my best to heal people in the hospitals one day, they will begin to see the kindness and peacefulness Muslims bring to the world. It has been my dream to work as a PA for several years, but schooling is so expensive that I am always scared about how I will afford it all. Without help from this scholarship, I would struggle even more to afford school, and I would be forced to spend more time working instead doing my best in school. All I want is to show the true message of Islam to those who are more close-minded, and I can easily do that one patient at a time as a PA. I will work hard to achieve my goals and spread my message, and I will let nothing stop me. No one should ever be choked for their faith, and I will do my part to make sure that never happens again.

When I was in eighth grade, my best friend, Ruweida, confided in me and told me a girl physically choked her on the school bus because she was wearing a hijab. At that young age, I couldn't understand why someone would want to do that. Even our classmates called her a terrorist because of her hijab in front of me, and it made my blood boil. I know it was simply out of hate, and I became determined to change how Islam is perceived. Islamophobia is a major problem in our world today, and I am determined to change it through community service. “Ummah” translated from Arabic means community. Until the Memphis area code was slapped onto the front, I never knew the meaning of this wonderful word. My Islamic faith has grown immensely since 901Ummah partnered with our local mosque (MIC) to make sure the youth are passionate about our religion and helping the community. Whether it was for Friday prayer, Quran classes, or a 901Ummah event, I was at the mosque; MIC became my second home. 901Ummah helped me gain a new perspective on service by teaching me that giving is an integral part of Islam, so I began to implement this principle into my life. I also realized that by being kind and helping out the community, people could see that Islam is peaceful. Now, I look for any way to make someone’s day easier without expecting anything in return. From cleaning up poorer parts of Memphis to cheering on marathon runners, the smiles of people who appreciate the work we do always make my day. It makes me feel as though my actions are unraveling any past assumptions they have made about me because of the scarf on my head, and it makes me feel strong. My years spent with 901Ummah have shaped me into who I am today, and I couldn't be more grateful. The fear people may have of Muslims can and will be dissipated through my volunteer work as well as the generosity Muslims naturally show toward others. Being a black Muslim doesn’t make it any easier, but with this scholarship, I could continue to make an impact. It wasn’t fair for Ruweida, and it isn’t fair for any other Muslims in the world who are discriminated against. I hope to spread knowledge about Islam in the Houston community, where my university is, and show how peaceful we really are. I strive to become one of the few hijabi physician assistants (PA) and work alongside doctors and nurses as well. The classes are tough, but I know I have Allah on my side always. As I do my best to heal people in the hospitals one day, they will begin to see the kindness and peacefulness Muslims bring to the world. It has been my dream to work as a PA for several years, but schooling is so expensive that I am always scared about how I will afford it all. Without help from this scholarship, I would struggle even more to afford school, and I would be forced to spend more time working instead doing my best in school. All I want is to show the true message of Islam to those who are more close-minded, and I can easily do that one patient at a time as a PA. I will work hard to achieve my goals and spread my message, and I will let nothing stop me. No one should ever be choked for their faith, and I will do my part to make sure that never happens again.

1. I am a Cognitive Sciences major at Rice University because the brain fascinates me and seeing how philosophy, computer science, neuroscience, psychology, and linguistics intersects draws my interest. 2. My strengths are my positive energy, faith, and my determination. My weaknesses are I am quite indecisive and often put the needs of others before my own. 3. I am Harari. The chances of understanding what that means is very slim, and I wish it weren’t that way. Harari people are Muslims who come from a small tribe in Ethiopia, and we have the most unique culture. From the deliciously spicy food to the ornate traditional clothes, I have grown to love everything about being Harari. The only thing that depresses me about it is our size. Harari people were once very prevalent in Ethiopia, but years of persecution caused our numbers to diminish by thousands. This persecution even caused my dad to fear for his life at such a young age and to flee from Harar, jump from country to country, and finally land in America. Because of this, my parents never went to high school, let alone college. My dad worked harder than anyone I’ve ever met for his whole life and managed to provide an amazing life for my family- even without a formal education. Though they moved so far from their home, my parents never failed to instill a strong Harari identity into me. We have a geygar (a small room with handmade cultural decorations and Quran verses adorning the walls) in our house, which is very common in Harar. My parents taught me the endangered language of Geysinan, in hopes to keep it alive through my sister and me. The Harari people have always supported me, and when they found out I was going to Rice University, they had such high hopes for me. I realized that everyone who has helped me get to where I am is counting on me. Now that I am far away from home, I feel extremely blessed to get the opportunity for formal education, but it is extremely expensive. The cost always weighs on my mind, but I try not to let it affect my performance, which is why the scholarship would be amazing. Unlike the majority of my peers, I have no family that went to college. As a physician’s assistant, inshAllah, I dream of working to heal people at a clinic for low-income families because I didn’t have health insurance for a long time before I came to Rice, but the medical staff at our clinic always made me and my family feel like we were getting the best service regardless. I also want to become the first Harari physician assistant and provide care for all Harari people to repay them for all they have done for me. I am determined to make an impact on Rice, as well as the world, and leave it better than I came. I am a Harari girl, and one day everyone will know who I am. 4. My favorite movie is Aladdin. I always watched it as a child and thought the songs, characters, and plot were very enchanting. 5. My greatest achievement as a Muslim, though it may seem trivial, has been putting on the hijab. I began to wear it in my senior year, and it was a hard decision. I did not know many peers who wore it, and I attended a primarily white high school. My hair always felt like a part of my identity, but I knew I needed to prioritize my religion.

I am Harari. The chances of understanding what that means are very slim, and I wish it weren’t that way. Harari people come from a small tribe in Ethiopia, and we have the most unique culture. From the deliciously spicy food to the ornate traditional clothes, I have grown to love everything about being Harari. The only thing that depresses me about it is our size. Harari people were once very prevalent in Ethiopia, but years of persecution caused our numbers to diminish by thousands. This persecution even caused my dad to fear for his life at such a young age and to flee from Harar, jump from country to country, and finally land in America. Because of this, my parents never went to high school, let alone college. My dad worked harder than anyone I’ve ever met for his whole life and managed to provide an amazing life for my family- even without a formal education. Though they moved so far from their home, my parents never failed to instill a strong Harari identity into me. We have a geygar (a small room with handmade cultural decorations and Quran verses adorning the walls) in our house, which is very common in Harar. My parents taught me our endangered language of geysinan, in hopes to keep it alive through my sister and I. The Harari people have always supported me, and when they found out I was going to Rice University, they had such high hopes for me. I realized that everyone who has helped me get to where I am today is counting on me to be successful, and I will not let them down. I have worked extremely hard all my life to get to where I am now, but it has not been easy. I am from Tennessee, and my high school was predominantly white. I would be lucky if there was another black person in my class or another Muslim. Finding someone who was both, like me, was practically impossible. I often felt isolated at school, but I focused on my studies regardless because I knew I had big dreams that were unattainable without lots of effort. Knowing this, I knew getting into a good school would increase my chances. I studied extremely hard, joined many clubs, and poured my heart into my college applications last year, and my hard work paid off. I got accepted into every school I applied to, and ultimately chose Rice. Now that I am far away from home, I feel extremely blessed to get the opportunity for formal education. Unlike the majority of my peers here, I have no family that went to college. With this in mind, I plan to make the most out of these next four years. The main problem is the cost, though. I want to reach my dreams, but everything is expensive for me, and this scholarship would help. As a physician’s assistant, I dream of working to heal people at a clinic for low-income families because I didn’t have health insurance for a long time before I came to Rice, but the medical staff at our clinic always made me and my family feel like we were getting the best service regardless. I also want to become the first Harari physician assistant and provide care for all Harari people to repay them for all they have done for me. I am determined to make an impact on Rice, as well as the world, and leave it better than I came. I am a Harari girl, and one day everyone will know who I am.

I am Harari. The chances of understanding what that means is very slim, and I wish it weren’t that way. Harari people come from a small tribe in Ethiopia, and we have the most unique culture. From the delicious spicy food, to the ornate traditional clothes, I have grown to love everything about being Harari. The only thing that depresses me about it is our size. Harari people were once very prevalent in Ethiopia, but years of persecution caused our numbers to diminish by thousands. This persecution even caused my dad to fear for his life at such a young age and to flee from Harar, jump country to country, and finally land in America. Because of this, my parents never went to high school, let alone college. My dad worked harder than anyone I’ve ever met for his whole life, and managed to provide an amazing life for my family- even without a formal education. Though they moved so far from their home, my parents never failed to instill a strong Harari identity into me. We have a geygar (a small room with handmade cultural decorations and Quran verses adorning the walls) in our house, which is very common in Harar. My parents taught me our endangered language of geysinan, in hopes to keep it alive through my sister and I. The Harari people have always supported me, and when they found out I was going to Rice University, they had such high hopes for me. “All the hararis are proud of you, Atira,” my dad would always tell me. With my heart full, I realized that everyone who has helped me get to where I am today is counting on me to be successful, and I will not let them down. I have worked extremely hard all my life to get to where I am now, but it has not been easy. I am from Tennessee, and my high school was predominantly white. I would be lucky if there was another black person in my class, or another muslim. Finding someone who was both, like me, was practically impossible. I often felt isolated at school, but I focused on my studies regardless because I knew I had big dreams that were unattainable without lots of effort. Knowing this, I knew getting into a good school would increase my chances. I studied extremely hard, joined many clubs, and poured my heart out into my college applications last year, and my hard work paid off. I got accepted into every school I applied to, and ultimately chose Rice. Now that I am far away from home, I feel extremely blessed to get the opportunity for formal education. Unlike the majority of my peers here, I have no family that went to college. With this in mind, I plan to make the most out of these next four years. As a physician’s assistant, I dream of working to heal people at a clinic for low-income families because I didn’t have health insurance for a long time before I came to Rice, but the medical staff at our clinic always made me and my family feel like we were getting the best service regardless. I also want to become the first Harari physician assistant, and provide care for all Harari people to repay them for all they have done for me. I am determined to make an impact on Rice, as well as the world, and leave it better than I came. I am a Harari girl, and one day everyone will know who I am.

I am Harari. The chances of understanding what that means is very slim, and I wish it weren’t that way. Harari people come from a small tribe in Ethiopia, and we have the most unique culture. From the delicious spicy food, to the ornate traditional clothes, I have grown to love everything about being Harari. The only thing that depresses me about it is our size. Harari people were once very prevalent in Ethiopia, but years of persecution caused our numbers to diminish by thousands. This persecution even caused my dad to fear for his life at such a young age and to flee from Harar, jump from country to country, and finally land in America. Because of this, my parents never went to high school, let alone college. My dad worked harder than anyone I’ve ever met for his whole life and managed to provide an amazing life for my family- even without a formal education. Though they moved so far from their home, my parents never failed to instill a strong Harari identity into me. We have a geygar (a small room with handmade cultural decorations and Quran verses adorning the walls) in our house, which is very common in Harar. My parents taught me our endangered language of geysinan, in hopes to keep it alive through my sister and I. The Harari people have always supported me, and when they found out I was going to Rice University, they had such high hopes for me. “All the Hararis are proud of you, Atira,” my dad would always tell me. With my heart full, I realized that everyone who has helped me get to where I am today is counting on me to be successful, and I will not let them down. I have worked extremely hard all my life to get to where I am now, but it has not been easy. I am from Tennessee, and my high school was predominantly white. I would be lucky if there was another black person in my class or another Muslim. Finding someone who was both, like me, was practically impossible. I often felt isolated at school, but I focused on my studies regardless because I knew I had big dreams that were unattainable without lots of effort. Knowing this, I knew getting into a good school would increase my chances. I studied extremely hard, joined many clubs, and poured my heart into my college applications last year, and my hard work paid off. I got accepted into every school I applied to, and ultimately chose Rice. Now that I am far away from home, I feel extremely blessed to get the opportunity for formal education. Unlike the majority of my peers here, I have no family that went to college. With this in mind, I plan to make the most out of these next four years. As a physician’s assistant, I dream of working to heal people at a clinic for low-income families because I didn’t have health insurance for a long time before I came to Rice, but the medical staff at our clinic always made me and my family feel like we were getting the best service regardless. I also want to become the first Harari physician assistant and provide care for all Harari people to repay them for all they have done for me. I am determined to make an impact on Rice, as well as the world, and leave it better than I came. I am a Harari girl, and one day everyone will know who I am.

Day by Day playlist: Life Goes On -BTS Lunchbox Friends - Melanie Martinez People Watching - Conan Gray Zero O’Clock - BTS Heat Waves - Glass Animals Fake Smile- Ariana Grande Created by Artist: Patience

When I was in fifth grade, as I was browsing the internet as a curious 10-year-old, I came across a BrainPop video titled “Appendix. ” I had no idea what that word meant, so I innocently clicked play and waited for my favorite teachers, Tim and Moby, to teach me all about it. They explained that the appendix was an organ that was once useful but has lost its primary use in the human body. I thought it was fascinating until my interest turned to fear. Tim began to explain the condition appendicitis, a possible fatal inflammation of the appendix, and the visual representation of the swelling paired and children, like me, in excruciating pain terrified me, but I was also intrigued. In my mind, this was the scariest, but the coolest thing I’d ever seen. The next day in school I had to show everyone my discovery. I played the video for all my friends individually and watched their faces expecting the same reaction as me. When they didn't react or even seemed bored, I was very confused. This was the most interesting thing in the world! I came to realize that they may be interested in other things and that this may be a part of my passion. The way that evolution caused a once important organ to shrivel up into a possible hindrance piqued my interest. The fact that a seemingly useless organ, if inflamed, could be fatal was amazing. This was the beginning of my love for medicine. Since I viewed that BrainPop, I’ve done everything I can to learn more about healthcare and STEM. In the summer of my sophomore year of high school, I participated in the Regional One Teenteer Health program. I had the opportunity to shadow doctors, gain experience in a hospital environment, and even see a real cadaver. The two weeks spent at Regional One Health have made my passion for medicine grow even stronger. In summer 2019, I was accepted into the Governor's School for Sciences and Engineering at the University of Tennessee Knoxville. Though virtual, I took a biology class and two STEM classes. I met other kids passionate about STEM like me during this month and gained experience in real college courses. I’ve competed in competitions, too. I also won a 4th and 2nd place award at the statewide Beta Club Convention in the Science division. I’ve taken all the high-level science and math courses available at my high school and only grew to love STEM more. I was also a member of the Science National Honor Society, Mu Alpha Theta, and Science Bowl. Now that I attend Rice University, I am exploring my interests further. I am planning to major in Cognitive Science with a specialization in Neuroscience as well as a minor in Medical Humanities. I want to engage in research and pursue internships and shadowing opportunities at the Texas Medical Center across the street from my school. The possibilities are endless, and everything I’m doing now is to learn more about STEM and to improve my chances of getting into physician assistant school and being the best healthcare provider I possibly can be. Looking back, I am proud of all my achievements and only plan to pursue STEM further in the future. As a physician assistant, I will be using STEM every single day and treating patients, and I couldn't imagine a career more perfect for me. At ten years old, I never knew the impact that a 4-minute BrainPop would have on my life, but I can’t wait to continue to learn about STEM.

When I was in fifth grade, as I was browsing the internet as a curious 10-year-old, I came across a BrainPop video titled “Appendix. ” I had no idea what that word meant, so I innocently clicked play and waited for my favorite teachers, Tim and Moby, to teach me all about it. They explained that the appendix was an organ that was once useful but has lost its primary use in the human body. I thought it was fascinating until my interest turned to fear. Tim began to explain the condition appendicitis, a possible fatal inflammation of the appendix, and the visual representation of the swelling paired and children, like me, in excruciating pain terrified me, but I was also intrigued. In my mind, this was the scariest, but the coolest thing I’d ever seen. The next day in school I HAD to show everyone my discovery. I played the video for all my friends individually and watched their faces expecting the same reaction as me. When they didn't react or even seemed bored, I was very confused. This was the most interesting thing in the world! I came to realize that they may be interested in other things and that this may be a part of my passion. The way that evolution caused a once important organ to shrivel up into a possible hindrance piqued my interest. The fact that a seemingly useless organ, if inflamed, could be fatal was amazing. This was the beginning of my love for medicine. Since I viewed that BrainPop, I’ve done everything I can to learn more about healthcare and STEM. In the summer of my sophomore year of high school, I participated in the Regional One Teenteer Health program. I had the opportunity to shadow doctors, gain experience in a hospital environment, and even see a real cadaver. The two weeks spent at Regional One Health have made my passion for medicine grow even stronger. In summer 2019, I was accepted into the Governor's School for Sciences and Engineering at the University of Tennessee Knoxville. Though virtual, I took a biology class and two STEM classes. I met other kids passionate about STEM like me during this month and gained experience in real college courses. I’ve competed in competitions, too. I also won a 4th and 2nd place award at the statewide Beta Club Convention in the Science division. I’ve taken all the high-level science and math courses available at my high school and only grew to love STEM more. I was also a member of the Science National Honor Society, Mu Alpha Theta, and Science Bowl. Now that I attend Rice University, I am exploring my interests further. I am planning to major in Cognitive Science with a specialization in Neuroscience as well as a minor in Medical Humanities. I want to engage in research and pursue internships and shadowing opportunities at the Texas Medical Center across the street from my school. The possibilities are endless, and everything I’m doing now is to learn more about STEM and to improve my chances of getting into physician assistant school and being the best healthcare provider I possibly can be. Looking back, I am proud of all my achievements and only plan to pursue STEM further in the future. As a physician assistant, I will be using STEM every single day and treating patients, and I couldn't imagine a career more perfect for me. At ten years old, I never knew the impact that a 4-minute BrainPop would have on my life, but I can’t wait to continue to learn about STEM.

“You were choked?” I asked my best friend, completely dumbfounded. When I was in eight grade, my best friend, Ruweida, confided in me and while she was on the bus, a girl choked her because of her hijab. At that young age, I couldn't understand why someone would do that. Even our fellow classmates called her a terrorist because of her hijab, and it made my blood boil. I became determined to change how Islam is percieved. Islamophobia is a major problem in our world today, and I am determined to change it through community service. 901Ummah, a muslim youth program at my local mosque, helped me gain a new perspective on service. I realized that by being kind and helping out the community, people could see that Islam is peaceful. From cleaning up poorer parts of Memphis to cheering on marathon runners, the smiles of people who appreciate the work we do always makes my day. It makes me feel as though my actions are unraveling any past assumptions they have made about me because of the scarf on my head, and it makes me feel strong. My years spent with 901Ummah have shaped me into who I am today, and I couldn't be more grateful. The fear people may have of Muslims can and will be dissipated through my volunteer work as well as the generosity Muslims naturally show towards others. Being a black muslim doesn’t make it any easier, but with the Bold Deep Thinking scholarship, I could continue to make an impact. It wasn’t fair for Ruweida, and it isn’t fair for any other Muslims in the world who are discriminated against. No one should ever be choked for their faith, and I am doing my part to make sure that never happens again.

Anime was weird foreign cartoons. Anime watchers were awkward and lacked social skills. Hearing these stereotypes at school, I avoided anime altogether. However, in the beginning of quarantine, I began questioning these clichés. I decided to try something new and give Haikyuu a try. It took a while to understand the intricacies of volleyball, but once I did, I was hooked. Minutes turned into hours as I escaped into the complicated lives of the most lovable characters, my personal favorite being Sugawara. Their drive and determination as a team drew me in. Anything they put their mind to became possible and I admired that. From Haikyuu, I learned to not ever give up and think that a goal is unachievable. Being closed-minded to anime made me sheltered and naive. Haikyuu opened my eyes to the vast anime world, and I cannot wait to catch up on all I’ve missed.

“You were choked?” I asked my best friend, completely dumbfounded. When I was in eight grade, my best friend, Ruweida, confided in me and while she was on the bus, a girl choked her because she was wearing a hijab. At that young age, I couldn't understand why someone would want to do that. Even our fellow classmates called her a terrorist because of her hijab, and it made my blood boil. I know it was simply out of hate, and I became determined to change how Islam is percieved. Islamophobia is a major problem in our world today, and I am determined to change it through community service. “Ummah” translated from Arabic means community. Until the Memphis area code was slapped onto the front, I never knew the meaning of this wonderful word. My Islamic faith has grown immensely since 901Ummah partnered with our local mosque (MIC) to make sure the youth are passionate about our religion and helping the community. Whether it was for Friday prayer, Quran classes, or a 901Ummah event, I was at the mosque; MIC became my second home. 901Ummah helped me gain a new perspective on service by teaching me that giving is an integral part of Islam, so I began to implement this principle into my life. I also realized that by being kind and helping out the community, people could see that Islam is peaceful. Now, I look for any way to make someone’s day easier without expecting anything in return. From cleaning up poorer parts of Memphis to cheering on marathon runners, the smiles of people who appreciate the work we do always makes my day. It makes me feel as though my actions are unraveling any past assumptions they have made about me because of the scarf on my head, and it makes me feel strong. My years spent with 901Ummah have shaped me into who I am today, and I couldn't be more grateful. The fear people may have of Muslims can and will be dissipated through my volunteer work as well as the generosity Muslims naturally show towards others. Being a black muslim doesn’t make it any easier, but with the Brandon Zylstra Road Less Traveled scholarship, I could continue to make an impact. It wasn’t fair for Ruweida, and it isn’t fair for any other Muslims in the world who are discriminated against. I hope to spread knowledge about islam at Rice University as well as help my future Houston community understand how peaceful we really are. I hope to extend my efforts to Texas and strive to become one of the few hijabi doctors. As I do my best to heal people, they will begin to see the kindness and peacefulness Muslims bring to the world.Without help from this scholarship, I couldn’t extend my horizons and make my voice heard in Texas; I would have to stay here in the Memphis community which is already becoming very accepting due to our efforts. No one should ever be choked for their faith, and I am doing my part to make sure that never happens again.

“Haq eymji”, my mom urged as I sat disoriented in my wrecked car, hijab half off, as the owners of the car I hit interrogated me. “Did you see the stop sign or not?” Silence. “Haq eymji”, my mom repeated. This was not the time for her to make me guess what she was trying to say. I mustered out a “yes”, and many useless questions followed. The whole ride home, I sat embarrassed, wishing I understood and spoke our native language of Harari. Every year, my family goes on a trip, named “kuba”, to spend time with our small tribal family. Harari people from all over the world come together in one city during this reunion to celebrate our rich culture. It is often the highlight of my summers because reuniting reminds me that no matter how little our numbers are, we are strong. Though it is always fun, I am constantly ridiculed because my Harari-speaking skills are subpar. After being made fun of in Washington D.C, my embarrassment peaked as children outshined me. Hearing my 4-year-old cousin speak Harari more fluently than me was the slap in the face that made me realize that I needed to learn. I made it my goal to be fluent in Harari by the July 2020 annual Harari reunion in Toronto. Every day, I worked to improve my Harari. My mom taught me (a little too late) that “Haq eymji” means “tell the truth.” This phrase was new since I hate to lie, so I added it to my mental collection. I put my embarrassment aside as I attempted to speak to older relatives in Harari with my thick American accent. I even half-jokingly asked my 4-year-old cousin to teach me Harari out of desperation. As July rapidly approached, I still couldn’t cohesively speak so I dreaded facing my Harari relatives again only to give them more blank stares. Kuba 2020 never came. COVID-19 pushed my visit to Toronto to Summer 2021. I kept my positive demeanor, though, and saw this as an extension of my deadline. I couldn’t waste this opportunity. While in quarantine, I prohibited English in my house, and my parents became my teachers. They were happy to help me get more connected to our culture. I am still not fluent in Harari. It got especially frustrating in July, knowing that the due date past without success. My mom comforted me, though, by explaining how her English still isn’t perfect after 20 years. I wanted to learn Harari in a few months. Looking back, I see how ridiculous this sounds. I learned it is okay to take my time. I made significant progress, and by next kuba my conversations will hopefully be fully in Harari. If all fails, at least I can confidently say “Haq eymji.” My road to learning Harari is filled with bumps and stop signs, and driving is still not my specialty. Thoughts like, “Why should I learn this; it’s only spoken by 30,000 people ” are speed bumps that I always get over. I intend to drive past all stop signs on the road to fluency, but in real life, I will never drive past one of those red octagons again, and I am telling the truth. I hope to become bilingual to help me in my career as a future physician assistant. aking my patients feel comfortable and at ease because they don't have to worry about a language barrier is a luxury I want to offer. After Harari, I plan to learn Spansih and Japanese. The possibilities are endless!

“Haq eymji”, my mom urged as I sat disoriented in my wrecked car, hijab half off, as the owners of the car I hit interrogated me. “Did you see the stop sign or not?” Silence. “Haq eymji”, my mom repeated. This was not the time for her to make me guess what she was trying to say. I mustered out a “yes”, and many useless questions followed. The whole ride home, I sat with my head down embarrassed, wishing I understood and spoke our native language of Harari. Every year, my family goes on a trip, named “kuba”, to spend time with our small tribal family. Harari people from all over the world come together in one city during this reunion to celebrate our rich culture. It is often the highlight of my summers because reuniting reminds me that no matter how little our numbers are, we are strong. Though it is always fun, I am constantly ridiculed because my Harari-speaking skills are subpar. After being made fun of in Washington D.C, my embarrassment peaked as children outshined me. Hearing my 4-year-old cousin speak Harari more fluently than me was the slap in the face that made me realize that I needed to learn. I made it my goal to be fluent in Harari by the July 2020 annual Harari reunion in Toronto. Every day, I worked to improve my Harari. My mom taught me (a little too late) that “Haq eymji” means “tell the truth.” This phrase was new since I hate to lie, so I added it to my mental collection. My immigrant parents were of little help, as they often wanted to practice their English. I put my embarrassment aside as I attempted to speak to older relatives in Harari with my thick American accent. Even when I FaceTimed my Harari cousins, I asked them to speak to me in Harari. They thought it was a game, but I wasn’t playing. I even half-jokingly asked my 4-year-old cousin to teach me Harari out of desperation. As July rapidly approached, I still couldn’t cohesively speak so I dreaded facing my Harari relatives again only to give them more blank stares. Kuba 2020 never came. COVID-19 pushed my visit to Toronto to Summer 2021. Instead of dwelling on the fact that I couldn’t see my Harari family, I kept my positive demeanor and saw this as an extension of my deadline given to me by God. I couldn’t waste this opportunity, and I worked twice as hard. While in quarantine, I prohibited English in my house, and my parents became my teachers. They saw how serious I was, and were happy to help me get more connected to our culture. I am still not fluent in Harari. It got especially frustrating in July, knowing that the due date past without success. My mom comforted me, though, by explaining how her English still isn’t perfect after 20 years. I wanted to learn Harari in a few months. Looking back, I see how ridiculous this sounds.. I learned it is okay to take my time, and that I shouldn’t beat myself up. I made significant progress, and by next kuba my conversations will hopefully be fully in Harari. If not, I will confidently speak my broken Harari to everyone I encounter, because practice makes perfect. If all fails, at least I can confidently say “Haq eymji.” My road to learning Harari is filled with bumps and stop signs, and driving is still not my specialty. Thoughts like, “Why should I learn this; it’s only spoken by 30,000 people ” are speed bumps that I always get over. I intend to drive past all stop signs on the road to fluency, but in real life, I will never drive past one of those red octagons again, and I am telling the truth.

“Haq eymji”, my mom urged as I sat disoriented in my wrecked car, hijab half off, as the owners of the car I hit interrogated me. “Did you see the stop sign or not?” Silence. “Haq eymji”, my mom repeated. This was not the time for her to make me guess what she was trying to say. I mustered out a “yes”, and many useless questions followed. The whole ride home, I sat with my head down embarrassed, wishing I understood and spoke our native language of Harari. Every year, my family goes on a trip, named “kuba”, to spend time with our small tribal family. Harari people from all over the world come together in one city during this reunion to celebrate our rich culture. It is often the highlight of my summers because reuniting reminds me that no matter how little our numbers are, we are strong. Though it is always fun, I am constantly ridiculed because my Harari-speaking skills are subpar. After being made fun of in Washington D.C, my embarrassment peaked as children outshined me. Hearing my 4-year-old cousin speak Harari more fluently than me was the slap in the face that made me realize that I needed to learn. I made it my goal to be fluent in Harari by the July 2020 annual Harari reunion in Toronto. Every day, I worked to improve my Harari. My mom taught me (a little too late) that “Haq eymji” means “tell the truth.” This phrase was new since I hate to lie, so I added it to my mental collection. My immigrant parents were of little help, as they often wanted to practice their English. I put my embarrassment aside as I attempted to speak to older relatives in Harari with my thick American accent. Even when I FaceTimed my Harari cousins, I asked them to speak to me in Harari. They thought it was a game, but I wasn’t playing. I even half-jokingly asked my 4-year-old cousin to teach me Harari out of desperation. As July rapidly approached, I still couldn’t cohesively speak so I dreaded facing my Harari relatives again only to give them more blank stares. Kuba 2020 never came. COVID-19 pushed my visit to Toronto to Summer 2021. Instead of dwelling on the fact that I couldn’t see my Harari family, I kept my positive demeanor and saw this as an extension of my deadline given to me by Allah. I couldn’t waste this opportunity, and I worked twice as hard. While in quarantine, I prohibited English in my house, and my parents became my teachers. They saw how serious I was, and were happy to help me get more connected to our culture. I am still not fluent in Harari. It got especially frustrating in July, knowing that the due date past without success. My mom comforted me, though, by explaining how her English still isn’t perfect after 20 years. I wanted to learn Harari in a few months. Looking back, I see how ridiculous this sounds.. I learned it is okay to take my time, and that I shouldn’t beat myself up. I made significant progress, and by next kuba my conversations will hopefully be fully in Harari. If not, I will confidently speak my broken Harari to everyone I encounter, because practice makes perfect. If all fails, at least I can confidently say “Haq eymji.” My road to learning Harari is filled with bumps and stop signs, and driving is still not my specialty. Thoughts like, “Why should I learn this; it’s only spoken by 30,000 people ” are speed bumps that I always get over. I intend to drive past all stop signs on the road to fluency, but in real life, I will never drive past one of those red octagons again, and I am telling the truth. Without my mom, my true role model, I wouldn't have wanted to start learning Harari. I wouldn't have had a teacher to speak with, and I would've felt extremely down about myself. I look up to my mom so much, and I cannot wait until the day I can carry a full conversation with her in perfect Harari and make her proud.

“Haq eymji”, my mom urged as I sat disoriented in my wrecked car, hijab half off, as the owners of the car I hit interrogated me. “Did you see the stop sign or not?” Silence. “Haq eymji”, my mom repeated. This was not the time for her to make me guess what she was trying to say. I mustered out a “yes”, and many useless questions followed. The whole ride home, I sat with my head down embarrassed, wishing I understood and spoke our native language of Harari. Every year, my family goes on a trip, named “kuba”, to spend time with our small tribal family. Harari people from all over the world come together in one city during this reunion to celebrate our rich culture. It is often the highlight of my summers because reuniting reminds me that no matter how little our numbers are, we are strong. Though it is always fun, I am constantly ridiculed because my Harari-speaking skills are subpar. After being made fun of in Washington D.C, my embarrassment peaked as children outshined me. Hearing my 4-year-old cousin speak Harari more fluently than me was the slap in the face that made me realize that I needed to learn. I made it my goal to be fluent in Harari by the July 2020 annual Harari reunion in Toronto. Every day, I worked to improve my Harari. My mom taught me (a little too late) that “Haq eymji” means “tell the truth.” This phrase was new since I hate to lie, so I added it to my mental collection. My immigrant parents were of little help, as they often wanted to practice their English. I put my embarrassment aside as I attempted to speak to older relatives in Harari with my thick American accent. Even when I FaceTimed my Harari cousins, I asked them to speak to me in Harari. They thought it was a game, but I wasn’t playing. I even half-jokingly asked my 4-year-old cousin to teach me Harari out of desperation. As July rapidly approached, I still couldn’t cohesively speak so I dreaded facing my Harari relatives again only to give them more blank stares. Kuba 2020 never came. COVID-19 pushed my visit to Toronto to Summer 2021. Instead of dwelling on the fact that I couldn’t see my Harari family, I kept my positive demeanor and saw this as an extension of my deadline given to me by God. I couldn’t waste this opportunity, and I worked twice as hard. While in quarantine, I prohibited English in my house, and my parents became my teachers. They saw how serious I was, and were happy to help me get more connected to our culture. I am still not fluent in Harari. It got especially frustrating in July, knowing that the due date past without success. My mom comforted me, though, by explaining how her English still isn’t perfect after 20 years. I wanted to learn Harari in a few months. Looking back, I see how ridiculous this sounds.. I learned it is okay to take my time, and that I shouldn’t beat myself up. I made significant progress, and by next kuba my conversations will hopefully be fully in Harari. If not, I will confidently speak my broken Harari to everyone I encounter, because practice makes perfect. If all fails, at least I can confidently say “Haq eymji.” My road to learning Harari is filled with bumps and stop signs, and driving is still not my specialty. Thoughts like, “Why should I learn this; it’s only spoken by 30,000 people ” are speed bumps that I always get over. I intend to drive past all stop signs on the road to fluency, but in real life, I will never drive past one of those red octagons again, and I am telling the truth.

“Haq eymji”, my mom urged as I sat disoriented in my wrecked car, hijab half off, as the owners of the car I hit interrogated me. “Did you see the stop sign or not?” Silence. “Haq eymji”, my mom repeated. This was not the time for her to make me guess what she was trying to say. I mustered out a “yes”, and many useless questions followed. The whole ride home, I sat with my head down embarrassed, wishing I understood and spoke our native language of Harari. Every year, my family goes on a trip, named “kuba”, to spend time with our small tribal family. Harari people from all over the world come together in one city during this reunion to celebrate our rich culture. It is often the highlight of my summers because reuniting reminds me that no matter how little our numbers are, we are strong. Though it is always fun, I am constantly ridiculed because my Harari-speaking skills are subpar. After being made fun of in Washington D.C, my embarrassment peaked as children outshined me. Hearing my 4-year-old cousin speak Harari more fluently than me was the slap in the face that made me realize that I needed to learn. I made it my goal to be fluent in Harari by the July 2020 annual Harari reunion in Toronto. Every day, I worked to improve my Harari. My mom taught me (a little too late) that “Haq eymji” means “tell the truth.” This phrase was new since I hate to lie, so I added it to my mental collection. My immigrant parents were of little help, as they often wanted to practice their English. I put my embarrassment aside as I attempted to speak to older relatives in Harari with my thick American accent. Even when I FaceTimed my Harari cousins, I asked them to speak to me in Harari. They thought it was a game, but I wasn’t playing. I even half-jokingly asked my 4-year-old cousin to teach me Harari out of desperation. As July rapidly approached, I still couldn’t cohesively speak so I dreaded facing my Harari relatives again only to give them more blank stares. Kuba 2020 never came. COVID-19 pushed my visit to Toronto to Summer 2021. Instead of dwelling on the fact that I couldn’t see my Harari family, I kept my positive demeanor and saw this as an extension of my deadline given to me by Allah. I couldn’t waste this opportunity, and I worked twice as hard. While in quarantine, I prohibited English in my house, and my parents became my teachers. They saw how serious I was, and were happy to help me get more connected to our culture. I am still not fluent in Harari. It got especially frustrating in July, knowing that the due date past without success. My mom comforted me, though, by explaining how her English still isn’t perfect after 20 years. I wanted to learn Harari in a few months. Looking back, I see how ridiculous this sounds.. I learned it is okay to take my time, and that I shouldn’t beat myself up. I made significant progress, and by next kuba my conversations will hopefully be fully in Harari. If not, I will confidently speak my broken Harari to everyone I encounter, because practice makes perfect. If all fails, at least I can confidently say “Haq eymji.” My road to learning Harari is filled with bumps and stop signs, and driving is still not my specialty. Thoughts like, “Why should I learn this; it’s only spoken by 30,000 people ” are speed bumps that I always get over. I intend to drive past all stop signs on the road to fluency, but in real life, I will never drive past one of those red octagons again, and I am telling the truth.

“Haq eymji”, my mom urged as I sat disoriented in my wrecked car, hijab half off, as the owners of the car I hit interrogated me. “Did you see the stop sign or not?” Silence. “Haq eymji”, my mom repeated. This was not the time for her to make me guess what she was trying to say. I mustered out a “yes”, and many useless questions followed. The whole ride home, I sat with my head down embarrassed, wishing I understood and spoke our native language of Harari. Every year, my family goes on a trip, named “kuba”, to spend time with our small tribal family. Harari people from all over the world come together in one city during this reunion to celebrate our rich culture. It is often the highlight of my summers because reuniting reminds me that no matter how little our numbers are, we are strong. Though it is always fun, I am constantly ridiculed because my Harari-speaking skills are subpar. After being made fun of in Washington D.C, my embarrassment peaked as children outshined me. Hearing my 4-year-old cousin speak Harari more fluently than me was the slap in the face that made me realize that I needed to learn. I made it my goal to be fluent in Harari by the July 2020 annual Harari reunion in Toronto. Every day, I worked to improve my Harari. My mom taught me (a little too late) that “Haq eymji” means “tell the truth.” This phrase was new since I hate to lie, so I added it to my mental collection. My immigrant parents were of little help, as they often wanted to practice their English. I put my embarrassment aside as I attempted to speak to older relatives in Harari with my thick American accent. Even when I FaceTimed my Harari cousins, I asked them to speak to me in Harari. They thought it was a game, but I wasn’t playing. I even half-jokingly asked my 4-year-old cousin to teach me Harari out of desperation. As July rapidly approached, I still couldn’t cohesively speak so I dreaded facing my Harari relatives again only to give them more blank stares. Kuba 2020 never came. COVID-19 pushed my visit to Toronto to Summer 2021. Instead of dwelling on the fact that I couldn’t see my Harari family, I kept my positive demeanor and saw this as an extension of my deadline given to me by Allah. I couldn’t waste this opportunity, and I worked twice as hard. While in quarantine, I prohibited English in my house, and my parents became my teachers. They saw how serious I was, and were happy to help me get more connected to our culture. I am still not fluent in Harari. It got especially frustrating in July, knowing that the due date past without success. My mom comforted me, though, by explaining how her English still isn’t perfect after 20 years. I wanted to learn Harari in a few months. Looking back, I see how ridiculous this sounds.. I learned it is okay to take my time, and that I shouldn’t beat myself up. I made significant progress, and by next kuba my conversations will hopefully be fully in Harari. If not, I will confidently speak my broken Harari to everyone I encounter, because practice makes perfect. If all fails, at least I can confidently say “Haq eymji.” My road to learning Harari is filled with bumps and stop signs, and driving is still not my specialty. Thoughts like, “Why should I learn this; it’s only spoken by 30,000 people ” are speed bumps that I always get over. One of my main goals in life is to learn Harari. I intend to drive past all stop signs on the road to fluency, but in real life, I will never drive past one of those red octagons again, and I am telling the truth.

“Haq eymji”, my mom urged as I sat disoriented in my wrecked car, hijab half off, as the owners of the car I hit interrogated me. “Did you see the stop sign or not?” Silence. “Haq eymji”, my mom repeated. This was not the time for her to make me guess what she was trying to say. I mustered out a “yes”, and many useless questions followed. The whole ride home, I sat with my head down embarrassed, wishing I understood and spoke our native language of Harari. Every year, my family goes on a trip, named “kuba”, to spend time with our small tribal family. Harari people from all over the world come together in one city during this reunion to celebrate our rich culture. It is often the highlight of my summers because reuniting reminds me that no matter how little our numbers are, we are strong. Though it is always fun, I am constantly ridiculed because my Harari-speaking skills are subpar. After being made fun of in Washington D.C, my embarrassment peaked as children outshined me. Hearing my 4-year-old cousin speak Harari more fluently than me was the slap in the face that made me realize that I needed to learn. I made it my goal to be fluent in Harari by the July 2020 annual Harari reunion in Toronto. Every day, I worked to improve my Harari. My mom taught me (a little too late) that “Haq eymji” means “tell the truth.” This phrase was new since I hate to lie, so I added it to my mental collection. My immigrant parents were of little help, as they often wanted to practice their English. I put my embarrassment aside as I attempted to speak to older relatives in Harari with my thick American accent. Even when I FaceTimed my Harari cousins, I asked them to speak to me in Harari. They thought it was a game, but I wasn’t playing. I even half-jokingly asked my 4-year-old cousin to teach me Harari out of desperation. As July rapidly approached, I still couldn’t cohesively speak so I dreaded facing my Harari relatives again only to give them more blank stares. Kuba 2020 never came. COVID-19 pushed my visit to Toronto to Summer 2021. Instead of dwelling on the fact that I couldn’t see my Harari family, I kept my positive demeanor and saw this as an extension of my deadline given to me by Allah. I couldn’t waste this opportunity, and I worked twice as hard. While in quarantine, I prohibited English in my house, and my parents became my teachers. They saw how serious I was, and were happy to help me get more connected to our culture. I am still not fluent in Harari. It got especially frustrating in July, knowing that the due date past without success. My mom comforted me, though, by explaining how her English still isn’t perfect after 20 years. I wanted to learn Harari in a few months. Looking back, I see how ridiculous this sounds.. I learned it is okay to take my time, and that I shouldn’t beat myself up. I made significant progress, and by next kuba my conversations will hopefully be fully in Harari. If not, I will confidently speak my broken Harari to everyone I encounter, because practice makes perfect. If all fails, at least I can confidently say “Haq eymji.” My road to learning Harari is filled with bumps and stop signs, and driving is still not my specialty. Thoughts like, “Why should I learn this; it’s only spoken by 30,000 people ” are speed bumps that I always get over. One of my main goals in life is to learn Harari. I intend to drive past all stop signs on the road to fluency, but in real life, I will never drive past one of those red octagons again, and I am telling the truth.

The television suddenly turned black. I slouched dumbfounded in my Intro to Film and Video class as I contemplated if Dom Cobb was in reality or another dream. Inception revolves around the near-impossible task of planting an idea into a target’s head. I silently praised the director of the movie and tried to process the complexity of entering a person’s subconscious, the very premise of the movie. Ever since watching Inception, I’ve gained a new perspective and fascination on the power of the mind. I began to ponder what the brain is truly capable of. The more I researched, the more I desired to learn. For example, I discovered that the psychological improvements sometimes attributed to the placebo effect prove that the state of mind is extremely important to the body's healing process- which drew my mind right back to Inception. The instilled idea of being given beneficial drugs has the ability to significantly change someone’s physical state. I long to learn more about this connection between psychological and physical health. My insatiable curiosity drives me to comprehend everything I can about the 3-pound lump of fat in our skulls, so there is no major more fitting than Cognitive Neuroscience. The combination of biology and psychology ingrained in Cognitive Neuroscience contains all of my interests in one field of study and will serve as a solid foundation for my future healthcare career. In Inception, Cobb once said, “Once an idea has taken hold of the brain, it is impossible to eradicate.” Now that the idea of studying Psychological & Brain Sciences in university has taken hold of my brain, I cannot get rid of it, and I would love to make it a reality.

“Haq eymji,” my mom urged as I sat disoriented, hijab half-off, in my wrecked car while the owners of the car I hit interrogated me. “Did you see the stop sign or not?” they demanded. Silence. “Haq eymji,” my mom repeated. This was not the time for her to play “guess what I’m saying.” I mustered out a “yes,” and profusely apologized to the car owners for my mistake. The whole ride home I sat, head down, wishing I understood our native language of Adere. Every year, my family goes on a trip, called “Kuba,” to spend time with our small, Ethiopian tribal family. Harari people like us travel from around the globe to reunite in one city and celebrate our rich culture. We share authentic meals, dress in ornate, multicolored traditional clothing, and dance to our native music. After years of persecution that caused countless deaths and a global diaspora, we take this week to pray and ensure younger generations still feel a deep sense of culture away from the motherland. Kuba is often the highlight of my summers, as it reminds me that even with only 50 thousand Harari people worldwide, we are undivided and strong. As meaningful as the trip is to me, it comes with a downside. Each year I am ridiculed for my subpar Adere-speaking skills and thick American accent. While being compared to my fluent, 4-year-old cousin during Kuba 2019, I faked a smile and assured my elders that I’d practice. After leaving them, though, my smile turned into a grimace as I realized that I needed to learn. I made it my goal to be fluent in our native tongue by Kuba 2020 in Toronto. I tried to find a way to learn Adere. My immigrant parents were of little help, as they often wanted to practice their English. I pleaded with my Harari friends on FaceTime to speak Adere, but they laughed off my ambition. Virtually nothing came up on the Internet, either. Desperate, I even half-jokingly asked my 4-year-old cousin to teach me. As July rapidly approached, I still couldn’t speak cohesively. I dreaded sitting tongue-tied in front of my relatives once more. Kuba 2020 never came. COVID-19 pushed my Toronto trip to Summer 2021. Instead of dwelling on the fact that I couldn’t see my Harari family, I kept my positive demeanor and saw this as an extension of my deadline given to me by Allah. I couldn’t waste this opportunity, so I worked twice as hard. While in quarantine, I prohibited English in my house. My parents became my full-time teachers, and they finally taught me that “haq eymji” means “tell the truth.” They saw how serious I was and were happy to help me grow more connected to our culture. Despite my efforts, I am still not fluent in Adere. I became especially frustrated after an unsuccessful phone call with my last living grandparent, my Baba. His broken English and my broken Adere clashed, resulting in confusion and misunderstandings. My mom comforted me, though, explaining that her English still isn’t perfect after 20 years. I wanted to learn Adere in 12 months. Looking back, I see how unrealistic that was. I learned that it’s okay to take my time. One day I will speak fluently. I’ve made significant progress, and by next Kuba, all my conversations will hopefully be in our native tongue. If not, I will still confidently speak my broken Adere to everyone I encounter because I’m proud of how far I’ve come. My road to learning Adere is filled with bumps and stop signs, akin to driving. Counterproductive thoughts and periodic losses of motivation are speed bumps that I steadily overcome. I intend to drive past all stop signs on my road to fluency, but on real roads, I will never drive past one of those red octagons again; I am “haq eymji.”

“Haq eymji,” my mom urged as I sat disoriented, hijab half-off, in my wrecked car while the owners of the car I hit interrogated me. “Did you see the stop sign or not?” they demanded. Silence. “Haq eymji,” my mom repeated. This was not the time for her to play “guess what I’m saying.” I mustered out a “yes,” and profusely apologized to the car owners for my mistake. The whole ride home I sat, head down, wishing I understood our native language of Adere. Every year, my family goes on a trip, called “Kuba,” to spend time with our small, Ethiopian tribal family. Harari people like us travel from around the globe to reunite in one city and celebrate our rich culture. We share authentic meals, dress in ornate, multicolored traditional clothing, and dance to our native music. After years of persecution that caused countless deaths and a global diaspora, we take this week to pray and ensure younger generations still feel a deep sense of culture away from the motherland. Kuba is often the highlight of my summers, as it reminds me that even with only 50 thousand Harari people worldwide, we are undivided and strong. As meaningful as the trip is to me, it comes with a downside. Each year I am ridiculed for my subpar Adere-speaking skills and thick American accent. While being compared to my fluent, 4-year-old cousin during Kuba 2019, I faked a smile and assured my elders that I’d practice. After leaving them, though, my smile turned into a grimace as I realized that I needed to learn. I made it my goal to be fluent in our native tongue by Kuba 2020 in Toronto. I tried to find a way to learn Adere. My immigrant parents were of little help, as they often wanted to practice their English. I pleaded with my Harari friends on FaceTime to speak Adere, but they laughed off my ambition. Virtually nothing came up on the Internet, either. Desperate, I even half-jokingly asked my 4-year-old cousin to teach me. As July rapidly approached, I still couldn’t speak cohesively. I dreaded sitting tongue-tied in front of my relatives once more. Kuba 2020 never came. COVID-19 pushed my Toronto trip to Summer 2021. Instead of dwelling on the fact that I couldn’t see my Harari family, I kept my positive demeanor and saw this as an extension of my deadline given to me by Allah. I couldn’t waste this opportunity, so I worked twice as hard. While in quarantine, I prohibited English in my house. My parents became my full-time teachers, and they finally taught me that “haq eymji” means “tell the truth.” They saw how serious I was and were happy to help me grow more connected to our culture. Despite my efforts, I am still not fluent in Adere. I became especially frustrated after an unsuccessful phone call with my last living grandparent, my Baba. His broken English and my broken Adere clashed, resulting in confusion and misunderstandings. My mom comforted me, though, explaining that her English still isn’t perfect after 20 years. I wanted to learn Adere in 12 months. Looking back, I see how unrealistic that was. I learned that it’s okay to take my time. One day I will speak fluently. I’ve made significant progress, and by next Kuba, all my conversations will hopefully be in our native tongue. If not, I will still confidently speak my broken Adere to everyone I encounter because I’m proud of how far I’ve come. My road to learning Adere is filled with bumps and stop signs, akin to driving. Counterproductive thoughts and periodic losses of motivation are speed bumps that I steadily overcome. I intend to drive past all stop signs on my road to fluency, but on real roads, I will never drive past one of those red octagons again; I am “haq eymji.”

“Ummah” translated from Arabic means community. I was never aware of what this beautiful word meant until the Memphis area code was slapped onto the front. This nonprofit organization and community called 901Ummah has had a profound impact on my faith and changed how I view the world. When I was 11, a colorful flyer pinned to the mosque’s bulletin board advertising 901Ummah caught my eye. “Ages 13-30” glared back at me. Though I wasn’t old enough to participate, my interest was piqued by this new youth program. I excitedly attended my first 901Ummah bonfire when I finally turned 13, and the atmosphere was incomparably caring. I was immediately greeted by the affable community members who welcomed me and offered me marshmallows. With Islamophobia on the rise, we discussed the importance of treating others with kindness as we feasted on s'mores around the fire. The people who sat by me have grown to be my best friends, and we’ve been through thick and thin together including weekend hikes in the freezing cold to all-nighters worshipping on Ramadan nights. Whether it was Friday prayer, Quran classes, or a lecture, I was at MIC with 901Ummah almost every single week, and it became my second home. The importance of giving has been instilled in me from a young age thanks to 901Ummah. Community service was always one of 901Ummah’s main priorities, and tagging along with them helped me realize the importance of volunteering. From cleaning up poorer parts of Memphis to cheering on marathon runners, the bright faces of the people who appreciate the work we do always makes my day. Because of this, I look for any way to make someone’s day easier everywhere I go without expecting anything in return, just hoping for a smile. Because of my newfound love of volunteering and leadership, I ran for Vice President of my high school’s community service club, Key Club. I was extremely grateful for the new opportunity I had to lead and promised to do my best to make Key Club a tight family and an enjoyable experience for my peers just like 901Ummah was for me. We cleared trash, prepared snow cones, donated food, and bonded over long hours of volunteering in less than ideal weather. I couldn't be more proud to lead such an altruistic club. Thanks to 901Ummah, I can now bring my perspective as a young Muslim woman who values community and service with me wherever I go. I hope to inspire people to enjoy volunteering instead of viewing it as a chore. I hope to diminish Islamophobia by proving that the hijabi girl who sits at the front of the class is actually a kind, optimistic person who’s always trying to do her part to change the world. Hopefully, I can give back to my community just as much as they give to me—maybe even a little more.