Before my revelation, I did everything I could possibly imagine to raise awareness and help my people. I’ve marched. I’ve written. I’ve boycotted. I’ve dedicated my social media and wardrobe solely to the cause. I’ve called my state’s legislators and pleaded with them to have empathy, as if my voice could inspire more pity than a picture of a dying child. I created a website for my uncle’s olive oil business that donates all profits to victims of the current genocide. I pushed myself harder each day because slowing down felt like abandoning the people I was fighting for. My body was effectively a billboard for the cause, and every action I performed was done to disprove the negative stereotypes held about my people. Even my valedictorianship can be attributed to this insatiable desire to spread awareness, as all of my motivation to succeed came from the hope that others would see me as a knowledgeable figure — someone so informed that, despite my inevitable biases on the subject, I couldn’t be wrong. I felt proud of myself. I felt self-righteous. I felt like I was really making a difference, and that any day now, public opinion would shift and my people would be free because of my noble efforts. But then, in the middle of my junior summer, the “famine” hit, and I watched as children who could have very easily been me starved while an unfeeling world looked on. This event galvanized me out of the false sense of accomplishment that kept me complacent. I realized that no change would come from trying to invoke the sympathy of my oppressors. My previous success was really just a performance, a way to prove my usefulness to the indifferent, hoping they’d see my people’s value because I had mastered their rules. But now, I feel empowered to take matters into my own hands. My electrical engineering degree will not simply be an empty trophy used for validation. It will be the ultimate weapon against oppression. A weapon that does not rely on metaphors or sympathy, a weapon that cannot be censored or misquoted. Every skill I gain will become a tool sharpened for my people’s protection. I will design pacemakers for children whose bodies were weakened long before birth, and create underground delivery systems that cut through siege lines and starved borders. I will build the machines that help us live. I will design the systems that help us endure. And, Inshallah, I will be the one to liberate my people. I know these goals may seem ambitious, but I believe they are both realistic and necessary. This scholarship would bring me closer to that future by allowing me to pursue my education without taking on interest-based loans, which my faith prohibits. It would also ease my financial burden so I can focus on my engineering studies and continue my community work. My ambition is not for personal gain but for the change I want to create. With this support, I can turn that vision into reality. On a more personal level, my pursuit of electrical engineering feels like the next chapter in my family’s long history of serving Palestine. My relatives are from Kafr ‘Aqab, a small village where generations of my family worked as dairy farmers simply because that was what the land needed. Their work has always been a quiet way of protecting our home. They still live there, still working those same fields, not because they lack options, but because they believe staying rooted is its own form of resistance. Studying electronics might look different from farming, but I see it as continuing that same responsibility. The needs of Palestine have changed. The land no longer needs more farmers. It needs someone who can build systems, tools, and technologies that keep our communities safe and help them survive in a world designed to push them out. Pursuing engineering is my way of honoring the work my family already started. It’s the same purpose, just carried into a new era.

My plans for the future are shaped by two forces that have defined my life: my identity as a Palestinian American and my determination to build tools that help oppressed people survive systems designed to marginalize them. Growing up, college often felt out of reach. I come from a Muslim family where interest-bearing loans are forbidden, so I cannot take out traditional student loans. That meant I had to rely on scholarships if I wanted to pursue higher education, and for years that made college seem distant not because I lacked ability or ambition, but because the financial barriers felt immovable. Because of those challenges, I focused more locally and worked toward a future rooted in serving my community. I joined the Arizona Palestine Solidarity Alliance, marched in protests, and helped plan advocacy campaigns. I also designed the website for Promised Land Olive Oil, a small business that sells olive oil from the Palestinian village of Abud and donates its profits to families who have lost land or income. The project showed me that technology can function as a form of resistance. A site that appears simple can connect consumers to farmers who are cut off from economic access and open a channel for people thousands of miles away to support families in need. That experience made me realize I could create far more meaningful change with a college education, especially in electrical engineering. With that degree, I can build tangible tools that protect vulnerable communities. This includes technologies that help Palestinians bypass blockades, communicate under surveillance, and access power when infrastructure is destroyed. It also includes systems that help migrants in Arizona avoid exploitation and stay safe from tracking. My activism taught me that many struggles are intertwined, and an engineering career would allow me to bridge those struggles in a shared pursuit of dignity and safety. In the long term, using the income I earn as an engineer, I hope to create a nonprofit that supports Palestinians through both legal and economic structures. Many Palestinian families hold legitimate claims to land they were displaced from but lack the resources to challenge state and institutional power. My goal is to establish a nonprofit that offers impoverished Palestinians meaningful legal advocacy so they can work to reclaim what was taken from them. Alongside that legal work, I want to expand the model I helped build with Promised Land Olive Oil by creating commercial pathways that allow Palestinian farmers and artisans to sell their goods on the global market. This would give families a chance at economic independence and free them from a shipping system that exploits their lack of access. I know these goals may seem ambitious, but I believe they are both realistic and necessary. This scholarship would bring me closer to that future by allowing me to pursue my education without taking on interest-based loans, which my faith prohibits. It would also ease my financial burden so I can focus on my engineering studies and continue my community work. My ambition is not for personal gain but for the change I want to create. With this support, I can turn that vision into reality.

My plans for the future are shaped by two forces that have defined my life: my identity as a Palestinian American and my determination to build tools that help oppressed people survive systems designed to marginalize them. Growing up, college often felt out of reach. I come from a Muslim family where interest-bearing loans are forbidden, so I cannot take out traditional student loans. That meant I had to rely on scholarships if I wanted to pursue higher education, and for years that made college seem distant not because I lacked ability or ambition, but because the financial barriers felt immovable. Because of those challenges, I focused more locally and worked toward a future rooted in serving my community. I joined the Arizona Palestine Solidarity Alliance, marched in protests, and helped plan advocacy campaigns. I also designed the website for Promised Land Olive Oil, a small business that sells olive oil from the Palestinian village of Abud and donates its profits to families who have lost land or income. The project showed me that technology can function as a form of resistance. A site that appears simple can connect consumers to farmers who are cut off from economic access and open a channel for people thousands of miles away to support families in need. That experience made me realize I could create far more meaningful change with a college education, especially in electrical engineering. With that degree, I can build tangible tools that protect vulnerable communities. This includes technologies that help Palestinians bypass blockades, communicate under surveillance, and access power when infrastructure is destroyed. It also includes systems that help migrants in Arizona avoid exploitation and stay safe from tracking. My activism taught me that many struggles are intertwined, and an engineering career would allow me to bridge those struggles in a shared pursuit of dignity and safety. In the long term, using the income I earn as an engineer, I hope to create a nonprofit that supports Palestinians through both legal and economic structures. Many Palestinian families hold legitimate claims to land they were displaced from but lack the resources to challenge state and institutional power. My goal is to establish a nonprofit that offers impoverished Palestinians meaningful legal advocacy so they can work to reclaim what was taken from them. Alongside that legal work, I want to expand the model I helped build with Promised Land Olive Oil by creating commercial pathways that allow Palestinian farmers and artisans to sell their goods on the global market. This would give families a chance at economic independence and free them from a shipping system that exploits their lack of access. I know these goals may seem ambitious, but I believe they are both realistic and necessary. This scholarship would bring me closer to that future by allowing me to pursue my education without taking on interest-based loans, which my faith prohibits. It would also ease my financial burden so I can focus on my engineering studies and continue my community work. My ambition is not for personal gain but for the change I want to create. With this support, I can turn that vision into reality.

My name is Ameen Abdul Jawad, and I am a senior at Mountain View High School. I have always been drawn to the intersection of technology, culture, and service. In school, I focus on engineering, computer science, and business. I am involved in Future Business Leaders of America, FCCLA, the Tennis Club, and Arabic language study. I also serve as a web designer for Promised Land Olive Oil, a small business that brings olive oil from my family’s village of Abud to the United States to support Palestinian farmers. Outside of school, my life is deeply shaped by community involvement. I volunteer regularly at the Muslim Community Center of Tucson, where I help set up events, assist families, and support educational programs. I am also active with the Arizona Palestine Solidarity Alliance, where I help with advocacy, demonstrations, and outreach. I have also run my own tutoring service, offering free or low-cost help to students who need support in math and computer science. After high school, I plan to study electrical engineering. My long-term goal is to design tools that support communities affected by displacement, surveillance, and limited access to technology. If I could start my own charity, I would create a nonprofit organization focused on advocating for the rights of Palestinians in both legal and economic settings. Too many families have been displaced from their homes with no means to reclaim what was taken from them. My organization would partner with international attorneys, human rights groups, and local advocates to help families access documentation, file legal appeals, and pursue pathways to property restitution. The legal process is often overwhelming, especially for refugees or families living outside Palestine. The charity would work to remove these barriers and restore a sense of dignity and ownership. The second part of the mission would expand on the work I began with Promised Land Olive Oil. Many Palestinian farmers and artisans struggle to compete in international markets due to restrictions, limited infrastructure, and economic instability. My nonprofit would create a global platform that allows these farmers and creators to sell their olive oil, ceramics, embroidery, and handmade goods directly to consumers. Volunteers would help with marketing, packaging, translation, logistics, and storytelling. They would ensure that customers not only purchase a product but also learn the history, culture, and personal narratives behind each item. By giving Palestinian artisans access to stable commercial outlets, the organization would strengthen local economies and provide families with reliable income. My goal is to serve in ways that protect rights, preserve culture, and open economic doors for people facing systemic barriers. The charity I hope to build represents the future I want to work toward: one where technology, advocacy, and community action come together to support justice for Palestinians around the world.

There has not been one moment in my 17 years of existence where there was not a screen within 15 feet of me. As a child, I constantly used a DVD player, never let go of my DS, and had an old iPod blaring in my ears. It is almost impossible for me to imagine being technologically inept. I would never be as slow as my grandma at texting or as clueless about AI as my mom, but now I realize that my familiarity has caused me to take the intricacies of hardware for granted. This is what pulled me toward David Sudnow’s Pilgrim in the Microworld. Unlike me, Sudnow had nearly no experience with electronics and spent most of his life as a pianist. When Sudnow was finally immersed into technology, he set himself with potentially the most boring project imaginable: writing a whole book about Breakout, a game where you bounce a ball off a paddle to break some bricks. That’s it. I described the game in six words. He used 227 pages. Thousands of words describe what it feels like to hold the Atari controller. Not the basic “you twist the dial left and right.” No. He writes about the exact angle of your finger, how far you stand from the television, the rhythm your wrist falls into as you slide the paddle back and forth. He describes, in microscopic detail, the relationship between your body in one world and the little white ball in another. He shows that every flick of the wrist is actually a negotiation between muscle, machine, and mind. He asks questions that at first seem trivial: Where do your eyes rest? How does momentum feel in your hand? How does your nervous system translate a twist into a pixel’s movement? Suddenly, the simplest game in the world looks impossibly complex. To me, calculus represents more than formulas or limits; it is the language that makes innovation possible. It is what turns an everyday experience, like flicking a joystick, into a measurable, controllable, and replicable interaction. I want to use it to uncover the systems most people take for granted and create technology that feels simple on the surface but is powered by real depth underneath. My goal is to design work that doesn’t just function, but makes people stop and realize there’s wonder in the smallest details. Electrical engineering feels like a natural fit for me because it shares that balance: infinitely intricate but accessible with the right tools, and calculus is the most essential of those tools. When analyzing circuits, calculus explains how current and voltage shift over time. When working with signals, it allows engineers to break them down into frequencies and rebuild them with precision. Even in areas like cybersecurity or AI, calculus quietly powers the algorithms that make modern technology possible. That is why calculus matters in STEM. It gives us the ability to translate curiosity into clarity, and clarity into creation. It makes the invisible visible and gives structure to the very changes that define technology. Without it, even the simplest video game would remain a mystery. With it, we can build not only better machines but also a deeper appreciation for the systems that connect us to them.

Before my revelation, I did everything I could imagine to raise awareness and help my people in Palestine. I’ve marched. I’ve written. I’ve boycotted. I’ve dedicated my social media and wardrobe solely to the cause. I’ve called my state’s legislators and pleaded with them to have empathy, as if my voice could inspire more pity than a picture of a dying child. I created a website for my uncle’s olive oil business that donates all profits to Palestinian families suffering under the current genocide. My body was effectively a billboard for Palestine, and every action I performed was done to disprove the negative stereotypes held about my people. Even my academic success can be attributed to this insatiable desire to spread awareness, as all of my motivation to succeed came from the hope that others would see me as a knowledgeable figure — someone so informed that, despite my inevitable biases on the subject, I couldn’t be wrong. I felt proud of myself. I felt self-righteous. I believed that public opinion would soon shift, and my people would be free because of my noble efforts. But then, in the middle of my junior summer, the “famine” hit Gaza, and I watched as children who could have been me starved while an unfeeling world looked on. This event galvanized me out of the false sense of accomplishment that kept me complacent. I realized that no change would come from trying to invoke the sympathy of my oppressors. My previous success was really just a performance, a way to prove my usefulness to the indifferent. Now, I am motivated not by validation but by responsibility. My electrical engineering degree will not simply be an empty trophy. It will be the engine of change I use to empower Palestinians and others who suffer under oppression. I will dedicate every skill and resource I gain during my higher education to building real, practical solutions to fight this ongoing genocide. Whether it is designing pacemakers for children born from malnourished mothers or developing underground delivery infrastructure that can bypass man-made starvation, I will be at the forefront. I cannot wait for others to act. My efforts have taught me that small steps can carry real weight. Yet awareness alone is not enough. With engineering, I can create technologies that preserve life under blockade and offer hope where little exists

There has not been one moment in my 17 years of existence where there was not a screen within 15 feet of me. I constantly used a DVD player, never let go of my DS, and had an old iPod blaring in my ears. It is almost impossible for me to imagine being technologically inept. I would never be as slow as my grandma at texting or as clueless about AI as my mom, but now I realize that my familiarity has caused me to take the intricacies of hardware for granted. This is what pulled me toward David Sudnow’s Pilgrim in the Microworld. Unlike me, Sudnow had nearly no experience with electronics and spent most of his life as a pianist. When Sudnow was finally immersed into technology, he set himself with potentially the most boring project imaginable: writing a whole book about Breakout, a game where you bounce a ball off a paddle to break some bricks. That’s it. I described the game in six words. He used 227 pages. He spends thousands of words describing what it feels like to hold the Atari paddle controller. Not the basic “you twist the dial left and right.” He writes about the exact angle of your finger, how far you stand from the television, the rhythm your wrist falls into as you slide the paddle back and forth. He describes, in microscopic detail, the relationship between your body in one world and the little white ball in another. He shows that every flick of the wrist is a negotiation between muscle, machine, and mind. He asks questions that at first seemed trivial to me: Where do your eyes rest? How does the game calculate angles? Suddenly, the simplest game in the world looks impossibly complex. That is what math feels like to me. On the surface, it looks like numbers and equations, but each step holds hidden depth. Just as Sudnow uncovered the rhythms of a video game, math reveals structures most people take for granted. My goal is to keep exploring those systems, to use math not just to solve problems but to see the beauty in details and build something meaningful from them. That is why I am applying for the Learner Math Lover Scholarship. Math has given me a way to see the world differently, to realize that the smallest details can hold endless wonder.

Before my revelation, I did everything I could possibly imagine to raise awareness and help my people. I’ve marched. I’ve written. I’ve boycotted. I’ve dedicated my social media and wardrobe solely to the cause. I’ve called my state’s legislators and pleaded with them to have empathy, as if my voice could inspire more pity than a picture of a dying child. I created a website for my uncle’s olive oil business that donates all profits to victims of the current genocide. I almost don’t want to reveal what particular atrocity the outrage in this essay is directed at (as if the last name Abdul-Jawad didn’t give it away already) because I’m afraid it might jeopardize my chances with the very institution I hope to join. My body was effectively a billboard for the cause, and every action I performed was done to disprove the negative stereotypes held about my people. Even my academic success can be attributed to this insatiable desire to spread awareness, as all of my motivation to succeed came from the hope that others would see me as a knowledgeable figure — someone so informed that, despite my inevitable biases on the subject, I couldn’t be wrong. I felt proud of myself. I felt self-righteous. I felt like I was really making a difference, and that any day now, public opinion would shift and my people would be free because of my noble efforts. But then, in the middle of my junior summer, the “famine” hit, and I watched as children who could have very easily been me starved while an unfeeling world looked on. This event galvanized me out of the false sense of accomplishment that kept me complacent. I realized that no change would come from trying to invoke the sympathy of my oppressors. My previous success was really just a performance, a way to prove my usefulness to the indifferent, hoping they’d see my people’s value because I had mastered their rules. But now, I feel empowered to take matters into my own hands. My electrical engineering degree will not simply be an empty trophy used for validation. It will be the engine of change I use to empower the oppressed. I will dedicate every skill and resource I gain during my higher education to building real, practical solutions to fight this ongoing genocide. Whether it is designing pacemakers for children born from malnourished mothers or developing underground delivery infrastructure that can effectively bypass this man-made starvation, I will be at the forefront. I will not wait to be saved. I will be the one to liberate my people.

Before my revelation, I did everything I could possibly imagine to raise awareness and help my people. I’ve marched. I’ve written. I’ve boycotted. I’ve dedicated my social media and wardrobe solely to the cause. I’ve called my state’s legislators and pleaded with them to have empathy, as if my voice could inspire more pity than a picture of a dying child. I created a website for my uncle’s olive oil business that donates all profits to victims of the current genocide. I almost don’t want to reveal what particular atrocity the outrage in this essay is directed at (as if the last name Abdul-Jawad didn’t give it away already) because I’m afraid it might jeopardize my chances with the very institution I hope to join. My body was effectively a billboard for the cause, and every action I performed was done to disprove the negative stereotypes held about my people. Even my academic success can be attributed to this insatiable desire to spread awareness, as all of my motivation to succeed came from the hope that others would see me as a knowledgeable figure — someone so informed that, despite my inevitable biases on the subject, I couldn’t be wrong. I felt proud of myself. I felt self-righteous. I felt like I was really making a difference, and that any day now, public opinion would shift and my people would be free because of my noble efforts. But then, in the middle of my junior summer, the “famine” hit, and I watched as children who could have very easily been me starved while an unfeeling world looked on. This event galvanized me out of the false sense of accomplishment that kept me complacent. I realized that no change would come from trying to invoke the sympathy of my oppressors. My previous success was really just a performance, a way to prove my usefulness to the indifferent, hoping they’d see my people’s value because I had mastered their rules. But now, I feel empowered to take matters into my own hands. My electrical engineering degree will not be an empty trophy or a symbol of assimilation. It will be the engine of change I use to empower the oppressed. Every skill and resource I gain through higher education will be directed toward building practical solutions that save lives and strengthen my community. Whether it means designing pacemakers for children born to malnourished mothers or developing underground delivery systems that can bypass blockades and starvation, I will be at the forefront of that work. I will not wait for deliverance from the outside. I will use my trade to create it with my own hands, carrying forward the responsibility to liberate and sustain my people.

Before my revelation, I did everything I could possibly imagine to raise awareness and help my people. I’ve marched. I’ve written. I’ve boycotted. I’ve dedicated my social media and wardrobe solely to the cause. I’ve called my state’s legislators and pleaded with them to have empathy, as if my voice could inspire more pity than a picture of a dying child. I created a website for my uncle’s olive oil business that donates all profits to victims of the current genocide. I almost don’t want to reveal what particular atrocity the outrage in this essay is directed at (as if the last name Abdul-Jawad didn’t give it away already) because I’m afraid it might jeopardize my chances with the very scholarship I hope to recieve. My body was effectively a billboard for the cause, and every action I performed was done to disprove the negative stereotypes held about my people. Even my academic success can be attributed to this insatiable desire to spread awareness, as all of my motivation to succeed came from the hope that my valedictorian speech would convince some people that they are on the wrong side of history. I felt proud of myself. I felt self-righteous. I felt like I was really making a difference, and that any day now, public opinion would shift and my people would be free because of my noble efforts. But then, in the middle of my junior summer, the “famine” hit, and I watched as children who could have very easily been me starved while an unfeeling world looked on. This event galvanized me out of the false sense of accomplishment that kept me complacent. I realized that no change would come from trying to invoke the sympathy of my oppressors. My previous success was really just a performance, a way to prove my usefulness to the indifferent, hoping they’d see my people’s value because I had mastered their rules. But now, I feel empowered to take matters into my own hands. My electrical engineering degree will not simply be an empty trophy used for validation. It will be the engine of change I use to empower the oppressed. I will dedicate every skill and resource I gain during my higher education to building real, practical solutions to fight this ongoing genocide. Whether it is designing pacemakers for children born from malnourished mothers or developing underground delivery infrastructure that can effectively bypass this man-made starvation, I will be at the forefront. I will not wait to be saved. I will be the one to liberate my people.

The realization that energy underpins every system, and that the control of energy means the control of life itself, has completely altered my worldview as an activist for the Middle East. Before this revelation, I did everything I could imagine to raise awareness and help humanity. I marched. I wrote. I boycotted. I dedicated my social media and wardrobe to the cause. I called legislators and pleaded with them to have empathy, as if my voice could inspire more pity than a picture of a dying child. Even my academic success can be traced to this insatiable desire to spread awareness, as my motivation to succeed came from the hope that my valedictorian speech would convince some people that they were on the wrong side of history. But even then, the idea of energy was always there in the background. My people lived in the dark: hospitals without generators, homes without heating or cooling, schools silenced when the power cut out. I did not just protest injustice in the streets; I obsessed over how energy itself was being weaponized, how the flick of a switch could mean life or death. Every march, every boycott, every phone call to a legislator was really about fighting for the right to live with the basic security that reliable energy provides. For a time I felt proud of myself. I felt self-righteous. I thought I was making a difference, and that public opinion would soon shift because of my efforts. Then the “famine” struck in my junior summer, and I watched as children who could have easily been me starved while the world looked on. But it wasn’t just the hunger that haunted me; it was the darkness. Incubators shutting down in neonatal wards, bread ovens cold for lack of fuel, desalination plants stalling without electricity All of these completely separate and solvable issues that were being overlooked in favor of focusing on a famine that would not be solved due to optics and politics. This event shattered the illusion that speeches and protests alone could create change. That was when I began to see energy differently. It was not just about abstract electrical grids or new geothermal technology. It was about survival. I saw how hospitals went dark without reliable power, how clean water disappeared when pumps failed, how medicine spoiled when refrigeration vanished. I saw how energy, or the lack of it, became a weapon. And I realized that if energy could be used to destroy, it could also be reclaimed to rebuild, sustain, and liberate. My electrical engineering degree will be the foundation of solutions that outlast speeches and protests. I will dedicate every skill and resource I gain to designing technologies that bring resilience to vulnerable communities. Whether developing solar-powered water filtration units that can run independently of fragile grids, building renewable microgrids that ensure villages are never left in the dark, or creating underground delivery systems that bypass blockades to deliver power where it is needed most, I will be at the forefront. I will not wait for others to liberate my people. I will learn the science, master the skills, and join the workforce that holds the power to deliver life itself. With every system I help build, I will transform energy from a tool of oppression into a force for survival, dignity, and freedom.

Like Kalia’s loved ones, I know what it means to grieve someone who should still be here today. My cousin Ibrahim was only fifteen when he died in Palestine. I hadn’t seen him in person since I was thirteen and he was eleven, but we stayed in touch as we grew. I had looked forward to seeing him again, to showing him how I had matured, and to witnessing his own changes. Being robbed of that reunion is one of the greatest losses of my life. His death left me with grief, but also with a responsibility: to live fully, to succeed, and to carry forward the spirit of those denied the chance to reach their potential. That is why Kalia’s story resonates so deeply with me. She embodied the qualities I now strive to honor: determination, resilience, leadership, and kindness. Her commitment to excellence in school, her service to her peers, and her ability to bring encouragement into people’s lives all represent the type of legacy I hope to leave. Though their lives were so different, its hard for me not to imagine both Ibrahim and Kalia as extensions of the same legacy. They both remind me of the fleeting nature inherent in our mortality and that we should not be complacent and take the time we have for granted. it was through their stories that I began to understand my purpose differently. My activism had once been fueled by a need to prove my worth to those who had already decided that my people did not matter. I was performing for their sympathy instead of building real tools for liberation. Ibrahim’s loss, and Kalia’s legacy, taught me that excellence is not only about achievement, but about how you use your gifts to serve others. My future lies in electrical engineering, not as an empty trophy of validation, but as a way to build solutions where the world has abandoned us. I dream of designing pacemakers for children born malnourished, or underground delivery systems to bring food past blockades. These ambitions are bold, but Kalia’s life proves that boldness, hard work, and resilience can change lives. If she could balance excellence in school, athletics, leadership, and service, then I too can balance my grief with determination. Financially, my path will not be easy. My family is working-class, and much of what we earn goes toward supporting relatives still in Palestine. Higher education will not be possible for me without scholarships like this one. But more than financial relief, this scholarship is a chance to honor the legacy of someone whose life represents everything I aspire to embody: determination, resilience, kindness, and excellence.

I am a Palestinian American and I have done everything I can possibly imagine to raise awareness and help my people. I’ve marched, wrote, boycotted, dedicated my social media and wardrobe to the cause, and even built a website for my uncle’s olive oil business that donates all profits to victims of the ongoing genocide. I’ve called my state legislators and pleaded with them to act, as if my voice could inspire more empathy than a picture of a dying child. Even my academic success can be attributed to this insatiable desire to spread awareness, as all of my motivation to succeed came from the hope that my valedictorian speech would convince some people that they are on the wrong side of history. At first, I thought these efforts were enough. I felt proud and self-righteous, convinced I was helping. But during my junior summer, when the so-called “famine” began, I watched children starve while the world looked away. That was my turning point. I realized no change would come from begging oppressors for sympathy. My previous actions, though well-intentioned, were more performance than power. I was trying to prove my worth by excelling within systems that had already dismissed the value of my community. Now, I see my future differently. My electrical engineering degree will not be a trophy for validation; it will be the foundation for change. I want to build practical solutions for people under siege, whether that means designing medical devices for children weakened by malnutrition or creating infrastructure to bypass blockades and deliver aid. My education will become a tool for liberation. But I also believe change starts locally, with the communities I am part of every day. At school, I have mentored younger students navigating identity-based bullying. As an Arab American, I know what it feels like to be singled out and stereotyped, and I’ve made it my responsibility to protect others from experiencing that isolation. I organize conversations about empathy and cultural awareness, and I’ve been part of sit-ins and protests that show students they are not alone when they are targeted. Online, I take the same approach. The internet can be both a platform for activism and a weapon for bullying, so I work to ensure my peers use it responsibly. I’ve helped lead discussions on recognizing misinformation and avoiding harassment, and I’ve supported classmates when they’ve faced cyberbullying by amplifying their voices and reporting harmful content. My experience taught me that keeping youth safe, whether that be preventing them from being outright starved or just by making sure they feel secure online, is essential for creating a community strong enough to resist oppression. Financially, my journey will not be easy. My family is working-class, and much of what we earn is directed toward supporting relatives abroad who are living under siege. As I pursue higher education, I will rely on scholarships and aid to bridge the gap. But this need does not discourage me; it motivates me. Every resource I gain, I intend to reinvest into my education and into the people I serve. I am not waiting for others to save us. I will use my voice, my degree, and my experiences to protect and empower children both in Palestine, and on the internet.