My journey started in Ramallah, and as a Palestinian, heading north was never an option. The northern region was forbidden to me. But my journey didn't end there. Today, as I drive around Ann Arbor to the University of Michigan, I look for the best route to reach my destination. I only stop at stoplights; there are no checkpoints or men with guns here. Coming from Dallas, this still feels new: the freedom to move without permission. As I look back on my life in Palestine, military barriers dictated where I could go, just like the limited resources dictated what I could learn. I recall the simplicity of the classrooms in Palestine. I became accustomed to learning with pencil and paper. It was not until I arrived in the U.S. that I had computer access. It was fascinating--the instant information, research by scholars, stories from across the world--all accessible. I wondered how I could use this newfound technology and my love for art to tell the story of my community: our struggles, triumphs, and cultural richness. In Palestine, I was surrounded by a world of traditions like Tatreez, Palestinian embroidery. Tatreez is passed down from grandmothers to mothers to daughters, and every stitch preserves family memories and cultural heritage. As a child, breakfast at my grandparents' house was a ritual: black tea, zeit (olive oil) and zaatar (thyme), hummus, galayet bandora (sautéed tomatoes), and my grandfather's freshly baked bread. Later, I'd sit beside my grandmother, watching her hands busy with the needle and red thread. "What story do you want to stitch, Ayah?" she'd ask, teaching me a new technique with each visit, how to cross-stitch, control thread tension, and blend colors. She taught me that art tells stories, connecting the past, present, and future. After moving to the U.S., I encountered misunderstandings about my identity, only being associated with supposed conflict, overlooking my culture. I remember a conversation with a girl who overheard me speaking on the phone with my mom. "What language is that?" she asked. When I replied, "Arabic," her curiosity deepened. "Where are you from?" she continued. "Palestine," I answered, proud of my roots. She looked at me with wide eyes, as though congratulating me for escaping something terrible, not knowing how much I missed home. The next day, I shared a Tatreez piece with her, representing a Palestinian wedding I made with my grandmother back home. She was surprised and admired the piece of a culture she never knew existed. She explained how it reminded her of Tenangos, a form of Otomi embroidery from Mexico, and how it's also passed down through generations. We went back and forth about the similarities and differences between our cultures. At that moment, I realized that there were layers to my identity that others couldn't see. I wanted to show an accurate depiction of my culture, something you couldn't get from just reading a news article title. But I noticed a problem: artificial intelligence is now shaping how people receive information and make decisions, and too often, it isn't trained on voices like mine. AI reflects the biases of its datasets and the narrow perspectives it's built on. If we don't include voices from my community, AI will continue to flatten cultures into headlines or erase them entirely. That lack of representation is what motivated me to pursue Computer Science and Cognitive Science with a specialty in Artificial Intelligence. Studying both allows me to build AI that uplifts marginalized communities instead of exploiting their resources. As the red thread of Tatreez ties together elements of a story, I believe new perspectives can weave us into a more complete understanding. I plan to bring a Palestinian perspective to AI. I aspire to develop the skills needed to make technology more accessible to marginalized communities, advocating for their representation through art. When I think about the most difficult moments in my life, I had no choice but to leave Palestine. I had no choice but to learn English. I had no choice but to lose my father. But now, for the first time, I have a choice in what I build next. I choose to stitch code into stories, inspiring the next generation of Palestinian students and students of all backgrounds to realize their own academic aspirations. I left Palestine, but Palestine never left me.