“Stop! Let me go, who are you?” They had already grabbed my hand, thrown me into the back, and slammed the double black doors shut, as my grandfather watched, powerless. My mind couldn't process the words as the morality police screamed at me on the street where my mother grew up. Words escaped me; my mind was in disarray, thoughts racing. I feared everything was over, uncertain of my fate. The three women in black chadors berated me, “What's your name, you whore? Aren’t you ashamed?” Overwhelmed, I struggled to respond in English. They mocked, “Great, a foreigner.” I was handcuffed,while the sweat poured down my face as the anxiety consumed me. The woman to my left peppered me with questions; I remained silent. Her response was a slap as she screamed, “Answer me!” I finally replied in Farsi, revealing my American upbringing. I mistakenly gave my birth year as 2003, not realizing Iran uses the Solar Hijri Calendar. They jeered, snatching off my hat and draping a chador over me. My pleas in Farsi were met with disgust. At the jail, I realized my parents, in America, couldn't bail me out. Only parents can do so in Iran. Two tall men yanked the doors open, escorting me into an interrogation room. Requesting an English translator, I waited anxiously. An hour and forty-eight minutes later, a man and a woman entered to serve as my translators. They outlined the dire potential consequences for showing my hair – up to ten years in prison, lashes, death, or a hefty fine. I begged for forgiveness, explaining I was only visiting Iran to explore my parents’ heritage. My grandfather arrived at the court, bringing relief. His pleas during the hearing were heart-wrenching. They set bail at $18,000. Once paid, I raced to him, grateful for his support. This event made me realize the severity of injustices in Iran and sparked a strong sense of obligation to fight for those oppressed by unfair systems. It hit hard, the ease at which freedom can be stripped away, igniting a commitment to societal betterment. From that first realization, the deep reflection and growth of my life back in America took place. I switched majors and began putting all of my effort into truly trying in college. Despite the fact that this was a highly unpleasant experience, it opened my eyes and motivated me to pursue my true passions. I started reading through and absorbing international law and human rights books, each story intertwining with my own, strengthening my resolve for change. With each, my experience was not independent, but rather they interwoven, fueling new determination for change. This is how I used my experiences and learnings while volunteering with organizations working for immigrants. Far above being a career, it becomes a heartfelt mission against injustice, inspired by my ordeal. Eager to transfer to Law school, I very much look forward to engaging in the learning of, and contributing to, the discussions from so many varied perspectives.The end result has been that the background of my life experiences has created a person who is not only desirous of change but is determined to see change take place.

“Stop! Let me go, who are you?” They had already grabbed my hand, thrown me into the back, and slammed the double black doors shut, as my grandfather watched, powerless. My mind couldn't process the words as the morality police screamed at me on the street where my mother grew up. Words escaped me; my mind was in disarray, thoughts racing. I feared everything was over, uncertain of my fate. The three women in black chadors berated me, “What's your name, you whore? Aren’t you ashamed?” Overwhelmed, I struggled to respond in English. They mocked, “Great, a foreigner.” I was handcuffed,while the sweat poured down my face as the anxiety consumed me. The woman to my left peppered me with questions; I remained silent. Her response was a slap as she screamed, “Answer me!” I finally replied in Farsi, revealing my American upbringing. I mistakenly gave my birth year as 2003, not realizing Iran uses the Solar Hijri Calendar. They jeered, snatching off my hat and draping a chador over me. My pleas in Farsi were met with disgust. At the jail, I realized my parents, in America, couldn't bail me out. Only parents can do so in Iran. Two tall men yanked the doors open, escorting me into an interrogation room. Requesting an English translator, I waited anxiously. An hour and forty-eight minutes later, a man and a woman entered to serve as my translators. They outlined the dire potential consequences for showing my hair – up to ten years in prison, lashes, death, or a hefty fine. I begged for forgiveness, explaining I was only visiting Iran to explore my parents’ heritage. My grandfather arrived at the court, bringing relief. His pleas during the hearing were heart-wrenching. They set bail at $18,000. Once paid, I raced to him, grateful for his support. This event made me realize the severity of injustices in Iran and sparked a strong sense of obligation to fight for those oppressed by unfair systems. It hit hard, the ease at which freedom can be stripped away, igniting a commitment to societal betterment. From that first realization, the deep reflection and growth of my life back in America took place. I switched majors and began putting all of my effort into truly trying in college. Despite the fact that this was a highly unpleasant experience, it opened my eyes and motivated me to pursue my true passions. I started reading through and absorbing international law and human rights books, each story intertwining with my own, strengthening my resolve for change. With each, my experience was not independent, but rather they interwoven, fueling new determination for change. This is how I used my experiences and learnings while volunteering with organizations working for immigrants. Far above being a career, it becomes a heartfelt mission against injustice, inspired by my ordeal. Eager to transfer to Law school, I very much look forward to engaging in the learning of, and contributing to, the discussions from so many varied perspectives.The end result has been that the background of my life experiences has created a person who is not only desirous of change but is determined to see change take place.

“Stop! Let me go, who are you?” They had already grabbed my hand, thrown me into the back, and slammed the double black doors shut, as my grandfather watched, powerless. My mind couldn't process the words as the morality police screamed at me on the street where my mother grew up. Words escaped me; my mind was in disarray, thoughts racing. I feared everything was over, uncertain of my fate. The three women in black chadors berated me, “What's your name, you whore? Aren’t you ashamed?” Overwhelmed, I struggled to respond in English. They mocked, “Great, a foreigner.” I was handcuffed,while the sweat poured down my face as the anxiety consumed me. The woman to my left peppered me with questions; I remained silent. Her response was a slap as she screamed, “Answer me!” I finally replied in Farsi, revealing my American upbringing. I mistakenly gave my birth year as 2003, not realizing Iran uses the Solar Hijri Calendar. They jeered, snatching off my hat and draping a chador over me. My pleas in Farsi were met with disgust. At the jail, I realized my parents, in America, couldn't bail me out. Only parents can do so in Iran. Two tall men yanked the doors open, escorting me into an interrogation room. Requesting an English translator, I waited anxiously. An hour and forty-eight minutes later, a man and a woman entered to serve as my translators. They outlined the dire potential consequences for showing my hair – up to ten years in prison, lashes, death, or a hefty fine. I begged for forgiveness, explaining I was only visiting Iran to explore my parents’ heritage. My grandfather arrived at the court, bringing relief. His pleas during the hearing were heart-wrenching. They set bail at $18,000. Once paid, I raced to him, grateful for his support. This event made me realize the severity of injustices in Iran and sparked a strong sense of obligation to fight for those oppressed by unfair systems. It hit hard, the ease at which freedom can be stripped away, igniting a commitment to societal betterment. From that first realization, the deep reflection and growth of my life back in America took place. I switched majors and began putting all of my effort into truly trying in college. Despite the fact that this was a highly unpleasant experience, it opened my eyes and motivated me to pursue my true passions. I started reading through and absorbing international law and human rights books, each story intertwining with my own, strengthening my resolve for change. With each, my experience was not independent, but rather they interwoven, fueling new determination for change. This is how I used my experiences and learnings while volunteering with organizations working for immigrants. Far above being a career, it becomes a heartfelt mission against injustice, inspired by my ordeal. Eager to transfer to Law school, I very much look forward to engaging in the learning of, and contributing to, the discussions from so many varied perspectives.The end result has been that the background of my life experiences has created a person who is not only desirous of change but is determined to see change take place.

“Stop! Let me go, who are you?” They had already grabbed my hand, thrown me into the back, and slammed the double black doors shut, as my grandfather watched, powerless. My mind couldn't process the words as the morality police screamed at me on the street where my mother grew up. Words escaped me; my mind was in disarray, thoughts racing. I feared everything was over, uncertain of my fate. The three women in black chadors berated me, “What's your name, you whore? Aren’t you ashamed?” Overwhelmed, I struggled to respond in English. They mocked, “Great, a foreigner.” I was handcuffed,while the sweat poured down my face as the anxiety consumed me. The woman to my left peppered me with questions; I remained silent. Her response was a slap as she screamed, “Answer me!” I finally replied in Farsi, revealing my American upbringing. I mistakenly gave my birth year as 2003, not realizing Iran uses the Solar Hijri Calendar. They jeered, snatching off my hat and draping a chador over me. My pleas in Farsi were met with disgust. At the jail, I realized my parents, in America, couldn't bail me out. Only parents can do so in Iran. Two tall men yanked the doors open, escorting me into an interrogation room. Requesting an English translator, I waited anxiously. An hour and forty-eight minutes later, a man and a woman entered to serve as my translators. They outlined the dire potential consequences for showing my hair – up to ten years in prison, lashes, death, or a hefty fine. I begged for forgiveness, explaining I was only visiting Iran to explore my parents’ heritage. My grandfather arrived at the court, bringing relief. His pleas during the hearing were heart-wrenching. They set bail at $18,000. Once paid, I raced to him, grateful for his support. This event made me realize the severity of injustices in Iran and sparked a strong sense of obligation to fight for those oppressed by unfair systems. It hit hard, the ease at which freedom can be stripped away, igniting a commitment to societal betterment. From that first realization, the deep reflection and growth of my life back in America took place. I switched majors and began putting all of my effort into truly trying in college. Despite the fact that this was a highly unpleasant experience, it opened my eyes and motivated me to pursue my true passions. I started reading through and absorbing international law and human rights books, each story intertwining with my own, strengthening my resolve for change. With each, my experience was not independent, but rather they interwoven, fueling new determination for change. This is how I used my experiences and learnings while volunteering with organizations working for immigrants. Far above being a career, it becomes a heartfelt mission against injustice, inspired by my ordeal. Eager to transfer to Law school, I very much look forward to engaging in the learning of, and contributing to, the discussions from so many varied perspectives.The end result has been that the background of my life experiences has created a person who is not only desirous of change but is determined to see change take place.

“Stop! Let me go, who are you?” They had already grabbed my hand, thrown me into the back, and slammed the double black doors shut, as my grandfather watched, powerless. My mind couldn't process the words as the morality police screamed at me on the street where my mother grew up. Words escaped me; my mind was in disarray, thoughts racing. I feared everything was over, uncertain of my fate. The three women in black chadors berated me, “What's your name, you whore? Aren’t you ashamed?” Overwhelmed, I struggled to respond in English. They mocked, “Great, a foreigner.” I was handcuffed,while the sweat poured down my face as the anxiety consumed me. The woman to my left peppered me with questions; I remained silent. Her response was a slap as she screamed, “Answer me!” I finally replied in Farsi, revealing my American upbringing. I mistakenly gave my birth year as 2003, not realizing Iran uses the Solar Hijri Calendar. They jeered, snatching off my hat and draping a chador over me. My pleas in Farsi were met with disgust. At the jail, I realized my parents, in America, couldn't bail me out. Only parents can do so in Iran. Two tall men yanked the doors open, escorting me into an interrogation room. Requesting an English translator, I waited anxiously. An hour and forty-eight minutes later, a man and a woman entered to serve as my translators. They outlined the dire potential consequences for showing my hair – up to ten years in prison, lashes, death, or a hefty fine. I begged for forgiveness, explaining I was only visiting Iran to explore my parents’ heritage. My grandfather arrived at the court, bringing relief. His pleas during the hearing were heart-wrenching. They set bail at $18,000. Once paid, I raced to him, grateful for his support. This event made me realize the severity of injustices in Iran and sparked a strong sense of obligation to fight for those oppressed by unfair systems. It hit hard, the ease at which freedom can be stripped away, igniting a commitment to societal betterment. From that first realization, the deep reflection and growth of my life back in America took place. I switched majors and began putting all of my effort into truly trying in college. Despite the fact that this was a highly unpleasant experience, it opened my eyes and motivated me to pursue my true passions. I started reading through and absorbing international law and human rights books, each story intertwining with my own, strengthening my resolve for change. With each, my experience was not independent, but rather they interwoven, fueling new determination for change. This is how I used my experiences and learnings while volunteering with organizations working for immigrants. Far above being a career, it becomes a heartfelt mission against injustice, inspired by my ordeal. Eager to transfer to Law school, I very much look forward to engaging in the learning of, and contributing to, the discussions from so many varied perspectives.The end result has been that the background of my life experiences has created a person who is not only desirous of change but is determined to see change take place.

“Stop! Let me go, who are you?” They had already grabbed my hand, thrown me into the back, and slammed the double black doors shut, as my grandfather watched, powerless. My mind couldn't process the words as the morality police screamed at me on the street where my mother grew up. Words escaped me; my mind was in disarray, thoughts racing. I feared everything was over, uncertain of my fate. The three women in black chadors berated me, “What's your name, you whore? Aren’t you ashamed?” Overwhelmed, I struggled to respond in English. They mocked, “Great, a foreigner.” I was handcuffed,while the sweat poured down my face as the anxiety consumed me. The woman to my left peppered me with questions; I remained silent. Her response was a slap as she screamed, “Answer me!” I finally replied in Farsi, revealing my American upbringing. I mistakenly gave my birth year as 2003, not realizing Iran uses the Solar Hijri Calendar. They jeered, snatching off my hat and draping a chador over me. My pleas in Farsi were met with disgust. At the jail, I realized my parents, in America, couldn't bail me out. Only parents can do so in Iran. Two tall men yanked the doors open, escorting me into an interrogation room. Requesting an English translator, I waited anxiously. An hour and forty-eight minutes later, a man and a woman entered to serve as my translators. They outlined the dire potential consequences for showing my hair – up to ten years in prison, lashes, death, or a hefty fine. I begged for forgiveness, explaining I was only visiting Iran to explore my parents’ heritage. My grandfather arrived at the court, bringing relief. His pleas during the hearing were heart-wrenching. They set bail at $18,000. Once paid, I raced to him, grateful for his support. This event made me realize the severity of injustices in Iran and sparked a strong sense of obligation to fight for those oppressed by unfair systems. It hit hard, the ease at which freedom can be stripped away, igniting a commitment to societal betterment. From that first realization, the deep reflection and growth of my life back in America took place. I switched majors and began putting all of my effort into truly trying in college. Despite the fact that this was a highly unpleasant experience, it opened my eyes and motivated me to pursue my true passions. I started reading through and absorbing international law and human rights books, each story intertwining with my own, strengthening my resolve for change. With each, my experience was not independent, but rather they interwoven, fueling new determination for change. This is how I used my experiences and learnings while volunteering with organizations working for immigrants. Far above being a career, it becomes a heartfelt mission against injustice, inspired by my ordeal. Eager to transfer to Law school, I very much look forward to engaging in the learning of, and contributing to, the discussions from so many varied perspectives.The end result has been that the background of my life experiences has created a person who is not only desirous of change but is determined to see change take place.

"Stop! Let go of me, who are you?" I cried out as they grabbed me and threw me in the back of a black van. They swung the double doors shut, as my grandfather watched, helpless to intervene. The morality police had taken me on this familiar street, where my mother grew up. With fear running through my mind and confusion knocking my thoughts like a blur, black chadored women pointed at me, screaming with anger. "What is your name, you whore? Are you not ashamed of your clothes?" they spat out in Farsi. Overwhelmed, I struggled and responded in English, revealing my American accent. They mocked, “Great, a foreigner.” I was handcuffed,while the sweat poured down my face as the anxiety consumed me. The woman to my left peppered me with questions; I remained silent. Her response was a slap across the face,. "Answer me, you whore!" I finally replied in Farsi. I mistakenly gave my birth year as 2003, not realizing Iran uses the Solar Hijri Calendar and with not the slightest idea how much cultural arrogance was tied to the Calendar. The woman sitting on my right shouted, "Be ashamed! "You even don't know your year of birth," she exclaimed, snatching at my hat and draping a chador over me. "I said, 'I am sorry; please don’t do this,' in front of them with disgust and amusement on their faces. I never thought going out for a run in leggings, a long-sleeve shirt, a long cardigan, and a hat that doesn't show your hair could lead me to this awful encounter. As we approached the jail, I had a feeling it was only going to get worse from here. Two tall men yanked the doors open, dragged me out into an interrogation room.. I had asked for an English translator and waited. An hour and forty-eight minutes later, a man and a woman came to be my translators. They explained to me the dire potential outcomes that may come if I show my hair: up to ten years in prison, flogging, the death sentence, or quite a large fine. They were saying with my shown hair, it is like I am not loved by God and am jeopardizing the way to heaven. I swallowed up what they said, asking for forgiveness, explaining that I was only in Iran to explore my parents' heritage. Then, comfort came on the outline, becoming blurred with tears, and I saw a well-known figure come, my grandfather. Afterwards, we were escorted to the court, which was a six-minute walk. Being American-Iranian drew many stares. My grandfather’s pleas during the hearing were heart-wrenching. Ultimately, they set bail at $18,000. Once the transaction was successful, I ran back to him with gratitude for both his presence and the fact that he's got the money to bail me out of this nightmare. From that first realization, the deep reflection and growth of my life back in America took place. I switched majors and began putting all of my effort into truly trying in college. Despite the fact that this was a highly unpleasant experience, it opened my eyes and motivated me to pursue my true passions. I started reading through and absorbing international law and human rights books, each story intertwining with my own, strengthening my resolve for change. With each, my experience was not independent, but rather they interwoven, fueling new determination for change. This is how I used my experiences and learnings while volunteering with organizations working for immigrants. Far above being a career, it becomes a heartfelt mission against injustice, inspired by my ordeal. Eager to transfer to Law school, I very much look forward to engaging in the learning of, and contributing to, the discussions from so many varied perspectives.The end result has been that the background of my life experiences has created a person who is not only desirous of change but is determined to see change take place.

“Stop! Let me go, who are you?” They had already grabbed my hand, thrown me into the back, and slammed the double black doors shut, as my grandfather watched, powerless. My mind couldn't process the words as the morality police screamed at me on the street where my mother grew up. Words escaped me; my mind was in disarray, thoughts racing. I feared everything was over, uncertain of my fate. The three women in black chadors berated me, “What's your name, you whore? Aren’t you ashamed?” Overwhelmed, I struggled to respond in English. They mocked, “Great, a foreigner.” I was handcuffed,while the sweat poured down my face as the anxiety consumed me. The woman to my left peppered me with questions; I remained silent. Her response was a slap as she screamed, “Answer me!” I finally replied in Farsi, revealing my American upbringing. I mistakenly gave my birth year as 2003, not realizing Iran uses the Solar Hijri Calendar. They jeered, snatching off my hat and draping a chador over me. My pleas in Farsi were met with disgust. At the jail, I realized my parents, in America, couldn't bail me out. Only parents can do so in Iran. Two tall men yanked the doors open, escorting me into an interrogation room. Requesting an English translator, I waited anxiously. An hour and forty-eight minutes later, a man and a woman entered to serve as my translators. They outlined the dire potential consequences for showing my hair – up to ten years in prison, lashes, death, or a hefty fine. I begged for forgiveness, explaining I was only visiting Iran to explore my parents’ heritage. My grandfather arrived at the court, bringing relief. His pleas during the hearing were heart-wrenching. They set bail at $18,000. Once paid, I raced to him, grateful for his support. This event made me realize the severity of injustices in Iran and sparked a strong sense of obligation to fight for those oppressed by unfair systems. It hit hard, the ease at which freedom can be stripped away, igniting a commitment to societal betterment. My life in America following this experience was filled with tremendous reflection and growth. I read a lot of books about international law, human rights, and the struggles of women living in systems that are unfair to them. Each story intertwined with mine and made me more determined to make a real change. I started helping with local organizations that work with immigrants contributing my time, and insights to such organizations. This experience has given me a real-life look at the problems immigrants face and how beneficial legal help can help them. Beyond simply being a career decision, my goal to study political science and eventually practice immigration law is a passionate mission against the injustices that I have personally witnessed. In addition to becoming a lawyer, I see myself as an advocate and a voice for people who, like myself, have been in horrific circumstances and have nowhere to turn.

"Stop! Let go of me, who are you?" I cried out as they grabbed me and threw me in the back of a black van. They swung the double doors shut, as my grandfather watched, helpless to intervene. The morality police had taken me on this familiar street, where my mother grew up. With fear running through my mind and confusion knocking my thoughts like a blur, black chadored women pointed at me, screaming with anger. "What is your name, you whore? Are you not ashamed of your clothes?" they spat out in Farsi. Overwhelmed, I struggled and responded in English, revealing my American accent. They mocked, “Great, a foreigner.” I was handcuffed,while the sweat poured down my face as the anxiety consumed me. The woman to my left peppered me with questions; I remained silent. Her response was a slap across the face,. "Answer me, you whore!" I finally replied in Farsi. I mistakenly gave my birth year as 2003, not realizing Iran uses the Solar Hijri Calendar and with not the slightest idea how much cultural arrogance was tied to the Calendar. The woman sitting on my right shouted, "Be ashamed! "You even don't know your year of birth," she exclaimed, snatching at my hat and draping a chador over me. "I said, 'I am sorry; please don’t do this,' in front of them with disgust and amusement on their faces. I never thought going out for a run in leggings, a long-sleeve shirt, a long cardigan, and a hat that doesn't show your hair could lead me to this awful encounter. As we approached the jail, I had a feeling it was only going to get worse from here. Two tall men yanked the doors open, dragged me out into an interrogation room.. I had asked for an English translator and waited. An hour and forty-eight minutes later, a man and a woman came to be my translators. They explained to me the dire potential outcomes that may come if I show my hair: up to ten years in prison, flogging, the death sentence, or quite a large fine. They were saying with my shown hair, it is like I am not loved by God and am jeopardizing the way to heaven. I swallowed up what they said, asking for forgiveness, explaining that I was only in Iran to explore my parents' heritage. Then, comfort came on the outline, becoming blurred with tears, and I saw a well-known figure come, my grandfather. Afterwards, we were escorted to the court, which was a six-minute walk. Being American-Iranian drew many stares. My grandfather’s pleas during the hearing were heart-wrenching. Ultimately, they set bail at $18,000. Once the transaction was successful, I ran back to him with gratitude for both his presence and the fact that he's got the money to bail me out of this nightmare. From that first realization, the deep reflection and growth of my life back in America took place. I switched majors and began putting all of my effort into truly trying in college. Despite the fact that this was a highly unpleasant experience, it opened my eyes and motivated me to pursue my true passions. I started reading through and absorbing international law and human rights books, each story intertwining with my own, strengthening my resolve for change. With each, my experience was not independent, but rather they interwoven, fueling new determination for change. This is how I used my experiences and learnings while volunteering with organizations working for immigrants. Far above being a career, it becomes a heartfelt mission against injustice, inspired by my ordeal. Eager to transfer to Law school, I very much look forward to engaging in the learning of, and contributing to, the discussions from so many varied perspectives.The end result has been that the background of my life experiences has created a person who is not only desirous of change but is determined to see change take place.