I am Palestinian, and that fact has shaped my life as much through absence as through presence. My family is from Tulkarm, a place I call home even though I have never been allowed to set foot on its soil. It’s a city I have learned to love through stories rather than memories. Though Tulkarm is officially under Palestinian administration, the reality on the ground has been marked by constant military incursions, destruction, and displacement. Entire neighborhoods have been torn apart, homes turned into military posts, and families forced to leave behind lives built over generations. Being Palestinian means inheriting a homeland through stories, memories, and longing rather than through lived experience. It means loving a place you are denied, and carrying it with you wherever you go. I was born and raised in Jordan, but I was raised Palestinian. My family made sure of that. Our traditions, our language, our grief, and our pride filled our home. They spoke of Tulkarm with tenderness, its olive trees, its fertile land, the warmth of its people, and the sense of belonging that once filled its streets. These stories became my inheritance. Even though I never lived there, I have always tried to represent Tulkarm and Palestine in everything I do, through my values, my resilience, and the pride with which I carry my identity. I learned early on that when you are denied a homeland, your responsibility is to keep it alive. One of my clearest childhood memories is driving past the Dead Sea. On the other side lay Palestine, so close I could see it, yet impossibly far. I would stare out the window, imagining what Tulkarm looked like, wondering if the land recognized me even if I was never allowed to recognize it in return. That closeness made the denial hurt more. Knowing my homeland exists just beyond reach has been one of the quiet heartbreaks of my life. When I immigrated to the United States at the age of eleven, I carried that longing with me. I faced the challenges of a new language, a new culture, and a new life. Starting over was difficult, but it taught me resilience. I learned to adapt, to work harder, and to push forward even when I felt out of place. Being Palestinian has never allowed me the comfort of permanence, but it has given me determination. Education became my way forward, my way of honoring a place I could not touch. My identity is rooted in survival and hope. I am driven by the idea that education is something no border can restrict. I want to succeed not only for myself, but for the generations before me who were denied opportunity, stability, and freedom of movement. My academic and career goals are fueled by the desire to rebuild, whether that is through knowledge, service, or impact. One day, I hope to return to Tulkarm. Even if it is changed. Even if it is broken. Even if it exists only in pieces. I want to stand on that land and know that despite everything meant to erase my connection to it, I endured. Until then, I will continue to represent it the only way I can, by carrying its strength with me and turning remembrance into purpose, ambition, and hope.