Volunteering for my communities has consistently been part of my identity. Growing up, I witnessed firsthand the disparities in access to basic resources around the world. I spent part of my childhood in Egypt before returning to the United States at eight years old, where I quickly acclimated to the resources available to me. Ten years later, I returned to Egypt to reunite with my extended family. As we drove towards our village, I noticed piles of garbage lining the roads. Candy wrappers, plastic bags, shredded paper, crushed cans, rotting produce and wild animals feasting on their decomposing counterparts stretched as far as the eye could see. When I asked my uncle why there was so much trash, he replied, “We don’t have nice things like you guys.” We arrived at my home and immediately I refamiliarized myself with the walls of my childhood bedroom. Looking outside of the window, I saw a massive landfill embedded within the homes of my neighbors. The trash stretched the entire street, separated by a solid brick wall. The sight was horrific. A few days later, I was helping my mother when I began smelling a strong burning scent in the air. Walking onto the balcony, I saw the same landfill completely on fire. I ran to my mother and pleaded with her to call first responders because a huge fire had broken out. She explained the fire is intentional because that is how the community manages waste. She informed me that once a week a community member will tend to the landfill and light the trash on fire to reduce its volume. She said the wall prevents the fire from spreading to people’s homes. The waste management system was not the only shocking part of my trip. During my visit, the electricity would shut off across my entire village. My cousins introduced me to the idea and I thought they were playing a prank. The idea of a government body making the conscious decision to cut access to power on a daily basis sounded ridiculous. Later that day I learned the truth behind their words. Lastly, my mother warned me against drinking tap water because agricultural runoff contaminated the supply. “So everyone drinks dirty water?” I asked, “Yes” was my mothers response. I finally understood what my uncle meant. He was right, my family did not have the “Nice things.” They did not have access to basic human needs. In that moment, I knew I had to become an engineer to have any chance at serving my community. During my undergraduate studies, I joined Engineers Without Borders (EWB), where we focused on designing a water purification and distribution system for two communities in Ecuador. Similarly to my family, the community members (~150 people) did not have access to clean water. Recognizing the importance of reliable access to clean water, I took initiative in translating my engineering knowledge into practical solutions. As a mechanical engineer, I lead a team of 15 students to design break tanks and security for the water system. I oversaw design documentation, 3D modeling and revisions of the system. I helped my teammates strengthen their technical skills, improve their design process, and grow as confident engineers. I later traveled to Ecuador alongside fellow students and professional engineers to implement our designs. Our team successfully built 1.5 kilometers of the main water pipeline and connected a tap for clean water at the first school. My volunteering efforts are rooted in improving people's quality of life while providing them with the resources I easily take for granted.

One of the biggest internal conflicts I face is eating a bag of Haribo gummy bears. I was raised to be Muslim, and a part of that was not being allowed to eat pork. Gummy bears are made with gelatin, which is produced from pigs. I was about eleven years old when I discovered all my favorite candies contained gelatin. I was eating pork indirectly, and that made me a sinner. It was gut-wrenching, but I knew for God to forgive me, I would have to stop eating gummy bears, Jello, and even marshmallows. As the years continued to pass, I grew further and further away from my culture and especially my religion. During sophomore year of high school, I jokingly asked my friend if God was real. I expected her to start laughing and completely deny God's existence, but she responded with a simple yes. I asked if she was being serious, and to my surprise she said yes. She looked at me funny, and I cannot blame her. How can I, a woman of faith, a woman who wears a hijab to show devotion to Islam, ask such a ridiculous question? It was only then that I discovered I must do my own research and not be told my beliefs. In my junior and senior years of high school, I secretly researched different religions and learned about different perspectives. The more research I conducted, the more I discovered the only things I knew about “my religion” were the simple rules of not being allowed to eat pork and women wearing hijabs. By that point I realized I had not prayed to God in over ten years and I could not read the Quran. I resented many of my milestones because I was photographed wearing a hijab. Prom, senior year portraits, graduation, drivers’ license, passport photo and even my Pitt ID—every time, I thought, “This is not me.” I was presenting myself in a manner where I had to lie about my identity to protect my parents’ peace, pride, reputation and status. As an Egyptian, these are core values found amongst every Egyptian family. A scandal such as a child not believing in Islam has the power to destroy the reputation of my family for generations to come. Naturally, when I came to college I had an identity crisis. I was no longer in an environment where I was required to wear the hijab for the sanity of my parents. In my heart, I knew I could not continue to lie to myself. The first day of freshman orientation was the first day I took the hijab off. I forgot how it felt to have wind blowing through my hair, and past my ears. I forgot how it felt to get complimented on the curls of my hair. Most dreadfully, I forgot all about those bad hair days. I made a commitment to myself to ensure my family does not discover my new double life. During breaks from the school year, I would wear the hijab. This however, created another challenge where now I had to lie to my family about the memories I make in college. I had to exclude them from my life for their sanity. This went on for two years until I simply had enough. I hated this life of lies I created to protect my parents. During the summer of 2024, I told my parents I no longer wanted to wear the hijab. I explained I never truly valued its importance or shown the religion the respect it deserves. They were not receptive to the idea and immediately began scolding me. They did not fail to let me know the depth at which I disappoint them. I was shamed and mocked for my lack of sympathy for the family name. It was terrible, and I was hoping they would understand. I made a compromise; I would permanently take off the hijab once I went back to school in hopes this will give them enough time to make peace with my decision. This ongoing experience has taught me to be true to myself despite the adversity ahead. Beyond the scandal is a woman who is braver and wiser through her persistent search for self-identity. Now, I find myself at the grocery store looking at those gummy bears, reminiscing the simplicity of my childhood and reflecting on how far I have come.