My parents were born and raised in Gaza, Palestine, a territory considered to be an “open-air prison” where the poverty rate is well over 50%. They grew up to the daily electricity cut-offs, shortage of clean water, the sound of bombs, and destruction. Despite their hardships, they came to the United States, a country that guaranteed them nothing, intending to give my two sisters and me a better life. My parents sacrificed everything to give me what I have today and for that reason, they are my everything. My inspiration and motivation to pursue higher education, do good for them and the people around me, and make life beautiful. Growing up, I was the only Muslim and Arab individual in every school I have attended up until college. The continuous racist and Islamophobic remarks made it difficult for me to understand who I am and what I want to become. “Palestine does not exist”, “you’re nice but you’re going to hell ‘cause you’re a Muslim”, are the few of many insults I’ve had thrown my way. My own existence was a conflict, leaving me lost in a sea of confusion and anxiety. It’s crazy to think that at this time in my life where I felt disconnected, I wanted to try and be more connected with my roots and family back in Palestine more than ever. My parent’s stories of their life in Palestine inspired me to find confidence in the rich and beautiful history we hold. I started talking to my grandma, aunts, uncles, and cousins who live in Gaza, Palestine today whom we haven’t seen since 2004, the last time my family and I were able to enter Gaza. I began volunteering for various human rights organizations such as Palestine Children's Relief Fund where we served as a host family for several children from Palestine seeking medical aid. I became connected with my family, with my roots, and my local community here in San Diego. My parent’s resilience in overcoming their own hardships is the epitome of strength in my life. Their perseverance and their stories encourage me to create purpose and goals in my own life. My parents have taught me the importance of educating oneself, keeping an open mind, staying faithful, and living through honorable values. My struggles are an integral part of my life that has lead to my accomplishments, and it is because of my parent’s teachings that I have been able to do so. I am eternally grateful and owe a great deal to my parents, two strong Palestinian immigrants. I’m a recent Environmental Systems graduate from UC San Diego, about to attend a postgraduate Environment and Sustainable Development program in London. This program will allow me to pursue work in my dream job of sustainable management. I want to be able to financially support my education and lift the financial burden off of my parents. I want to make them proud because they are my everything.

My parents were born and raised in Gaza, Palestine, a territory considered to be an “open-air prison” where the poverty rate is well over 50%. They grew up to the daily electricity cut-offs, shortage of clean water, the sound of bombs, and destruction. Despite their hardships, they came to the United States, a country that guaranteed them nothing, with the intention of giving my two sisters and me a better life. My parents sacrificed everything to give me what I have today and for that reason, they are my everything. My inspiration to pursue higher education, my inspiration to do good for them and the people around me, and my inspiration to make life beautiful. Growing up, I was the only Muslim and Arab individual in every school I have attended up until college. The continuous racist and Islamophobic remarks made it difficult for me to understand who I am and what I want to become. “Palestine does not exist”, “you’re nice but you’re going to hell ‘cause you’re a Muslim”, are the few of many insults I’ve had thrown my way. My own existence was a conflict, leaving me lost in a sea of confusion and anxiety. It’s crazy to think that at this time in my life where I felt disconnected, I wanted to try and be more connected with my roots and family back in Palestine more than ever. My parent’s stories of their life in Palestine inspired me to find confidence in the rich and beautiful history we hold. I started talking to my grandma, aunts, uncles, and cousins who live in Gaza, Palestine today whom we haven’t seen since 2004, the last time my family and I were able to enter Gaza. I began volunteering for various human rights organizations such as Palestine Children Relief Fund where we served as a host family for several children from Palestine seeking medical aid. I became connected with my family, with my roots, and my local community here in San Diego. My parent’s resilience in overcoming their own hardships is the epitome of strength in my life. Their perseverance and their stories encourage me to create purpose and goals in my own life. My parents have taught me the importance of educating oneself, keeping an open mind, staying faithful, and living through honorable values. My struggles are an integral part of my life that has lead to my accomplishments, and it is because of my parent’s teachings that I have been able to do so. I am eternally grateful and owe a great deal to my parents, two strong Palestinian immigrants. I’m a recent Environmental Systems graduate from UC San Diego, about to attend a postgraduate Environment and Sustainable Development program in London. This program will allow me to pursue work in my dream job of sustainability management. I want to be able to financially support my education and lift the financial burden off of my parents. I want to make them proud because they are my everything.

My name is Noor Abou Zanaid and I am a Muslim-American raised by Palestinian immigrants. I grew up in a household that cherished culture and tradition. We would often eat Mediterranean dishes, speak Arabic at home, and be educated about the homeland. I am beyond grateful to my parents for teaching me and my two sisters about our heritage while also being open-minded and proud of the fact that we are American as well, a privilege that we have compared to the rest of our family that still resides in Gaza, Palestine today. I am happy and accepting of who I am, where I come from, but being in this accepting mindset wasn’t always the case. In elementary, middle, and high school I attended predominantly white schools. I was always the only Muslim and the only Arab, aside from my older sister. I was never one to conform to their ideals but I would always omit the fact that I was Palestinian and Muslim. However, my name would always catch everyone’s interest. “What does your name mean?” “Where are you from?” “Oh, Palestine? That doesn’t exist”. I would say it’s an Arabic name and brush off any form of conversation that could lead to a debate. Growing up in a country that did not acknowledge my Palestinian existence and demonized my faith, confused my perception of who I am. I felt alone. The first time I was called a terrorist was in fifth grade. In seventh grade, a girl in my class found out I was Muslim and cornered me in the bathroom where she said I was a “nice person” but would go to hell. From the Islamophobic media to my own personal encounters, I figured in high school I’ll just have to be more careful. It was always about censoring myself and my identity, but never about how wrong the other people were. I was defeated, confused, and developed anxiety and depression in high school. I became exhausted and discouraged from going to school, tired of keeping up a nice and humorous front while at the same time trying to deal with the immature “terrorist jokes”. I became numb, fighting battles within my mind, and questioned who I was. The only thing I lived for was my good grades and working almost full time while my family dealt with personal and financial issues. On the outside, I looked happy. I was known to always have a smile on my face, crack a joke, but the reality was that it was a chore to go outside and try to be this version of myself I used to be with my family and friends. I was fearful of the future, worried about how uncontrollable my life felt, and wondered if it would always be like this. My parents were born and raised in Gaza, Palestine, a territory considered to be an “open-air prison” where the poverty rate is well over 50%. Despite their hardships, they came to the United States, a country that guaranteed them nothing, intending to give my sisters and me a better life. My parents sacrificed everything to give me what I have today and for that reason, I knew I had to make changes to my own life, a life worth living. When I graduated high school, a weight had been lifted off my chest. No more “jokes”, people, or uncomfortable encounters. I knew that when I started college in the fall semester it would be different, but that was only if I took the necessary steps to work on my mental health. I first wanted to become more involved with my Muslim and Palestinian community here in San Diego, California. I attended a youth group and built strong relationships with individuals that shared the same struggles. I joined organizations such as the Palestinian Children Relief Fund (PCRF), engaged in volunteer work, where eventually my family became a host family for children coming from Palestine to seek medical attention here in America. I sought out help and started to speak about my mental health, bringing about a very difficult conversation but with time became something I found comfort in. I have been able to overcome this mental hardship. I have prioritized my mental health allowing me to find purpose beyond my own life. I still encounter obstacles, deal with anxiety, but I am now equipped with the knowledge and am learning every day how to process and move forward. My struggles are an integral part of my life that has lead to my accomplishments, perspectives, and relationships. I am now an Environmental Systems student at UC San Diego, about to graduate in two weeks. I am coming to the end of an amazing milestone in my life, one filled with challenges, progress, and accomplishments. In September of this year, I plan to attend a postgraduate program in London. A diverse city, in a new country, completely pulling me out of my comfort zone, but an opportunity that I am greatly anticipating. This program will allow me to pursue work in sustainability, intersectional environmentalism, and environmental justice. A lack of environmental work leads to a deteriorating Earth and is the root of many injustices. I want to work towards a sustainable future for all people across the globe. My struggles have been a form of encouragement. I now don’t fear the unknown but rather welcome it. What I have experienced and what I have learned is the driving force behind the pursuit of my higher education, advocating for human rights, and conversing about mental health. My relationship with the Earth, my family, my community, and myself have only grown stronger from what I have endured. Ultimately, I owe a great deal to my family and my parents, two strong Palestinian immigrants who raised three crazy yet dedicated daughters. They gave me a life worth living, filled with happiness, opportunities, and love and I am eternally grateful.

My name is Noor Abou Zanaid and I am a Muslim-American raised by Palestinian immigrants. I grew up in a household that cherished culture and tradition. We would often eat Mediterranean dishes, speak Arabic at home, and be educated about the homeland. I am beyond grateful to my parents for teaching me and my two sisters about our heritage while also being open-minded and proud of the fact that we are American as well, a privilege that we have compared to the rest of our family that still resides in Gaza, Palestine today. I am happy and accepting of who I am, where I come from, but being in this accepting mindset wasn’t always the case. In elementary, middle, and high school I attended predominantly white schools. I was always the only Muslim and the only Arab, aside from my older sister. I was never one to conform to their ideals but I would always omit the fact that I was Palestinian and Muslim. However, my name would always catch everyone’s interest. “What does your name mean?” “Where are you from?” “Oh, Palestine? That doesn’t exist”. I would say it’s an Arabic name and brush off any form of conversation that could lead to a debate. Growing up in a country that did not acknowledge my Palestinian existence and demonized my faith, confused my perception of who I am. I felt alone. The first time I was called a terrorist was in fifth grade. In seventh grade, a girl in my class found out I was Muslim and cornered me in the bathroom where she said I was a “nice person” but would go to hell. From the Islamophobic media to my own personal encounters, I figured in high school I’ll just have to be more careful. It was always about censoring myself and my identity, but never about how wrong the other people were. I was defeated, confused, and developed anxiety and depression in high school. I became exhausted and discouraged from going to school, tired of keeping up a nice and humorous front while at the same time trying to deal with the immature “terrorist jokes”. I became numb, fighting battles within my mind, and questioned who I was. The only thing I lived for was my good grades and working almost full time while my family dealt with personal and financial issues. On the outside, I looked happy. I was known to always have a smile on my face, crack a joke, but the reality was that it was a chore to go outside and try to be this version of myself I used to be with my family and friends. I was fearful of the future, worried about how uncontrollable my life felt, and wondered if it would always be like this. My parents were born and raised in Gaza, Palestine, a territory considered to be an “open-air prison” where the poverty rate is well over 50%. Despite their hardships, they came to the United States, a country that guaranteed them nothing, intending to give my sisters and me a better life. My parents sacrificed everything to give me what I have today and for that reason, I knew I had to make changes to my own life, a life worth living. When I graduated high school, a weight had been lifted off my chest. No more “jokes”, people, or uncomfortable encounters. I knew that when I started college in the fall semester it would be different, but that was only if I took the necessary steps to work on my mental health. I first wanted to become more involved with my Muslim and Palestinian community here in San Diego, California. I attended a youth group and built strong relationships with individuals that shared the same struggles. I joined organizations such as the Palestinian Children Relief Fund (PCRF), engaged in volunteer work, where eventually my family became a host family for children coming from Palestine to seek medical attention here in America. I sought out help and started to speak about my mental health, bringing about a very difficult conversation but with time became something I found comfort in. I have been able to overcome this mental hardship. I have prioritized my mental health allowing me to find purpose beyond my own life. I still encounter obstacles, deal with anxiety, but I am now equipped with the knowledge and am learning every day how to process and move forward. My struggles are an integral part of my life that has lead to my accomplishments, perspectives, and relationships. I am now an Environmental Systems student at UC San Diego, about to graduate in two weeks. I am coming to the end of an amazing milestone in my life, one filled with challenges, progress, and accomplishments. In September of this year, I plan to attend a postgraduate program in London. A diverse city, in a new country, completely pulling me out of my comfort zone, but an opportunity that I am greatly anticipating. This program will allow me to pursue work in sustainability, intersectional environmentalism, and environmental justice. A lack of environmental work leads to a deteriorating Earth and is the root of many injustices. I want to work towards a sustainable future for all people across the globe. My struggles have been a form of encouragement. I now don’t fear the unknown but rather welcome it. What I have experienced and what I have learned is the driving force behind the pursuit of my higher education, advocating for human rights, and conversing about mental health. My relationship with the Earth, my family, my community, and myself have only grown stronger from what I have endured. Ultimately, I owe a great deal to my family and my parents, two strong Palestinian immigrants who raised three crazy yet dedicated daughters. They gave me a life worth living, filled with happiness, opportunities, and love and I am eternally grateful.

My name is Noor Abou Zanaid and I am a Muslim-American raised by Palestinian immigrants. I grew up in a household that cherished culture and tradition. We would often eat Mediterranean dishes, speak Arabic at home, and be educated about the homeland. I am beyond grateful to my parents for teaching me and my two sisters about our heritage while also being open-minded and proud of the fact that we are American as well. My sisters and I are first-generation-born Americans, a privilege that we have compared to the rest of our family that still resides in Gaza, Palestine today. I am happy and accepting of who I am, where I come from, but being aware of my identity wasn’t always the case. In elementary, middle, and high school I attended predominantly white schools. I was always the only Muslim and the only Arab, aside from my older sister. I was never one to conform to their ideals but I would always omit the fact that I was Palestinian and Muslim. However, my name would always catch everyone’s interest. “What does your name mean?” “Where are you from?” “Oh, Palestine? That doesn’t exist”. I would say it’s an Arabic name and brush off any form of conversation that could lead to a debate. I am ashamed to say that at this point in my life I was afraid to express an entire part of myself that contributed greatly to my identity. Growing up in a country that did not acknowledge my Palestinian existence and demonized my faith, confused my perception of who I am. The first time I was called a terrorist was in fifth grade. In seventh grade, a girl in my class found out I was Muslim because she saw my mom wearing a hijab, and cornered me in the bathroom where she said I was a “nice person” but would go to hell. From the Islamophobic media to my own personal encounters, I figured in high school I’ll just have to be more careful. It was always about censoring myself and my identity, but never about how wrong the other people were. I was defeated, confused, and developed anxiety in high school. I became exhausted and discouraged from going to school, tired of keeping up a nice and humorous front while at the same time trying to deal with the immature “terrorist jokes”. I became numb, fighting battles within my own mind, and questioned who I am. The only thing I lived for was my good grades and working almost full time while my family dealt with personal and financial issues. My parents were born and raised in Gaza, Palestine, a territory considered to be an “open-air prison” where the poverty rate is well over 50%. They grew up to the daily electricity cut-offs, shortage of clean water, the sound of bombs, and destruction. Despite their hardships, they came to the United States, a country that guaranteed them nothing, with the intention of giving my sisters and me a better life. My parents sacrificed everything to give me what I have today and for that reason, I knew I had to make changes to my own life, a life worth living. When I graduated high school, a weight had been lifted off my chest. No more “jokes”, people, or uncomfortable encounters. I knew that when I started college in the fall semester it would be different, but that was only if I took the necessary steps to work on my mental health. I first wanted to become more involved with my Muslim and Palestinian community here in San Diego, California. I attended a youth group and made friends with individuals that shared the same struggles. I joined organizations such as the Palestinian Children Relief Fund (PCRF), engaged in volunteer work, where eventually my family became a host family for children coming from Palestine to seek medical attention here in America. I sought out help and started to speak about my mental health, bringing about a very difficult conversation but with time became something I found comfort in. I have been able to overcome this mental and social adversity. I have found my voice, my purpose, I enjoy my studies, my work, and am very passionate about advocating for human rights and mental health topics. I still encounter adversity, deal with anxiety, but I am now equipped with the knowledge and am learning every day how to process and move forward. My struggles are an integral part of my life that has lead to my accomplishments. I am now an Environmental Systems student at UC San Diego, about to graduate in three weeks. I am coming to the end of an amazing milestone in my life, one filled with challenges, progress, and accomplishments. In September of this year, I plan to attend a postgraduate program in London. A diverse city, in a new country, completely pulling me out of my comfort zone, but an opportunity that I am greatly anticipating. This program will allow me to pursue work in sustainability, intersectional environmentalism, and environmental justice. A lack of environmental work not only leads to a deteriorating Earth but is the root of many injustices. I want to work towards a sustainable future for all people across the globe. My struggles have been a form of encouragement. What I have experienced and what I have learned is the driving force behind the pursuit of my higher education, advocating for Palestinian and human rights, and conversing about mental health. Ultimately, I owe a great deal to my family and my parents, two strong Palestinian immigrants who raised three crazy yet dedicated daughters. They gave me a life, a life worth living, filled with happiness, opportunities, and love and I am eternally grateful. My name is Noor Abou Zanaid, the daughter of Palestinian immigrants, and I am a proud Palestinian-Muslim-American.

My name is Noor Abou Zanaid and I am a Muslim-American raised by Palestinian immigrants. I grew up in a household that cherished culture and tradition. We would often eat Mediterranean dishes, speak Arabic at home, and be educated about the homeland. I am beyond grateful to my parents for teaching me and my two sisters about our heritage while also being open-minded and proud of the fact that we are American as well, a privilege that we have compared to the rest of our family that still resides in Gaza, Palestine today. I am happy and accepting of who I am today, where I come from, but being aware of my identity wasn’t always the case. In elementary, middle, and high school I attended predominantly white schools. I was always the only Muslim and the only Arab, aside from my older sister. I was never one to conform to their ideals but I would always omit the fact that I was Palestinian and Muslim. However, my name would always catch everyone’s interest. “What does your name mean?” “Where are you from?” “Oh, Palestine? That doesn’t exist”. I would say it’s an Arabic name and brush off any form of conversation that could lead to a debate. The first time I was called a terrorist was in fifth grade. In seventh grade, a girl in my class found out I was Muslim because she saw my mom wearing a hijab, and cornered me in the bathroom where she said I was a “nice person” but would go to hell. From the Islamophobic media to my own personal encounters, I figured in high school I’ll just have to be more careful. It was always about censoring myself and my identity, but never about how wrong the other people were. I was defeated, confused, and developed anxiety in high school. I became exhausted and discouraged from going to school, tired of keeping up a nice and humorous front while at the same time trying to deal with the immature “terrorist jokes”. The only thing I lived for was my good grades and working almost full time while my family dealt with personal and financial issues. I became numb, fighting battles within my own mind, and questioned my identity. I didn’t want to live like this anymore. When I graduated high school, a weight had been lifted off my chest. No more “jokes”, people, or uncomfortable encounters. I knew that when I started college in the fall semester it would be different, but that was only if I took the necessary steps to work on my mental health. I first wanted to become more involved with my Muslim and Palestinian community here in San Diego, California. I attended a youth group and made friends with individuals that shared the same struggles. I joined organizations such as the Palestinian Children Relief Fund (PCRF), engaged in volunteer work, where eventually my family became a host family for children coming from Palestine to seek medical attention here in America. I sought out help and started to speak about my mental health, bringing about a conversation that was very difficult but with time became something I found comfort in. I have been able to overcome this mental and social adversity. I have found my voice, my purpose, I enjoy my studies, my work, and am very passionate about advocating for human rights and mental health topics. I still encounter adversity, deal with anxiety, but I am now equipped with the knowledge and am learning every day how to process and move forward. My struggles are an integral part of my life that has lead to my accomplishments. I am now an Environmental Systems student at UC San Diego, about to graduate in three weeks. I am coming to the end of an amazing milestone in my life, one filled with challenges, progress, and accomplishments. In September of this year, I plan to attend a postgraduate program in London. A diverse city, in a new country, completely pulling me out of my comfort zone, but an opportunity that I am greatly anticipating. This program will allow me to pursue work in sustainability, intersectional environmentalism, and environmental justice. My struggles have been a form of encouragement. What I have experienced and what I have learned is the driving force behind the pursuit of my higher education, advocating for Palestinian and human rights, and conversing about mental health. My name is Noor Abou Zanaid and I am a proud Palestinian-Muslim-American.

I am so grateful that I can think of so many kind gestures and moments that have happened over my lifetime. Just trying to think of one particular act of kindness is so hard when I can already think of a couple that has occurred just this past week. From family members lending a hand during a time in need to a friend encouraging me to chase my dreams. My heart flourishes especially when a stranger displays a “random” act of kindness, emphasis on the word random because this act is the definition of kindness seeing as they have no relationship or obligation to you. You are simply strangers. I have had strangers buy me a cup of coffee, give me their parking pass in downtown San Diego when they noticed I was having trouble parking, and hand me a rose while walking down a crowded street. One particular act of kindness that will stick with me forever was not related to materials or giving and receiving of some sort, but rather a gesture and a moment of genuine conversation that helped me get out of my anxious head. During my second year of college, I worked as a hostess at a breakfast and brunch restaurant. I worked early mornings, four days a week while being enrolled in 18 units as a full-time student. There were a lot of stressful factors in my life that led to the peak of my anxiety during that time. We had two regular customers, an elderly couple, who would come in every Sunday morning. They would sit at the same booth and almost always order the same breakfast, two cups of coffee, a blueberry muffin, omelets, and hash browns. It wasn’t until a couple of months into the job that I would regularly talk to them beyond a general conversation. What first stuck out to me were their smiles. They smiled not just with their mouth but with their eyes. And the way they interacted with the staff, as they would treat one another, with genuine kindness. They would ask me how my day was going and then ask me about my studies. I started to look forward to my Sundays, surprisingly, since I sometimes dreaded going to work after an exhausting week. They became this outside factor of my chaotic personal life, one that cared to ask how I was doing and cared enough to actually listen. During these moments, my anxious mind would be put at ease. I am not fairly comfortable conversing with strangers as I did with this couple, but they had this ambiance that allowed me to be able to trust them, talk to them, listen to them. It’s funny how I had never gotten their names until our last encounter when I told them it was my last day at work before I moved for university. They seemed so proud of me, encouraged me, and gave me a hug goodbye. I truly want to thank them for being there for me at a time in my life where I felt like my mind was lost. They were such simple moments but held an immense amount of quality and importance to my mental health. One day if we cross paths, I’ll be sure to let them know how much their kindness was the support I needed to move forward. Maybe next Sunday morning I’ll go out for breakfast at a certain breakfast and brunch restaurant.