My grandparents, on my father's side, were forcibly annexed from their home in Palestine by Israeli settlers. They left with nothing but the clothes on their back, and walked on foot all the way to Jordan. Because of that, I am the daughter of an immigrant. I carry the blood of my namesake, my grandma, forced out of Palestine. And I believe it is my duty to uphold her resistance. In high school, I lost friends over this. It was the midst of the 2020 Black Lives Matter movement. I attended protests and I went out of my way to research, learn, and inform those around me. It didn't sit right with my friends at school that I felt so passionate about this. I was told to stop talking about it so often. That it was just too much and that it made everyone uncomfortable. I understand that being uncomfortable isn't a very welcoming feeling. But it's one that always arises in the process of unlearning bias. In my future career, I aspire to make those types of people uncomfortable. Doing so is proof that they're learning. Proof that I'm making a difference. With the limited opportunities to speak on these issues publicly in a small town, I took to writing to express my frustration. Throughout my high school career, I wrote many essays on the unjust treatment of Palestinians. It wasn't until last October that anyone truly batted an eye at it. My senior year of high school, my speech class was instructed to create and present an argumentative piece on a topic we felt strongly about. As I approached my teacher's desk, I told her I intended to write a piece on the United States's overfunding of the Israeli military. She looked at me with surprise, and told me how controversial it was. She didn't understand the extent of my knowledge on the "controversy." She had no idea about how powerful I would make that speech. As I walked up to the podium to give that speech, I was shaking. I went to a White-majority school, I knew nobody wanted to hear what I had to say. But I said it anyway. I finished my speech by reminding my classmates that their tax dollars are funding this genocide. And by the look on my classmate's faces, I knew I had made my point. In the future, I will create and propel Palestinian arts and media, specifically Palestinian film. There are hardly any accurate depictions of this war/genocide in American film, and I am determined to be the one to change that. Those whose voices get drowned out by American media need a way to tell their stories, to spread awareness. I will sit down at my computer and research, conduct interviews, and do anything I have to do to represent these people the way they deserve. They deserve justice, and I want to give them that in the best way I know how. The money from this scholarship will help me attend DePaul, where I can use updated and state of the art equipment to create Palestinian film, effectively bringing a voice to the voiceless.

My first memory of misophonia still hurts me to this day. I was seven years old, sitting in the sun-room of my grandparents house with my mom. Every time she cleared her throat, I would pinch her skin or my own, between my two fingers. I was too young to understand why I felt the need to do so, or why I would have such a strong reaction to certain sounds. When I was a bit older, my mom discovered the term 'misophonia.' She spent time researching, browsing through Facebook groups, and reading blogs of parents with children that have misophonia. It was, and still is a huge challenge for me in my everyday life. It was hard to tell my friends as a child, as I knew there was no way for them to understand or change their behavior to cater to me. The sounds that trigger my misophonia are: couhging, sneezing, sniffling, chewing, clearing of throats, and swallowing. This made the pandemic incredibly difficult for me. I feared I would get sick and spread it to my parents and my boyfriend, the people I spent the most time with. I couldn't afford for them to get sick with my anxiety as high as it was to begin with. For the longest time, I sat alone in my room, avoiding everyone and everything. I thought I'd get COVID from my mom upstairs through the air vents, even though neither of us had left our rooms in days. Since then, my misophonia has become intertwined with my OCD and germaphobia, and the feelings are unavoidable in my everyday life. Flu and allergy season in school have always been hard for me, and I'd sometimes convince my mom to let me stay home to avoid the sounds. My teachers knew, but of course, it wasn't their top priority, and there wasn't much they could do about it anyway. Right now, I am requesting housing accommodations at DePaul University, where I will be attending next academic year. But to combat and recude stigma, I have become a big proponent for awareness over the years. It's something I've lived with for at least 16 years, and I spent a lot of time feeling embarrassed about the diagnosis, even though there was no reason for it. I now talk about it more openly, I advocate and reccommend my favorite earbuds or earplugs to people around me that suspect they have misophonia. Education is truly the most important thing regarding advocating for misophonia awareness, and letting my teachers or friends know is a way that I continue advocating in my everyday life. Misophonia is a very isolating condition, but I've been seeing a lot more awareness on social media as of late, and it brings me immense joy to know that I, like others, am not alone.

My grandparents, on my father's side, were forcibly annexed from their home in Palestine by Israeli settlers. They left with nothing but the clothes on their back, and walked on foot all the way to Jordan. Because of that, I am the daughter of an immigrant. I carry the blood of my namesake, my grandma, forced out of Palestine. And I believe it is my duty to uphold her resistance. In high school, I lost friends over this. It was the midst of the 2020 Black Lives Matter movement. I attended protests and I went out of my way to research, learn, and inform those around me. It didn't sit right with my friends at school that I felt so passionate about this. I was told to stop talking about it so often. That it was just too much and that it made everyone uncomfortable. I understand that being uncomfortable isn't a very welcoming feeling. But it's one that always arises in the process of unlearning bias. In my future career, I aspire to make those types of people uncomfortable. Doing so is proof that they're learning. Proof that I'm making a difference. With the limited opportunities to speak on these issues publicly in a small town, I took to writing to express my frustration. Throughout my high school career, I wrote many essays on the unjust treatment of Palestinians. It wasn't until last October that anyone truly batted an eye at it. My senior year of high school, my speech class was instructed to create and present an argumentative piece on a topic we felt strongly about. As I approached my teacher's desk, I told her I intended to write a piece on the United States's overfunding of the Israeli military. She looked at me with surprise, and told me how controversial it was. She didn't understand the extent of my knowledge on the "controversy." She had no idea about how powerful I would make that speech. As I walked up to the podium to give that speech, I was shaking. I went to a White-majority school, I knew nobody wanted to hear what I had to say. But I said it anyway. I finished my speech by reminding my classmates that their tax dollars are funding this genocide. And by the look on my classmate's faces, I knew I had made my point. In the future, I will create and propel Palestinian arts and media, specifically Palestinian film. There are hardly any accurate depictions of this war/genocide in American film, and I am determined to be the one to change that. Those whose voices get drowned out by American media need a way to tell their stories, to spread awareness. I will sit down at my computer and research, conduct interviews, and do anything I have to do to represent these people the way they deserve. They deserve justice, and I want to give them that in the best way I know how. The money from this scholarship will help me attend DePaul, where I can use updated and state of the art equipment to create Palestinian film, effectively bringing a voice to the voiceless

My grandparents, on my father's side, were forcibly annexed from their home in Palestine by Israeli settlers. They left with nothing but the clothes on their back, and walked on foot all the way to Jordan. Because of that, I am the daughter of an immigrant. I carry the blood of my namesake, my grandma, forced out of Palestine. And I believe it is my duty to uphold her resistance. In high school, I lost friends over this. It was the midst of the 2020 Black Lives Matter movement. I attended protests and I went out of my way to research, learn, and inform those around me. It didn't sit right with my friends at school that I felt so passionate about this. I was told to stop talking about it so often. That it was just too much and that it made everyone uncomfortable. I understand that being uncomfortable isn't a very welcoming feeling. But it's one that always arises in the process of unlearning bias. In my future career, I aspire to make those types of people uncomfortable. Doing so is proof that they're learning. Proof that I'm making a difference. With the limited opportunities to speak on these issues publicly in a small town, I took to writing to express my frustration. Throughout my high school career, I wrote many essays on the unjust treatment of Palestinians. It wasn't until last October that anyone truly batted an eye at it. My senior year of high school, my speech class was instructed to create and present an argumentative piece on a topic we felt strongly about. As I approached my teacher's desk, I told her I intended to write a piece on the United States's overfunding of the Israeli military. She looked at me with surprise, and told me how controversial it was. She didn't understand the extent of my knowledge on the "controversy." She had no idea about how powerful I would make that speech. As I walked up to the podium to give that speech, I was shaking. I went to a White-majority school, I knew nobody wanted to hear what I had to say. But I said it anyway. I finished my speech by reminding my classmates that their tax dollars are funding this genocide. And by the look on my classmate's faces, I knew I had made my point. In the future, I will create and propel Palestinian arts and media, specifically Palestinian film. There are hardly any accurate depictions of this war/genocide in American film, and I am determined to be the one to change that. Those whose voices get drowned out by American media need a way to tell their stories, to spread awareness. I will sit down at my computer and research, conduct interviews, and do anything I have to do to represent these people the way they deserve. They deserve justice, and I want to give them that in the best way I know how. The money from this scholarship will help me attend DePaul, where I can use updated and state of the art equipment to create Palestinian film, effectively bringing a voice to the voiceless.

My first memory of misophonia still hurts me to this day. I was seven years old, sitting in the sun-room of my grandparents house with my mom. Every time she cleared her throat, I would pinch her skin or my own, between my two fingers. I was too young to understand why I felt the need to do so, or why I would have such a strong reaction to certain sounds. When I was a bit older, my mom discovered the term 'misophonia.' She spent time researching, browsing through Facebook groups, and reading blogs of parents with children that have misophonia. It was, and still is a huge challenge for me in my everyday life. It was hard to tell my friends as a child, as I knew there was no way for them to understand or change their behavior to cater to me. The sounds that trigger my misophonia are: couhging, sneezing, sniffling, chewing, clearing of throats, and swallowing. This made the pandemic incredibly difficult for me. I feared I would get sick and spread it to my parents and my boyfriend, the people I spent the most time with. I couldn't afford for them to get sick with my anxiety as high as it was to begin with. For the longest time, I sat alone in my room, avoiding everyone and everything. I thought I'd get COVID from my mom upstairs through the air vents, even though neither of us had left our rooms in days. Since then, my misophonia has become intertwined with my OCD and germaphobia, and the feelings are unavoidable in my everyday life. Flu and allergy season in school have always been hard for me, and I'd sometimes convince my mom to let me stay home to avoid the sounds. My teachers knew, but of course, it wasn't their top priority, and there wasn't much they could do about it anyway. Right now, I am requesting housing accommodations at DePaul University, where I will be attending next academic year. But to combat and recude stigma, I have become a big proponent for awareness over the years. It's something I've lived with for at least 16 years, and I spent a lot of time feeling embarrassed about the diagnosis, even though there was no reason for it. I now talk about it more openly, I advocate and reccommend my favorite earbuds or earplugs to people around me that suspect they have misophonia. Education is truly the most important thing regarding advocating for misophonia awareness, and letting my teachers or friends know is a way that I continue advocating in my everyday life. Misophonia is a very isolating condition, but I've been seeing a lot more awareness on social media as of late, and it brings me immense joy to know that I, like others, am not alone.

My first memory of misophonia still hurts me to this day. I was seven years old, sitting in the sun-room of my grandparents house with my mom. Every time she cleared her throat, I would pinch her skin or my own, between my two fingers. I was too young to understand why I felt the need to do so, or why I would have such a strong reaction to certain sounds. When I was a bit older, my mom discovered the term 'misophonia.' She spent time researching, browsing through Facebook groups, and reading blogs of parents with children that have misophonia. It was, and still is a huge challenge for me in my everyday life. It was hard to tell my friends as a child, as I knew there was no way for them to understand or change their behavior to cater to me. The sounds that trigger my misophonia are: couhging, sneezing, sniffling, chewing, clearing of throats, and swallowing. This made the pandemic incredibly difficult for me. I feared I would get sick and spread it to my parents and my boyfriend, the people I spent the most time with. I couldn't afford for them to get sick with my anxiety as high as it was to begin with. For the longest time, I sat alone in my room, avoiding everyone and everything. I thought I'd get COVID from my mom upstairs through the air vents, even though neither of us had left our rooms in days. Since then, my misophonia has become intertwined with my OCD and germaphobia, and the feelings are unavoidable in my everyday life. Flu and allergy season in school have always been hard for me, and I'd sometimes convince my mom to let me stay home to avoid the sounds. My teachers knew, but of course, it wasn't their top priority, and there wasn't much they could do about it anyway. Right now, I am requesting housing accommodations at DePaul University, where I will be attending next academic year. But to combat and recude stigma, I have become a big proponent for awareness over the years. It's something I've lived with for at least 16 years, and I spent a lot of time feeling embarrassed about the diagnosis, even though there was no reason for it. I now talk about it more openly, I advocate and reccommend my favorite earbuds or earplugs to people around me that suspect they have misophonia. Education is truly the most important thing regarding advocating for misophonia awareness, and letting my teachers or friends know is a way that I continue advocating in my everyday life. Misophonia is a very isolating condition, but I've been seeing a lot more awareness on social media as of late, and it brings me immense joy to know that I, like others, am not alone.

My grandparents, on my father's side, were forcibly annexed from their home in Palestine by Israeli settlers. They left with nothing but the clothes on their back, and walked on foot all the way to Jordan. Because of that, I am the daughter of an immigrant. I carry the blood of my namesake, my grandma, forced out of Palestine. And I believe it is my duty to uphold her resistance. In high school, I lost friends over this. It was the midst of the 2020 Black Lives Matter movement. I attended protests and I went out of my way to research, learn, and inform those around me. It didn't sit right with my friends at school that I felt so passionate about this. I was told to stop talking about it so often. That it was just too much and that it made everyone uncomfortable. I understand that being uncomfortable isn't a very welcoming feeling. But it's one that always arises in the process of unlearning bias. In my future career, I aspire to make those types of people uncomfortable. Doing so is proof that they're learning. Proof that I'm making a difference. With the limited opportunities to speak on these issues publicly in a small town, I took to writing to express my frustration. Throughout my high school career, I wrote many essays on the unjust treatment of Palestinians. It wasn't until last October that anyone truly batted an eye at it. My senior year of high school, my speech class was instructed to create and present an argumentative piece on a topic we felt strongly about. As I approached my teacher's desk, I told her I intended to write a piece on the United States's overfunding of the Israeli military. She looked at me with surprise, and told me how controversial it was. She didn't understand the extent of my knowledge on the "controversy." She had no idea about how powerful I would make that speech. As I walked up to the podium to give that speech, I was shaking. I went to a White-majority school, I knew nobody wanted to hear what I had to say. But I said it anyway. I finished my speech by reminding my classmates that their tax dollars are funding this genocide. And by the look on my classmate's faces, I knew I had made my point. In the future, I will create and propel Palestinian arts and media, specifically Palestinian film. There are hardly any accurate depictions of this war/genocide in American film, and I am determined to be the one to change that. Those whose voices get drowned out by American media need a way to tell their stories, to spread awareness. I will sit down at my computer and research, conduct interviews, and do anything I have to do to represent these people the way they deserve. They deserve justice, and I want to give them that in the best way I know how. The money from this scholarship will help me attend DePaul, where I can use updated and state of the art equipment to create Palestinian film, effectively bringing a voice to the voiceless.

As a kid, I didn't love watching movies. I would get too invested and think about both the characters, and plot line for weeks on end after seeing the film. I don't know when this changed, but eventually, it did. While I don't remember exactly which Marvel movie it was, I do remember I was watching one when the idea of being a filmmaker struck me. At the time, I was obsessed with Marvel movies. I would force my mom and friends to sit through the credits with me so we could watch the post-credits scene. As everyone else pulled out their phones to pass the time as the credits rolled, I kept my eyes glued to the screen. I watched as each and every name passed over the screen, and it was at that moment that I decided I would be one of the names in the credits someday. And ironically, that was it. My decision hasn't changed since that singular day. I've been set on my dream of becoming a filmmaker ever since. As a filmmaker, there is one specific thing, related to my identity, that I intend to focus on. That focus, is being Palestinian. My grandparents, on my father's side, were forcibly annexed from their home in Palestine by Israeli settlers. They left with nothing but the clothes on their back, and walked on foot all the way to Jordan. Because of that, I am the daughter of an immigrant. I carry the blood of my namesake, my grandma, forced out of Palestine. And I believe it is my duty to uphold her resistance. In the future, I will create and propel Palestinian arts and media, specifically Palestinian film. There are hardly any accurate depictions of this war/genocide in American film, and I am determined to be the one to change that. Those whose voices get drowned out by American media need a way to tell their stories, to spread awareness. I will sit down at my computer and research, conduct interviews, and do anything I have to do to represent these people the way they deserve. They deserve justice, and I want to give them that in the best way I know how. The money from this scholarship will help me attend DePaul, where I can use updated and state of the art equipment to create Palestinian film, effectively bringing a voice to the voiceless.

As a kid, I didn't love watching movies. I would get too invested and think about the characters and plot line for weeks on end after seeing the movie. I don't know when this changed, but eventually, it did. While I don't remember exactly which Marvel movie it was, I do remember I was watching one when the idea of being a filmmaker struck me. At the time, I was obsessed with Marvel movies. I would force my mom and friends to sit through the credits with me so we could watch the post-credits scene. As everyone else pulled out their phones to pass the time as the credits rolled, I kept my eyes glued to the screen. I watched each and every name pass over the screen, and it was at that moment that I decided I would be one of the names in the credits someday. And ironically, that was it. I've been set on my dream of becoming a filmmaker ever since. As a filmmaker, there is one specific thing, related to my identity, that I intend to focus on. That focus, is being Palestinian. My grandparents, on my father's side, were forcibly annexed from their home in Palestine by Israeli settlers. They left with nothing but the clothes on their back, and walked on foot all the way to Jordan. Because of that, I am the daughter of an immigrant. I carry the blood of my namesake, my grandma, forced out of Palestine. And I believe it is my duty to uphold her resistance. In the future, I will create and propel Palestinian arts and media, specifically Palestinian film. There are hardly any accurate depictions of this war/genocide in American film, and I am determined to be the one to change that. Those whose voices get drowned out by American media need a way to tell their stories, to spread awareness. I will sit down at my computer and research, conduct interviews, and do anything I have to do to represent these people the way they deserve. They deserve justice, and I want to give them that in the best way I know how. The money from this scholarship will help me attend DePaul, where I can use updated and state of the art equipment to create Palestinian film, effectively bringing a voice to the voiceless.

I was raised by an electrical engineer and a daycare provider. From a young age, I was fascinated by my dad's job. He was a propject manager and worked an office job, but the building in which he worked was thousands of square feet in production space. As a seven year old, the vast space and big equipment was exciting to me. I truly thought I'd grow up to be an electrical engineer just like my dad. In elementary school, I tried my best to keep math as my best subject. I knew math was the most important subject to an engineer, and to impress my dad, I needed to be the best at it. In the end, my reading and writing scores would always surpass my math scores. I'd keep good grades in math, but it was never my strongsuit. On the other hand, my mom was an at-home daycare provider up until I was 11 years old. I was never truly attracted to the idea of working at a daycare, and it may have been because my dad always emphasized how little money she was making. My mom also discussed her pay often, and my parents made it seem as though money was the most important aspect of a career. This made it difficult for me to find my passion and purpose in the future. Throughout my middle and high school years, I went through periods of time in which I was worried about deciding who and what I wanted to be in the future. I thought I needed to make a choice as soon as possible in order to have a balanced and successful career. In the end, I learned it wouldn't be something that I went searching for, but something that unveiled itself to me. As a kid, I didn't love watching movies. I would get too invested and think about the characters and plot line for weeks on end after seeing the movie. I don't know when this changed, but eventually, it did. While I don't remember exactly which Marvel movie it was, I do remember I was watching one when the idea of being a filmmaker struck me. At the time, I was obsessed with Marvel movies. I would force my mom and friends to sit through the credits with me so we could watch the post-credits scene. As everyone else pulled out their phones to pass the time as the credits rolled, I kept my eyes glued to the screen. I watched each and every name pass over the screen, and it was in that moment that I decided I would be one of the names in the credits someday. And ironically, that was it. I've been set on my dream of becoming a filmmaker ever since.

My grandparents, on my father's side, were forcibly annexed from their home in Palestine by Israeli settlers. They left with nothing but the clothes on their back, and walked on foot all the way to Jordan. Because of that, I am the daughter of an immigrant. I carry the blood of my namesake, my grandma, forced out of Palestine. And I believe it is my duty to uphold her resistance. In high school, I lost friends over this. It was the midst of the 2020 Black Lives Matter movement. I attended protests and I went out of my way to research, learn, and inform those around me. It didn't sit right with my friends at school that I felt so passionate about this. I was told to stop talking about it so often. That it was just too much and that it made everyone uncomfortable. I understand that being uncomfortable isn't a very welcoming feeling. But it's one that always arises in the process of unlearning bias. In my future career, I aspire to make those types of people uncomfortable. Doing so is proof that they're learning. Proof that I'm making a difference. With the limited opportunities to speak on these issues publicly in a small town, I took to writing to express my frustration. Throughout my high school career, I wrote many essays on the unjust treatment of Palestinians. It wasn't until last October that anyone truly batted an eye at it. My senior year of high school, my speech class was instructed to create and present an argumentative piece on a topic we felt strongly about. As I approached my teacher's desk, I told her I intended to write a piece on the United States's overfunding of the Israeli military. She looked at me with surprise, and told me how controversial it was. She didn't understand the extent of my knowledge on the "controversy." She had no idea about how powerful I would make that speech. As I walked up to the podium to give that speech, I was shaking. I went to a White-majority school, I knew nobody wanted to hear what I had to say. But I said it anyway. I finished my speech by reminding my classmates that their tax dollars are funding this genocide. And by the look on my classmate's faces, I knew I had made my point. In the future, I will create and propel Palestinian arts and media, specifically Palestinian film. There are hardly any accurate depictions of this war/genocide in American film, and I am determined to be the one to change that. Those whose voices get drowned out by American media need a way to tell their stories, to spread awareness. I will sit down at my computer and research, conduct interviews, and do anything I have to do to represent these people the way they deserve. They deserve justice, and I want to give them that in the best way I know how. The money from this scholarship will help me attend DePaul, where I can use updated and state of the art equipment to create Palestinian film, effectively bringing a voice to the voiceless.

My grandparents, on my father's side, were forcibly annexed from their home in Palestine by Israeli settlers. They left with nothing but the clothes on their back, and walked on foot all the way to Jordan. Because of that, I am the daughter of an immigrant. I carry the blood of my namesake, my grandma, forced out of Palestine. And I believe it is my duty to uphold her resistance. Growing up in a Christian and White majority town, I was never surrounded with people like me. All of my friends were Christian, and as a child it was difficult for me to understand why rivalries between religions exist. I was told that Muslims thought Christians were going to hell, and that Christians thought Muslims were going to hell. It was confusing for me as a kid, especially because no one understood the struggle I was experiencing with my own identity. My mom is a White Minnesotan and I inherited lots of those genes, making me White-passing. But the diversity in my blood was also very important to me and I felt I didn't belong in either community. As a kid I was made fun of for the amount of hair on my arms, the hair between my eyebrows, and the shape of my nose. I was told to go back to my country in a comment on an Instagram post. I've watched the genocide of the Palestinian people from a distance, unable to do much to help. I'm exhausted from the oppression. I'm tired of the lies, the bias, the lack of representation for the people that deserve it most. That said, in my future, I will create and propel Palestinian arts and media, specifically Palestinian film. There are hardly any accurate depictions of this war/genocide in American film, and I am determined to be the one to change that. Those whose voices get drowned out by American media need a way to tell their stories, to spread awareness. I will sit down at my computer and research, conduct interviews, and do anything I have to do to represent these people the way they deserve. They deserve justice, and I want to give them that in the best way I know how. The money from this scholarship will help me attend DePaul, where I can use updated and state of the art equipment to create Palestinian film, effectively bringing a voice to the voiceless.

My grandparents, on my father's side, were forcibly annexed from their home in Palestine by Israeli settlers. They left with nothing but the clothes on their back, and walked on foot all the way to Jordan. Becausee of that, I am the daughter of an immigrant. I carry the blood of my namesake, my grandma, forced out of Palestine. And I believe it is my duty to uphold her resistance. In high school, I lost friends over this. It was the midst of the 2020 Black Lives Matter movement. I attended protests and I went out of my way to research, learn, and inform those around me. It didn't sit right with my friends at school that I felt so passionate about this. I was told to stop talking about it so often. That it was just too much and that it made everyone uncomfortable. I understand that being uncomfortable isn't a very welcoming feeling. But it's one that always arises in the process of unlearning bias. In my future career, I aspire to make those types of people uncomfortable. Doing so is proof that they're learning. Proof that I'm making a difference. With the limited opportunities to speak on these issues publicly in a small town, I took to writing to express my frustration. Throughout my high school career, I wrote many essays on the unjust treatment of Palestinians. It wasn't until last October that anyone truly batted an eye at it. My senior year of high school, my speech class was instructed to create and present an argumentative piece on a topic we felt strongly about. As I approached my teacher's desk, I told her I intended to write a piece on the United States's overfunding of the Israeli military. She looked at me with surprise, and told me how controversial it was. She didn't understand the extent of my knowledge on the "constroversy." She had no idea about how powerful I would make that speech. As I walked up to the podium to give that speech, I was shaking. I went to a White-majority school, I knew nobody wanted to hear what I had to say. But I said it anyway. I finished my speech by reminding my classmates that their tax dollars are funding this genocide. And by the look on my classmates's faces, I knew I had made my point. In the future, I will create and propel Palestinian arts and media, specifically Palestinian film. There are hardly any accurate depictions of this war/genocide in American film, and I am determined to be the one to change that. Those whose voices get drowned out by American media need a way to tell their stories, to spread awareness. I will sit down at my computer and research, conduct interviews, and do anything I have to do to represent these people the way they deserve. They deserve justice, and I want to give them that in the best way I know how. The money from this scholarship will help me attend DePaul, where I can use updated and state of the art equipment to create Palestinian film, effectively bringing a voice to the voiceless.