My name is Sabene Rizvi. Both of my names come from my mother: Rizvi, her maiden name, and the first name she chose for me. Rizvi, five letters, two syllables, carries the story of my bloodline, tracing back to sixth-century Iran. It is a name of colonizers and freedom fighters, of Shia Muslims and resilience. I was born after my mother’s third pregnancy ended in loss, carrying both her hope and her fear.
My father’s last name, Qureshi, a Sunni Muslim name, reflects his Nigerian-raised liberalism, something you notice only when you look beyond the surface.
In the sixth grade, I wrote a speech titled I Write History with the Ink of My Blood. At the time, it was just an English assignment. Today, it holds deep memories and an even deeper sense of identity for me. I was born in Staten Island, New York, on Thursday, December 9, 2004, three years, two months, and twenty-eight days after 9/11, a brown, Muslim, first-generation Pakistani American girl.
What my parents and I could not have known then was that this baby girl would grow up to be a queer, Muslim, progressive Pakistani American with a story spanning continents, a story that demands discovery beyond the surface. Born in New York to a Pakistani mother and a Nigerian-raised Pakistani father, I belong physically to New York, Oklahoma, and Pakistan, to the moves back and forth, and emotionally to Nigeria, and to my parents’ journeys through Ohio, London, and Newcastle upon Tyne.
I speak Urdu, which carries the warmth of home: my cousin asking if she could have a piece of my bread, and my confusion at her use of the word niwala. I speak English, which carries my story, my identity, my political thoughts. I speak Punjabi, albeit not fluently, carrying the words Aisi Punjabiyan deh nah dil
bohat wandeh hondeh hai, meaning we Punjabis have very big hearts. Punjabi carries my soul.
In seventh grade, in Pakistan, a teacher made us write a mind map of Jews with words like “selfish” and “greedy.” My soul recoiled; it felt wrong. Prejudice appeared early, when I was three in Oklahoma: our downstairs neighbor would bang her broom on the ceiling in frustration. Later in Indiana, a white boss
assumed I did not have a boyfriend because of my Muslim upbringing. She was wrong. I did not have a boyfriend because I was not looking for one. These experiences taught me that prejudice often hides behind assumptions.
On Tuesday, November 5, 2025, I watched Zohran Kwame Mamdani become the African, South Asian, Indian, and Muslim American mayor-elect of New York City. I heard the same rhetoric, Sharia law, terrorism, but the people knew better. His victory was more than political; it was personal. It showed me that being a progressive Muslim is not a contradiction, that complexity, faith, and progressivism can coexist, and that someone like me can thrive in public life.
Now, I protest against Jim Banks and Pete Hegseth at the Northeast Indiana Defense Summit, as they shut down our Student Union for their event. I protest for my identity: Pakistan, Punjabi, Nigerian, American, Queer, free. I protest against a system that has abandoned my peers and me. Forty-five firings stole my mentors, my financial aid and Frank O’Bannon grants were taken, and Political Science was merged into Social Science under HB1001. I am exhausted, but my spirit, the spirit of the daughter of Punjab, of America, of my parents, has not abandoned me. My voice has not abandoned me.
I protest because I carry stories deep within me: of African women, of Ivan and Saša reminding me to “remember the people,” of knowing Pakistani and American women who have had abortions. I protest because I know my mother, my father, and myself.
We are brown, and we are American. We are brown, and we are Queer. We are brown, and we are pro-choice. We are brown, and we are Muslims, and we are tired of rhetoric that paints us as intolerant when we fight in the streets for equality and justice. We are brown, and we will not watch the bombing of Palestinians, the torture of Ukrainians, or the kidnapping of our people.
Rizvi carries the story of political violence, the 2015 Islamabad bombings that killed members of my family. I carry these histories within me, along with their bravery and resilience. My languages coexist, as do my faith, my queerness, my beliefs, and my activism. My identities are not in tension; they live together, complex and whole. And so does hope. Radical hope.
Let us be the Radical hope, the Radical change, the Radical correction.