One of my most memorable law school readings was about bobblehead dolls. Famous actors and politicians whose faces were fashioned into bobbleheads weren’t always flattered by the comedic attention, and as public figures, did they have a right of action to sue because of an unfavorable depiction? How many issues could public figures who had entered the limelight by their own personal choice really complain about? In many instances, courts had ruled that public figures were fair game for the media, other industries, and society at large. Public figures’ allegations of libel or slander could be difficult to prove in court.

As a young law student, I never considered myself to join the likes of public figures. I wasn’t living the “lifestyles of the rich and famous,” and that hasn’t changed. I wasn’t a notable actor-turned-politician, and the bobbleheads seemed like rich people’s problems!

As I joined the transient networks of Washington DC, first as a lawyer, then on Capitol Hill, then in the non-profit sector, and finally in service to the American people as a diplomat, I learned that I was – in fact – very visible. One Monday morning, a chirpy colleague at the law firm piped up, “Mariyam, I saw you walking around over the weekend in a beautiful red hijab down the sidewalk! First, I wasn’t sure it was you because you’re in a suit at work, but then I took another look and knew it was you!”

I didn’t know where this law firm colleague lived, or even where I had been spotted! Back then, as I was still trying to figure my way around Washington circles, I would wear suits on the weekdays at work, and my hijab everywhere outside work on nights and weekends. At times, I felt like I was living a dual life, and trying to mask one from the other. I had been many places that weekend running several errands, and wondered, I didn’t say or do something stupid as I bounced down the street, did I? Was my hijab ironed that day? I hope this person didn’t see me with the stained hijab after I ate the ice cream!

My visibility came with a price – people remembered me, formed opinions, and either gave me a second chance or – if they remembered me less than favorably – never did again. But even with that knowledge, I never felt physically vulnerable or under attack. I felt the invisible lens of the microscope often, but I never felt unsafe or that I was easy prey, especially in my surroundings.

Whenever I have traveled or lived overseas, which now is required in my day job, I’ve never wondered: Am I safe here? I know I’m recognized and memorable. I know people I cannot see may be watching me – and not always for positive purposes. Sometimes, people have bluntly told me so. But I’ve never given that thought too much space. I’m not reckless about my personal safety; I try to make sound decisions about how to keep myself out of trouble. But I haven’t ever stopped living, or become paralyzed with fear, or said no to some assignment or experience others might have thought is unimaginably risky – especially for a blind, Muslim girl.

This attitude is so intrinsic to me that I don’t remember ever feeling differently, even as a child or young adult. When my family, friends, and even some colleagues told me “No,” I went to Ramallah, Nablus, and other areas of the Middle East some may consider unsavory as a graduate student shortly after the Second Intifada. On the day I was leaving Ramallah to return to Ireland, a man was shot outside my apartment on the street by snipers.

Now, I was no public figure in Ramallah, nor have I been a public figure anywhere else in the traditional sense, but it’s foolhardy to say people didn’t know me, or recognize me, or remember me if they saw me a second time. If they wanted to be up to no good, I assume they had their chances. I’ve lived and studied in countries like Ireland, which had a population of 3.9 million people back in 2002. The charming seaside town of Galway where I lived was even smaller, and anyone could have stalked me. Even in countries with a larger population, sometimes because of my day job, I was noticeable, trackable, and potential prey.

In my head, I’ve always written off the weight of visibility by telling myself: I’m here to do a job, and some people think it might be more interesting than it is, or more glamorous than it cracks up to be, but whatever… I’m here to do a job, and that’s it.

But sometimes, the risks we’re heading off aren’t light-hearted – an unfavorably comedic bobblehead depiction or mean-spirited cartoon sketch.

Connecticut legislator Maryam Khan’s recent, harrowing experience with a violent attacker who tried to sexually assault her and threatened he’d assault her teenage daughter reminded me of the real risks and the uncalculated price of visibility. My sister said, “she shares your name, and several of your identities,” pausing to hear my reflection about the story of the first Muslim legislator in the Connecticut House under attack in her place of faith, her community, amidst her children and family.

Khan is visible by choice; she decided to serve her community and won a special election to her state legislature in March 2022. But I can’t imagine she knew that she and her family would have to pay such a price of visibility. And is this price reasonable? If people choose to serve their country, their community, in whatever way that works for them, are they now assuming the risk of violence against themselves and their loved ones?

When I reflected on Khan’s experience, what stuck out for me wasn’t just how close to home her story was because of the name and identities we share and, therefore, how similarly visible we may be. She could just as easily have been Jewish Miriam Cohen or white trans-woman Mary Carter, or African-American Max Carter. And what happened would have remained just as unacceptable. What hit hard was the price of visibility she paid, and may continue to pay, and the injustice of it. Whoever she is, whatever she believes, whatever her identities are – the question I consider is: have we lost our civility as a society to minimize her experience, or the experience of others similarly situated, or to excuse the behavior of the alleged attacker as much ado about nothing because she didn’t suffer more?

Khan demanded that Hartford police and the U.S. Department of Justice not write off her experience as much ado about nothing. In my view, we as a society, community, and country should not write off her experience as much ado either – not because she’s a Muslim woman, not because she’s Asian-American, not because she’s a legislator who broke a glass ceiling, not because she’s Maryam. Rather, because she’s human, a mother, a person who deserves respect and the right to be heard, the right to live without fear in her community, the right to know that her attacker will not walk free with impunity because she and her experience just didn’t matter enough.

Our systems and structures, from the police to the courts to the legislatures themselves, must demonstrate that people matter – their traumas matter, their lives matter. And that starts by not minimizing the experience of those different from ourselves.

Talk to you all next week!