Thrilled to share my latest publication, “How Reality Is Construed in Legal Judgments: An SFL Analysis of a Pakistani Appellate Decision on Sexual Assault.”
Drawn from my MPhil research, the paper contributes to ongoing debates at the intersection of language, law, and justice.
When students first encounter Socratic questioning, many of them get frustrated and angry. They're used to a system where the teacher tells you what's true and you memorize it and repeat it back. They want me to just tell them the answers. What's the point of this stupid game where you ask us questions instead of teaching us?
They think I'm being irresponsible by refusing to lecture. Then gradually, over weeks or months, they start to realize something. Being forced to think for themselves, being held accountable for their own reasoning, that's the greatest gift an educator can give.
I deliver pizza. It’s not glamorous, but it pays my tuition.
Last night, I got an order for a small cheese pizza. The instructions said: Please bring it to the back door. I move slow.
I pulled up to a tiny, dark house. I knocked on the back door.
It took five minutes, but an elderly lady finally opened it. She was leaning on a walker.
"Happy Birthday to me," she whispered as she handed me a crumpled $20 bill.
"It's your birthday?" I asked.
"89 today," she smiled, but her eyes were sad. "Outlived my husband. Outlived my son. Just me and the cheese pizza tonight."
She started to close the door.
I looked at the pizza box. Then I looked at my watch. I had other deliveries, but...
"Ma'am?" I said.
She stopped.
"I’m actually on my lunch break," I lied. "I hate eating alone. Do you mind if I join you?"
Her face lit up like a Christmas tree.
"Oh my," she said. "Come in. I have soda."
I sat at her kitchen table for an hour. We ate pizza. She told me stories about dancing in the 1950s. She showed me pictures of her late husband. She laughed so hard she choked on her soda.
When I left, she grabbed my hand.
"I was ready to give up today," she said. "I asked God for a sign that I still mattered. Then you knocked."
I got back to the shop late. My boss yelled at me.
I didn't care.
I didn't just deliver a pizza. I delivered a birthday.
Buy your children a book every month and have a date to talk about the book and what they’ve read. Talk about the characters like they’re real. Bond over literature. Debate the lessons and decision making. Over food and drinks. Cultivate readers and build their collection
I’m grateful to my supervisor, Dr. Amjad Saleem, for his honest feedback and for believing in this work even in its earliest, uncertain stages. @WadanSaleem
Language is never neutral, especially in legal judgments. In this video, I present findings from my research on how the language used in Pakistani judicial rulings on rape cases influences perceptions of agency, responsibility, and justice. @PhD_Genie@ThePhDPlace@WadanSaleem
Thrilled to share my latest publication, “How Reality Is Construed in Legal Judgments: An SFL Analysis of a Pakistani Appellate Decision on Sexual Assault.”
Drawn from my MPhil research, the paper contributes to ongoing debates at the intersection of language, law, and justice.
My research is available on @ResearchGate:
Confessions in the Investigative Interviews: A Forensic Linguistic Analysis of Robert Bryndza's The Girl in the Ice
https://t.co/szuEVMrKLJ
Today, my eldest son Faisal turns seven. This child has witnessed more than any child should. For two years, during his father’s absence, he took on his father’s responsibilities. He would go out to buy groceries, and I would wake up to find him washing the dishes. During the genocide, Faisal was sheltered in his own school, the place where he had studied, and he witnessed the aftermath of bombings, seeing the bodies of those who were killed. When we fled to the south, he stood in long lines for water, collected wood and learned how to make fire.
When we escaped to Egypt, Faisal refused to attend school—it had become a symbol of death in his mind. But when we arrived in the US, he went through a short period of therapy and quickly showed signs of healing, even accepting to go back to school. Just three days ago, though, his counselor contacted us to say that Faisal had a panic attack when his friend fell and bled during a football game.
What Faisal has endured is far from normal, and what Gazan children continue to face will never be normal. Today, Faisal turns seven, and it somehow feels more to me. Through it, he remains the rock I lean on in moments of vulnerability, the only one who sees through my smile to the tears I hide. And always offers the warmest hug.
Sometimes, it would feel like he’s been more of a parent to me, teaching me deep emotions I never knew could come from someone so young.
To the one who will always be my safe place and favorite person—Happy Birthday, Habibi. ‘Om Faisal’ will forever be the nickname closest to my heart.