Shaheen Pasha

Shaheen Pasha explores how the trauma of a loved one’s incarceration unravels her carefully planned-out existence, and sets her on a new, unexpected path to find meaning in the meaningless.

Editor’s note: The column is part of a series of personal opinion essays called The Light of Hope. We asked community and faith leaders to answer the question, when life feels dark, what gives you hope? We will publish their responses throughout December. Get weekly roundups of the project in your email in-box by signing up for the Living Our Faith newsletter.
Watching the results roll in on election night, I felt a curious mix of emotions. As a Muslim-American woman I took pride in the news ...

I could hardly recognize my grandparents’ old house as I stepped out of the air-conditioned car into the moist, oppressive heat so characteristic of Karachi in May. The faded blue metal gate I had swung on as a child was gone, replaced by a sleek mahogany door. The home’s once overpowering fragrance of jasmine and guava was lost, clouded in diesel fumes and congestion.
“Are you sure this is the same house?” I asked my sister, dejected as we stared at the shiny gold address plate boasting the ...

I made promises to each of my three children when they were babies. I would bounce them in my arms in the darkest hours of the night and promise them that I would always keep them safe. I promised I’d do my best to protect them.
In my sleep-deprived naiveté, I thought those promises could be kept.
Back then, the dangers seemed manageable to me. I could vaccinate my kids and keep them safe from some of the terrible diseases I had seen ravage children in my family’s home country of Pakistan. I ...

“Mommy, am I autistic?” It was a question I hadn’t expected as I drove with my then-13-year-old daughter on our way to a doctor’s appointment.
We’d never hidden it, but my husband and I did not want to label her at an early age with any kind of diagnosis. We wanted her to embrace her quirkiness as part of her personality rather than see it as a disability that others feared and stigmatized. Honestly, we were scared we would say the wrong thing.
It was likely a selfish decision but one born ou...

Every night, I cuddle with my preschooler and I tell him he’s my prince. Not just my prince — “Mera shehaazda.”
“Shehaazda” is the Urdu word for prince, but somehow conveys so much more.
In my mind, it takes me to a place of beauty, of mothers who look like me, and brown babies who grow up to be powerful leaders.
I feel the same way when I call any person I love “meri jaan.” Roughly translated, “jaan” means life. But it’s a word without any real English translation. It speaks of life, but als...

Sept. 11, 2001 is a day that haunts my dreams. Sitting at my desk by the window facing the majestic twin towers, I watched from across the harbor as first one plane and then another crashed deliberately into the buildings I looked at a thousand times a day.
I remember the frantic fear as I rushed to file headlines of what I was witnessing while simultaneously calling my husband over and over again, knowing that he was supposed to be in those buildings around the time of the attacks. And then ...

Every night, I cuddle with my preschooler and I tell him he’s my prince. Not just my prince. Mera shehzaada. It’s the Urdu word for prince but somehow conveys so much more. In my mind, it takes me to a place of beauty, of monuments built on eternal love, of mothers who look like me clad in silk and gold, and brown babies who grow up to be powerful leaders.
I feel the same way when I smile at a person I love and call them “meri jaan.” Roughly translated, jaan means life. But it’s a word that I...

I was 14 the first time I saw someone on the screen who remotely looked like me. She was dark-skinned and beautiful. A Muslim woman who was independent and fiery. But what really struck me was how strong she was. She was willing to fight for what she wanted in life and against those in power who were corrupt. In this woman, I saw a strength that reminded me so much of the real Muslim women in my life, who didn’t fit the mold of the oppressed victim that I was too often forced to watch on tele...

Sitting at a car dealership in West Springfield, I expected my conversation with the dealer to tackle lease terms and miles-per-gallon ratios. I never thought I’d be defending journalism over a cup of coffee, surrounded by family sedans and SUVs.

“What do you two do for a living?” the dealer asked me, making small talk as my husband circled a new model on the floor. “My husband and I are both journalists,” I responded.

“Real news or fake news?” she asked, her smile never faltering.

Plano resident Nathaniel Meyer never considered himself an internet troll. The 37-year-old father and data scientist believed that engagement with politicians had become an important part of civic duty, especially as he saw increasingly divisive rhetoric spread around the country. With the rise in usage of social media among politicians, particularly in his own district, Meyer turned to Facebook as a way to share his views with his representatives and engage in dialogue with his neighbors.

As a journalism educator, I often warn my students on the first day of class that I don’t provide trigger warnings. No topic of conversation is off limits. Journalism is a field fraught with trauma, I tell them. Reporters interact with victims of crimes, humanitarian crises, disasters and other calamities on a daily basis. To be a journalist is to be triggered on a constant basis.

But as I watched the emotional testimony of Christine Blasey Ford before the Senate Judiciary Committee two weeks...

John J. Lennon, also known as Inmate # 04A0823, sits on his bed, typing on a clear Swintec typewriter set on his lap. There is paper everywhere. Crumpled paper littering the floor, evidence of the struggle all writers face in the quest for perfection. On the walls, Lennon has taped papers outlining the key elements he needs to get across in his next feature—character, complication, resolutions, and theme. Stacks of magazines and books sit on the floor, serving both as inspiration and teacher ...