Tell us about your community growing up. Looking back, how did they shape who you are now?

My mother and father were born and grew up in Egypt. They emigrated to Canada as adults in the 1970s, and I didn’t appreciate until recently how adventurous and courageous that was. It meant leaving their immediate families and jobs behind (not to mention transitioning from the desert to heaps of snow!). Since their very early days in Canada, they understood the importance of building a community of other Egyptians and Arabs as a support network. Yet they were also very keen on becoming a part of the new community they lived in. My mom, for instance, was that person who knew everyone in town by their first name—neighbors, bank tellers, pharmacists (she knew all of their kids’ names too, and will still ask about them to this day). 

I was very fortunate to have an upbring that reflected the same amalgamation. My siblings and I had a very close-knit community of Arab family friends who shared our rich culture. But my parents also encouraged us to build relationships across different backgrounds. Those two things have remained a constant throughout my life. It’s one of the reasons that today I feel a deep responsibility to stand up for the rights of those who look like me and, equally, those who don’t. My own community has always included both. 

Describe your journey to law school. What motivated you to enroll?

In many Arab countries the cherished path is to become an engineer or doctor and in Egypt, law is often looked down upon as a profession. Although my parents never pressured us, my sister and I followed the tried-and-true path and became engineers (my brother, naturally, became a doctor). And I loved working as an engineer. It was such intellectually challenging, creative, and collaborative work. 

But then a confluence of factors conspired to bring me to law school. First, I had a profound sense that I wasn’t done with schooling. Second, I had relocated to the U.S. to work in Silicon Valley. There was a stirring part of that: I was drawn to the American higher education experience, with its historic campuses and vast resources, and wanted to be part of that environment. There was also a less cheery part. Moving to the U.S. meant that, as a young adult, I had the undignified experience of repeat travel across the U.S. border as an Arab in the post-9/11 world. Each time I’d come back from visiting my family, I’d wait for the inevitable gesture toward secondary screening. There, I’d be held with others who looked like me, sometimes for hours, until I’d be questioned about my job, family, and personal life. I was puzzled by one aspect in particular: In the midst of what was blatant and widespread racial profiling, individual Border agents were, for the most part, friendly and conversational—we’d chat about their families, the weather, and more. I became very interested in the notion that systems of law and discretion could lead otherwise good people to participate in something so disturbing. Challenging those systems has become a focus of my civil rights work today.  

All that said, my career shift was not uncontroversial! When my parents told family in Egypt that I switched from engineering to law, they expressed great concern for my well-being (one uncle asked, “Is it drugs?”). My sister and brother are still an engineer and doctor, so they’ve avoided the reputational hit.

What was your law school experience like?

Throughout law school, I remember feeling envious of my peers who seemed to have everything figured out—they came knowing what areas of law they wanted to practice, what professors they should get to know, etc. That can be a great thing—I advise my current students that if they know what they are passionate about, they should figure out how to pursue it and go for it.  

But my own law school journey was different. Although I went to law school with a sense that I wanted to fight for under-resourced and targeted communities, I quickly became spellbound by the opportunity to learn about so many different areas of law. I enjoyed everything from property law, to cyber law, to administrative law, to constitutional law. I took all sorts of classes that had nothing to do with my passion for criminal justice or civil rights. Toward the end of law school, I worried that this was a mistake, and I wouldn’t have the depth of experience in a particular subject matter that my colleagues would. But it ended up being a great lesson: I could give myself the latitude to take some detours and risks, yet find my way back to the work that animates me.

Did you know about appellate work in law school? If not, when and how did it first get on your radar and why were you drawn to it?

I learned about appellate work very haphazardly. Shortly before law school, I picked up a book called The Nine, which was a non-fiction, “behind the scenes” look at the Justices of the U.S. Supreme Court. I found the book entertaining and that was enough for me to express interest in doing appellate work for my first summer of law school. That summer, I wrote appellate briefs at a public defender’s office and in some pro bono civil rights cases at a law firm. It was formative for me, because I learned that appellate work was not just about writing briefs and winning for your individual client. The result of an appeal would change the rules of the game going forward, across a state, multiple states, or even the whole country. And this very much wasn’t a game—even very narrow sounding issues on appeal could have a drastic effect on a particular community’s rights or ability to be heard in court going forward. 

Tell us about one of your appellate cases that you found particularly meaningful.

The very first appeal I argued was in a death penalty case, where the issue was whether my client could or could not be executed. The argument was in the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Fifth Circuit, which is known for being difficult for criminal defendants and people on death row. Making things more ominous, the panel I was to argue in front of had already looked at the record in my client’s case and suggested that it would “likely” rule against us on the argument. We proceeded full steam anyways, writing briefs that we believed to have the better of the arguments. When it came time for the oral argument, I wanted my client to have every bit of confidence that I was prepared for the job. I organized four “moot” arguments, in which I assembled the smartest attorneys I knew and asked them to bombard me with their toughest questions. The oral argument went well and the same Court that had indicated it would rule against us issued a unanimous opinion reaching the opposite conclusion. The Court ruled that my client could not be executed, saving his life.

How often do you encounter other Arabs in the appellate field? Why do you think that representation is important?

For all the events I participate in related to appellate practice, I rarely encounter other Arabs. I think that’s a shame because representation is important—I want every Arab kid or law student to see that there’s a place for them doing this work if they put their mind to it. But, at least to my mind, it’s also about more than representation; it’s also about more robust advocacy. Appellate litigation is highly strategic—it’s loaded with questions that involve making sound decisions about how to best articulate the case for your client and to persuade others to agree with your position. In my own experience, having a bunch of like-minded people on a case runs counter to that goal. Particularly in a hard case, understanding and evaluating all of the options on the table to persuade requires a team that brings different insights to the table. We risk missing out when we exclude people from the table. Arabs have made important contributions in all sorts of professions, and appellate law is no exception.

What advice would you give to a law student of color who aspires to be where you are now?

Above all, what you want to develop is sound judgment. Pay close attention to the strategic decisions that your supervisors make in advocating for clients, and ask questions to understand them. Seek regular feedback on your work—don’t be afraid to ask for it; you deserve that (and if you’re still you’re not getting it, try asking more specific questions to draw it out). And, as you advance in your career, develop relationships with people whose judgment you admire so that you can draw from their experience.

What’s one thing law schools and/or the appellate bar can do to ensure our highest courts are representative of all our communities?

In the words of Mary Church Terrell, “lift as you climb.” As appellate practitioners litigate their cases, they should look for opportunities to elevate the people on their team. This means giving them regular feedback, looking for opportunities for them to have greater responsibilities, and supporting them throughout the process. Inviting new faces into the appellate bar means creating the space for those people to join in and thrive.