Nothing was boring in Ruhaba’s world. Nothing was irrelevant. I possessed a weary knowledge of established narrative and literature. Ruhaba possessed the currency of a story taking shape. The scale of her hours was in stark contrast to the shrinkage of my days. She was loved by her students and feared by America, and she walked in the knowing of this. She was othered, tokenized, pathologized, yes, but never gripped in anything resembling my own ocean of ennui. Never invisible.
