The Voice That Silence Built

A Personal Reflection by Samira Amato

It always starts the same way.

A conversation. At a party, a coffee shop, a networking event, or a courthouse hallway. Someone leans in, often with a smile and a sip of wine, and asks:

“So... why did you decide to become a lawyer?”

A simple, casual question—tossed into the air, expecting a short, forgettable reply.

And I have that version down. I’ve polished it over the years, trimmed and softened it to fit neatly into spaces where emotions don’t belong. The kind of answer people expect:

“I wanted to know my rights so no one could take them away.”

It lands well. It’s tidy, brief. Enough to keep things moving. People nod politely, maybe say, “Good for you.” Then the conversation drifts to topics more familiar that don't stir anything too deep, legal questions, business concerns, the drama of someone’s divorce. The original question already forgotten.

But not by me.

The truth of the matter is, while I smile and nod, engaged in the next exchange, something inside me is still back there, caught in that moment. I’m trying to shut the heavy doors that burst open every time that question is asked.

Because someone just hit play on a reel that never fades. It’s the reel that shaped me—quietly looping in the background of my life, until suddenly, sharply, it starts again.

Fast. Clear. Unforgiving.

And just like that, I’m back in another world. A world that shifted right in front of me, faster than I could understand. I was a kid then, swept up in something bigger than I could name. A captive passenger in a life that kept moving whether I was ready or not.

Where I came from, bombings were our version of fireworks—not in celebration, but in fear.

We were afraid of our neighbors. Afraid of our teachers.

Anyone could report you to the Islamic police—for a word, a glance, a glass of wine, a movie, a strand of uncovered hair.

There was no freedom of speech. No rights. Injustice wasn’t the exception—it was the rhythm of daily life. And yet, joy was never something we borrowed.

It was ours. It is ours.

A birthright carried from a time when the Persian Empire stretched across continents nearly 2,500 years ago. Joy lives in our music, our poetry, our food, our laughter. Even in exile, in war, in refugee camps, in strange new cities—we carried that joy with us.

The new country that once felt foreign slowly became our home. Not just through documents or the passage of time, but because we stopped looking back.

We stopped dreaming to return. We built something new. We planted roots. Joy was how we held on to each other—and how we grew into something more. Because the greatest threat was never the bombs. It was the attempt to silence that joy. Joy is where our spirit lives. In every city we’ve made our own, in every song we still sing.

It’s how we remember who we are—The spirit of an ancient people who have never forgotten their name, even as they became something new.

I remember family parties that felt like secret worlds, much like the one Harry Potter lived in, hidden from watching eyes. Rooms filled with the scent of fresh herbs and steaming rice. Skewers of kabob sizzling. Platters of fruit and sweets laid out like treasure. Cassette tapes playing banned songs we somehow knew by heart. And we danced—feet moving to rhythms older than revolution. Those nights, we tasted freedom. Quiet. Undeclared. But real.

Maybe that’s where the seed was planted—somewhere between the fear we couldn’t name and the joy we refused to surrender.

I didn’t know the word for justice back then. But I knew what it felt like to live without it. I knew what it meant to feel powerless. To be a child watching the adults you love live in fear. To see people punished for nothing more than speaking, dancing, or choosing the wrong piece of clothing. And I carry those moments with me.

So when someone asks why I became a lawyer, they expect a simple answer. Maybe a scene from Suits or Law & Order, or a courtroom epiphany. I could give them that.

But the truth is, I became a lawyer because I knew what it felt like not to matter. And I never wanted to feel that way again. I never wanted anyone else to sit in that silence—alone, powerless—without someone on their side.

That’s what floods my mind every time I hear the question. While I smile and keep the conversation moving, inside I’m remembering the world I came from.

I became a lawyer because I wanted a voice.

Not the loudest.

Not the flashiest.

Just one strong enough to say:

“I matter”.

In every sense of that word.

My voice matters.

My story matters.

My freedom matters.

My life. My choices. My existence.

“I matter” is more than a statement.