From Montgomery to Cairo

History is often transformed by moments that, at first glance, seem too modest to matter. A woman refusing to give up her seat on a city bus. A young pastor urging a wounded community to confront injustice without violence. A human rights activist deciding that a forgotten comic book deserves a second life in another language. Because such moments rarely announce themselves as revolutionary, their power lies precisely in their ordinariness. Only later do we recognize that each marked the beginning of a larger moral and political awakening. For me, that moment began in 2006 with an unexpected encounter with Martin Luther King Jr. and Rosa Parks in a comic book from the 1960s.

When I first read Martin Luther King and the Montgomery Story, I never imagined it would alter the trajectory of my life. Recounting Rosa Parks’s story, the Montgomery Bus Boycott, and Martin Luther King Jr.’s philosophy of nonviolent resistance, its language was simple, its format accessible, and its moral message unmistakably human. Yet what moved me most was not King’s courage or Parks’ quiet defiance, but the comprehension that neither regarded themselves as heroic. They had simply reached a point at which silence was no longer morally possible.

For the first time, I understood that history is rarely changed by extraordinary people or Marvel superheroes. More often, change begins with ordinary individuals who accept extraordinary responsibility. That was my first encounter with the idea Jews call Hineni, not merely as a declaration of presence but as an ethical response to a demand that can no longer be evaded.

At the time, I was a young human rights activist working to advance liberal democracy, religious freedom, and women’s rights under an authoritarian regime. Though many young Egyptians believed that meaningful political change was impossible, I knew that our deepest challenge was not political repression alone but the widespread conviction that change was only possible through violence. Having learned from Dr. King a different grammar for political struggle, I came to understand that moral courage could become political power without sacrificing human dignity.

Convinced that my fellow Egyptians deserved to encounter that vision as well, I worked with the American Islamic Congress—a Washington, D.C.-based non-profit—to translate the comic book into Arabic and print it, not without risk, at an underground Cairo print shop. With Egyptian authorities questioning why an American comic book about civil rights should be published in Arabic, I spent hours explaining that this was not an American story alone but a universal account of citizenship, responsibility, and peaceful resistance. Eventually, thousands of copies of the comic book were printed and distributed across the Middle East. Even before the book reached the streets, it had already demonstrated the persuasive power of dialogue over confrontation.

At the time, I believed I was just translating a comic book. Only later did I understand that I was translating an idea, one that would inspire millions of young people in Egypt, the Middle East, and the entire world to stand up for themselves. Spearheading the Egyptian “Arab Spring,” I was present at the forefront when hundreds of thousands of my fellow citizens filled Tahrir Square in January, 2011. After days of sustained protests, I saw that idea come to life in a nonviolent revolution that successfully ousted a hardline dictator and paved the way for a democracy to emerge in our political landscape.

Like millions of others, I believed we were witnessing the birth of a democratic Egypt. For eighteen unforgettable days, our differences in religion, ideology, class, and gender seemed to dissolve into a shared demand for freedom, dignity, and an accountable government. Among the crowds, copies of the comic book I had translated were passed from hand to hand. With international media later reporting that the Arabic edition had helped introduce young Egyptian activists to the philosophy of nonviolent resistance, playing a role in bringing that small book from Montgomery to Cairo remains one of the most humbling experiences of my life.

Like many Egyptians, I believed that removing Hosni Mubarak from power would be the hardest part. I was wrong. Building democracy proved far more difficult than demanding one. As the old regime collapsed and many young revolutionaries found themselves debating constitutional principles, independent institutions, civil liberties, and the rule of law, members of the Muslim Brotherhood were gearing up for the coming elections, consolidating their organization, and positioning themselves to dominate the new political order. While we were trying our best to build democratic institutions, they were preparing to capture them.

Surprised that so many respected journalists, academics, and policymakers in the West concluded that the Muslim Brotherhood’s participation in a democratic election made the organization itself democratic, I refused to accept that logic. Having spent years studying political Islam (a politicized, radicalized adaptation of the religion of Islam widely promoted by the Muslim Brotherhood and its offshoots, including Hamas), I understood that democracy cannot be reduced to the ballot box, nor judged solely by the outcome of an election. True democracy requires constitutional limits on power, the protection of minorities, freedom of expression, judicial independence, and the willingness of political actors to accept losses peacefully. Without these principles, as my fellow citizens would soon discover, elections can become the most efficient route to a new authoritarianism.

No longer able to remain silent as democracy was misunderstood by both its enemies and many of its admirers, I began writing and speaking more openly about the Muslim Brotherhood’s ideological ambitions. I warned that replacing one authoritarian system with another would betray the revolution’s aspirations. I continued criticizing human rights violations by the Egyptian state because I believed that liberty loses its meaning when applied selectively. Very quickly, I discovered that intellectual consistency is often the loneliest political position. Considered an enemy by Islamists for challenging their power and viewed with suspicion by the opposition for refusing to excuse authoritarianism in the name of stability, I belonged to neither camp.

Years later, on October 7, 2023, I faced a defining moral test that every generation must eventually confront. As Hamas carried out the deadliest massacre of Jews since the Holocaust, much of the public conversation across the Middle East celebrated or justified the attack. Friends whom I had known for years defended the murder of civilians as legitimate resistance. Others chose silence. For me, there was no dilemma. 

The principles that had first inspired me through the story of King and Parks left me with only one possible response. If terrorism against civilians is wrong in Cairo, then it must be equally wrong in Jerusalem. If human dignity is universal, then it cannot depend on the nationality, religion, or ethnicity of the victim. Principles cease to be principles the moment they become conditional.

I used my platform to explain to my fellow Arabs exactly what had happened on that day and demonstrating the breakdown of morals that was entailed for such a blatantly cruel massacre to take place. Telling the truth about the October 7 massacre changed my life forever. Overnight, I became the target of an unprecedented campaign of threats and incitement, eventually forcing me to leave my country and cutting me off from my roots just in order to survive. Facing the risk of being killed by extremists who declared me “an ally of the Jews” or being imprisoned by a government that accused me of “high treason” and “adopting Zionism,” I was so lucky to find another home in “the land of the free”—the land of King, Parks, Washington, and Jefferson—where I adopted the fight against anti-Semitism as my latest Hineni cause. 

Looking back, I no longer see Hineni as a single moment but as a way of life. I now see it as the quiet realization that once we recognize the truth, we inherit the responsibility to defend it. Sometimes that responsibility begins with translating a comic book. Sometimes it means standing in a public square. Sometimes it means speaking when nearly everyone around you wishes you would stay silent.

I could never have imagined that a story that began on a bus in Montgomery would one day shape my journey from Cairo to Washington. Rosa Parks taught me that courage begins with refusing to surrender one’s seat. Martin Luther King Jr. taught me that moral conviction can move societies. Egypt taught me that democracy requires more than elections. October 7, 2023 taught me that principles either apply universally or they are not principles at all. That, for me, is the meaning of Hineni. It is not standing up because one is fearless. It is standing up because conscience has left no other choice.

Here I am.

Hineni.