Nura Al Awady

In our house, the marble floors shine like mirrors, and the air always smells faintly of oud. I’ve never had to wait for anything—drivers, tutors, holidays abroad, they were all just part of life. But something shifted when I turned seventeen and began noticing things others ignored. I saw the men in blue overalls working outside in the sun, sometimes for ten or twelve hours straight. No one ever looked them in the eye. I started asking questions.

Now I’m 20, studying law at Kuwait University, Kuwait City. My grades are excellent. Everyone assumes I’ll join a prestigious firm or eventually marry well and stop working. But I want something different. I want to fight for the people we overlook—those who build our roads, clean our houses, and raise our children, yet remain invisible.

Most of these workers come from India, Pakistan, Bangladesh. They live in cramped dormitories, work under impossible conditions, and have no real legal protection. It infuriates me. Without them, our city wouldn’t function. I want to change that.

My parents are proud of my education, but they’re wary of my ambitions. “You’ll attract the wrong kind of attention,” my father said just last week. “Use your degree wisely. Quietly.” We argue about it often. My mother listens more than she speaks, but her silence is disapproval too.

Still, I can’t ignore what I see. Privilege isn’t something I earned—it was given to me. And I believe that realizing this creates a responsibility. I want to stand beside those who don’t have a voice here. Not out of pity, but out of justice. I know it won’t be easy. But change never is.