Remembering Zainab Mansoor

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Fall 2023 was my first quarter as a college student, and needless to say, I was nervous. 

But on the second day of class, I ended up sitting next to third-year student Zainab Mansoor. We turned to each other to introduce ourselves at the start of the class and I remember her smiling and nodding as she complimented me on the red sweatshirt I was wearing; in that moment, I felt a sense of safety. I can’t even explain it, but there really was just something about her that gave her a warm, inviting aura. She always smelled like a bouquet of flowers and her large black-framed glasses that I never saw her without were iconic to her; her voice was gentle and the way she talked with her hands made me feel welcomed in her presence. 

After that day, I always found myself searching for her around the classroom. In late February, Zainab’s life was tragically cut short at the age of 21. Her former boyfriend has been charged with her murder. The case stunned the campus. Even now, two months after her death, I am still trying to comprehend what happened. I still look for her sometimes. 

I’m a literature major, and my creative writing classes offer the blessing of allowing me to be vulnerable with classmates. In the class I shared with Zainab – a seminar class of about 20 students – our professor encouraged us to write about anything we wished, in any form. Each student then shared their writing in the class Google Drive and everyone privately commented on each others’ work. In class, we would take turns workshopping one person’s writing as a large discussion group. It was a class of experimentation and intimacy.

I ended up experimenting with prose and poetry as I shared the story of my barely-there connections with my dad and the aftereffects of such a strained relationship. When submitting my work, I grew nervous about having written too much or having been too cliche or even cringey throughout the piece. But when I saw Zainab’s comment saying, “I’d love to see more specifics; I find myself wanting to know why your relationship is rocky,” it felt like there was someone there listening and understanding me. 

Zainab also commented, “the repetition, the language, it’s just perfect. This poem is so beautifully written!” 

My writing can never be perfect, and most of the time, I find it hard to think that my writing is ever beautiful. But Zainab’s few words made my heart feel lighter. She not only paid attention to the way I was writing, but also helped me feel I had made a connection outside myself, with the world. 

Zainab made me realize the importance of supportive, smart criticism. I now look for someone like Zainab in all my writing classes. Someone who makes me feel seen. 

Zainab’s piece for the class was a collection of poetry, which she described in her artist’s statement as “hella out of character for me,” for she usually stuck to short stories. But not only did she experiment with form, she decided to “explore uncomfortable territories,” and challenged herself to write about difficult times in her own life. She said she was “unsure whether exposing this vulnerability was the right choice,” but I thought her emotional authenticity was beautiful and laudable. Her writing was raw and resonant.

Zainab’s poems walked you through specific moments throughout the years after she suffered a traumatic event. To her, these poems were “a method of genuine healing” and a way to “embrace the person my younger self has evolved into.” She recalled times when she felt silenced by others just because “we get over it with time,” which she made sure to refute both in words and by taking care of herself. In one of her sweeter poems, she wrote, “I believe in angels because I am one.” 

I believe that she was, and is, an angel. I just wish I had more time with her. 

Zainab’s poems also brought to light the conflict she sometimes felt between her traditional Muslim upbringing and her own learned values. Her line, “the burdens you bear are too heavy for you, meri beti,” shows her grappling with the internal conflict of two languages – Urdu and English –  along with her ability to be gentle with both parts of her identity. Even with all that was going on in her life, Zainab’s writing directly reflected her solicitude for the people and cultures that surrounded her. 

I attended a small on-campus celebration of her life on April 12. Mostly, it was students like me, who didn’t know her well, but felt she was special. It was one of those moments when no one has the right words. 

One of her professors spoke, as did her father, Mansoor, who mentioned that in his culture, the first name of the father ends up becoming the last name of the child, making him feel an especially connected bond with his daughter. A lot of people cried. 

I don’t think I could even begin to comprehend the complex emotions Zainab felt throughout her life or that her family feels now. But knowing her from even just that one creative writing class, I was able to see the genuine kindness that radiated from her. I am devastated by her death. It shocked our whole campus and continues to reverberate. I wanted to write something about her so she would be remembered for the sweetness and openness she embraced in the time I knew her. 

I only hope that she knew how much she meant to so many, that she felt the love and compassion she showed me and the people around her. 

Tae Yun Kang is a first-year literature and linguistics student at UC Santa Cruz who comes to Lookout as an editorial intern as part of The Humanities Institute’s undergraduate public fellows program, which is now part of the Employing Humanities initiative. She had experience in high school journalism and hopes to continue giving voice to the community in her work at Lookout. 

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EDITOR’S NOTE: Lookout has removed a photo of Zainab Mansoor at her family’s request.

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