$1 Billion to Build More Prisons. As I read the headline, a heavy weight of anguish settled in my chest. When the Department of Justice (DOJ) declared Alabama’s men's carceral system unconstitutional, I’d hoped it would force our leaders to implement real change, not expand this broken system. On the outskirts of Montgomery, Alabama, I’d spent my entire life minutes from Kilby Correctional Facility, a prison at the heart of this crisis. I had passed by that red-brick building countless times—its towering fences and barren grounds a permanent fixture of my world. But it wasn’t until I pored over the pages of the DOJ report, brimming with Eighth Amendment violations, that I understood the scale of the human suffering hidden behind those walls: overcrowded cells, inadequate healthcare, and systemic abuse.

I carry a deep love for Alabama and for the South—the home my family found as we sought a new beginning as immigrants from Ethiopia. But witnessing our leaders pour millions of our taxpayer dollars into an institution that repeatedly violated human dignity crushed my faith in the possibility of transformational change. Alabama hadn’t only failed the men inside; it had failed its own moral compass. Even in my disillusionment, I clung to the belief that loving a place meant holding it accountable and demanding the best from it. I channeled my frustration into resolve, determined not to be just a bystander. Motivated by this conviction, I began my senior thesis—not as an academic exercise, but to understand how Alabama’s prison system, which was set to grow, could at the very least be rendered more humane.

While I followed the DOJ’s case, I was concurrently gaining expertise in environmental policy, leading me to see social issues as interconnected. Through my coursework and internships, I saw how rural areas, like those in Eastern North Carolina, were often dumping grounds for toxic waste. On the ground restoring streams in Hawai'i, I became acutely aware of how low-income, Black and Brown communities were most affected by environmental injustice. I suspected prisons, whose settings and demographics mirrored these at-risk groups, would reflect these inequities. Exploring this connection, I found a relatively overlooked field: prison ecology. Viewing prisons as environmental systems, I discovered that they were often built on polluted industrial land that compromised air and water quality for those inside. Mapping proposed sites for new prisons heightened my fears: they, too, were concentrated in polluted zones. Initially, I felt energized by this discovery, hopeful that recognition of these environmental hazards could spur reform. Then, reality set in: these injustices weren’t incidental. They were embedded in how these facilities were planned and built. What began as a search for solutions was relegated to a confrontation of the enormity of the problem. I struggled to find a path forward.

With systemic reform slipping further out of reach, I began interviewing individuals with the strongest grasp on the system’s failings: 10 men forced inside Alabama’s prisons. As they relived the inhumane conditions they endured, their voices cracked: they recounted the black mold and yellowed water, the smell of caustic chemicals filling the air. When they raised concerns, no one listened. One story haunted me—rashes and lesions erupted on a man’s skin. He grew sicker each day, his hair falling out in chunks, and received care only after he was released. Hearing these accounts enraged me, but more than that, it forced me to reconsider my role in this system. Initially, I had fixated on top-down change, a process plagued by incrementalism. As I absorbed these stories, I concluded my thesis project with an intense urgency to act in smaller, more immediate ways, driven to alleviate even one case of suffering.

Crucially, as my focus shifted from institutional to individual injustice, I realized that a single case could ripple outward. Two years after completing my thesis, I sat in the Alameda County Board chambers, a week into my role as a policy fellow. I heard the story of Maurice Monk, a man left lifeless in his cell for 72 hours before someone finally noticed he was dead. His family’s lawsuit initiated a deeper investigation into patterns of neglect in Santa Rita Jail; 9 deputies and 2 medical employees were charged and bona fide reform followed suit. Sitting on the side of the very system that failed Mr. Monk, I realized that case law not only could instantiate targeted action but also serve as a foundation for lasting change.

Five years after the DOJ ruling, thousands remain trapped amid inhumane conditions that threaten their health and safety. I am ready to join their fight as a public interest attorney. From utilizing the National Environmental Policy Act’s review process to challenge prison sitings to filing civil rights cases to expose unsafe conditions, I envision a career immersed in criminal and environmental justice, a space into which few attorneys venture. From the inside out, from the bottom up, I will fight for systemic change that reflects the best of Alabama’s values: community, compassion, and resilience. As I do so, I will remain unwavering in my commitment to justice and to transforming the South into a home for us all.