Diamond Smith
INTERVIEW WITH Soumya Boutin
Images by Soumya Boutin, used in good faith. Permission pending—interviewee has not responded to outreach.
The first time I encountered Soumya, it was through her story A Journey Beyond Boundaries in UMass Magazine. What struck me immediately was the clarity with which she carried her world—layered, lived, and luminous. Her writing, tender and unflinching, made space for both migration and memory, and quietly redefined what it means to move through multiple homes, multiple selves. Born in Morocco and raised across cultures, Soumya speaks often of her younger brother, Mohammed. In conversation, she doesn’t separate her story from her family's—it’s braided into every sentence. “I don’t think I would be close to the person I am without them,” she told me. “Growing up in that community gave me a point of view and education I don’t think I could ever get at a university.” It’s a worldview shaped not just by location, but by proximity to love, sacrifice, and a deep-rooted sense of gratitude. Though her extended family in Morocco has expressed disapproval of her choices, her parents remain her unwavering compass. “They have never once blamed me,” she says. “They just tell me—keep going.” And she does. There’s something almost metaphysical about the way Soumya speaks of her life—as if she has lived two eras at once, gathering wisdom from both. “It feels like being reincarnated,” she says. “Having that knowledge from before, and this one now. I hope I can use it to help not only my family but my community… to offer a better point of view. One rooted in empathy.” Empathy, she reminds me, is our most powerful weapon. “It’s what makes us human,” she says. “Other animals feel it, but not like we do. And right now, that’s everything.”
Diamond Smith. Can you share what impact you hope your work has, what community means to you, and how you see yourself as an advocate for change? I'd also love to hear about your academic path, what you're currently working toward, and how your nonprofit fits into that mission.
Souyma Boutin. That’s a good question. I’d describe myself as a caring and thoughtful person who’s genuinely invested in improving the lives of those who often get overlooked. My motivation every day is to do something that makes someone’s life just a little bit easier. I’ve realized I love thinking about how systems—like legislation and diplomacy—can be used to amplify the voices of people who are rarely heard. It really pains me to know how much people suffer when, oftentimes, a better life could be within reach if they just had more access or opportunity.
That drive ties into my nonprofit work and my identity—I come from that same community. Coming to the U.S. and learning about the key issues happening here made me aware of who’s missing from those conversations. My hope is to step into those spaces and earn a seat at the table to advocate for them. That’s why I’m pursuing a double major in political science and journalism—to combine both fields and bring meaningful stories and policies to light.
Diamond Smith. It sounds like journalism plays a role in truth-telling and accountability, while political science helps you understand where these stories fit into society and how to better represent underheard voices. Can you share a time when you read a story that helped you reclaim a part of yourself or your cultural identity?
Soumya Boutin. There’s a story that really stayed with me. When I first moved here, I didn’t speak English, so my adoptive mother would read to me every night to help me learn. We had a lot of those 'Who Is' books—Who Is Michelle Obama? Who Was Rosa Parks?—but the one that really stuck with me was Who Is Malala? I had never heard of her before, but as I read, something resonated deeply. Her story is very different from mine, of course, but I saw similar threads—especially in how women are treated. I remember turning to my mom and saying, 'Her story is a lot like mine, except she got a different shot in the face. I didn’t.'
Even though I was just learning English, that moment hit me. It was the first time I realized that what I had experienced wasn't just life, it was part of something bigger. That story gave me a sense of validation—and a purpose. It opened my eyes to how connected we all are when it comes to issues like inequality, sexism, and racism. We often treat them as isolated problems, but when you listen to someone’s story, you see how much overlap there is. That night changed something in me. It was when I realized: these are real issues, and people are standing up to face them. Why can’t I be one of those people too?
Diamond Smith. Have there been any public figures or stories that inspired you personally or shaped your perspective on advocacy, especially regarding education and women’s rights?
Soumya Boutin. I have to say, Malala is amazing. I’ve been following her story since around 2014, when she really became a global symbol for everything happening in the Middle East—especially around women’s and girls’ education. She’s truly incredible. I’d love to meet her one day. Last year, I finally read her book from start to finish—it took me a while, but it was so impactful. She’s not only intelligent and gifted, but she had so much courage. And I think having such a supportive family played a big role in that too.
Diamond Smith. In your educational journey—or even outside of school—to what extent have you engaged with ethnic studies? And if you have, what kind of impact did those stories or lessons have on you personally?
Soumya Boutin. I think my education in ethnic studies really began in a personal way—rewinding back to my own community, where everyone looked the same. It was very homogenous, so I never really thought about difference. When I came to the U.S., it felt like stepping into an entirely different world. Suddenly, everyone was different—but I didn’t even realize it at first. It wasn’t until people started pointing it out that I began to understand what that meant.
Most of my early learning around identity and culture came from my adoptive mother and sister, who are both white. I was the only brown person in the family, and I didn’t quite grasp why I was being treated differently in certain situations. I was 12 or 13, and they had to help me understand the cultural context.
Later on, when I attended Emma Willard, I took an LGBTQ+ studies course, which was completely new for me—and I learned so much. At UMass, I really appreciate that these conversations are being woven into the academic experience. I think that’s how it should be—everyone deserves to feel seen and represented. That said, I do think we can still do better. I haven’t had a formal ethnic studies course yet; most of what I’ve learned has been self-directed. I would love to take more classes at UMass specifically focused on those topics.
Diamond Smith. Are there any culturally sustaining narratives—stories, traditions, or values—that reflect your culture and also help you connect with other cultures around you?
Soumya Boutin. When I think about culturally sustaining narratives, it’s about those cultures that might not always be fully seen or recognized—but you notice them, because you recognize something of yourself in them. If that makes sense. It’s this quiet connection, like seeing reflections of your own experience in others, even when it’s not explicitly named.
Diamond Smith. What experiences have you had with culturally sustaining narratives that reflect your own culture? And how have those encounters helped you connect with or better understand other cultures?
Soumya Boutin. I would say one of the biggest things about my culture is that we’re not really present in the history books. Our stories aren’t widely recorded because we didn’t always have a written language. For example, my grandmother never learned to write. So much of what I know about us comes from the perspectives of others—Spanish, French, or Arab accounts—but rarely from our own voice. I’ve never really heard what it means to be us from us—our holidays, our everyday conversations, the way we live.
That’s why, when I talk to people about their cultures, I’m drawn to the parts that never make it into textbooks. And I’ve noticed, especially when speaking with people from underrepresented or misunderstood cultures, there’s often a shared frustration—about being reduced to a stereotype or checked off a diversity box instead of being truly seen. So whenever I meet someone from a different culture, I love asking, 'What’s missing from the narrative?' Because there’s always so much more beneath the surface—and I want to understand that.
Diamond Smith. Since you’re Moroccan, I’m curious—how has your cultural background shaped your perspective, especially in spaces where Moroccan identity isn’t widely represented or understood?
Soumya Boutin. Yes, the Amazigh people are incredibly diverse, especially across North Africa—particularly in Morocco and Algeria. The specific Moroccan group I come from is called the Shilha. We live in the mountains, and our culture is very distinct from other Amazigh communities, like those who live near the Spanish border. Even our language sounds completely different. There’s so much variation within Amazigh identity that often gets overlooked.
Diamond Smith. Are there aspects of your identity, heritage, or lived experiences that you feel have been erased or overlooked—especially in today’s social or political climate? How do you think we can reclaim space and visibility from that erasure? And what stories from your heritage or community do you feel are most at risk of being forgotten?
Soumya Boutin. Especially in the current climate—not just in the U.S., which is dealing with its own challenges—but globally, there’s this cultural shift happening. And for me personally, I know some people in my community may not agree with how I talk about women’s rights in Morocco or how I view our culture, but at the end of the day, this is my experience. I always say: that’s your story to tell, but I’m telling mine.
When I went back to Morocco in 2022, after being away for six years, I noticed a massive change. It felt like parts of our culture were disappearing. Some of it is due to globalization—phones, the internet—it’s inevitable. But part of it is also political. For example, the Amazigh language wasn’t even fully recognized until 2015. It’s only recently being taught in schools, even though around 40 million people across North Africa speak it. That delay in recognition says a lot.
Culturally, Amazigh people are often looked down on by the more 'educated' sectors of society—seen as uneducated, even though that's not true. When I went back during the earthquake, I helped my adoptive mother, who’s an orthopedic surgeon, translate for patients because she doesn’t speak our language. I saw firsthand how women were struggling to explain what their doctors told them. They were dismissed, misunderstood. One woman said she had pain in her back, and the doctor just told her she had 'cold in her back.' There was no explanation, no education—just assumptions. That kind of attitude, even in healthcare, shows how deep the systemic racism goes.
This discrimination shows up in politics, in education, everywhere. And what makes it worse is that it’s often ignored—there’s not even space or language to talk about it. It’s so ingrained that many people just absorb it. You start to believe maybe they are better than you. That’s the real harm—it’s not just the erasure, it’s the internalization of that erasure.
And so, to survive, a lot of people try to erase parts of themselves, to become what society wants them to be. It’s heartbreaking. But I also know it’s not just my community. A lot of marginalized cultures go through this same pressure to conform just to get by.
Diamond Smith. How do you see your work contributing to healing within the communities you’re connected to or reaching?
Soumya Boutin. We’re actually facing a lot of challenges with that right now. I still feel deeply connected to my community, but I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that they often see me as an outsider—more specifically, as an American. That’s been hard to navigate.
But something my mother in Morocco once told me has stayed with me. She said, 'Even if you stop this work—even if you step away from Mia’s Journey or your education—just your existence, just coming back and showing up, sends a powerful message to the younger generation of women.' And I think that’s where the healing begins. Sometimes, all people need is a window—a glimpse into what’s possible. That alone can change a life. It’s why it’s so frustrating to see these communities struggling, knowing that a relatively small amount of support—something a wealthier country could easily offer—can completely transform someone’s future.
So, for me, my mission isn’t just about nonprofit work—it’s about providing small opportunities that help people discover their potential. That’s what my adoptive mother did for me. I remember her saying she was a doctor, and in that moment, something clicked. I thought, 'Wait—I can be a doctor too?' It was such a simple moment, but it rewired something in my brain. I hope I can offer that spark to others, just by showing what’s possible and being there to support them.
Healing, though, isn’t always clean or immediate. People often assume it’s this positive, upward journey—but it comes with a lot of questioning. In my community, healing means confronting the way we’ve been raised, rethinking how we view society, identity, and ourselves. That’s really difficult for a lot of people. It was difficult for me. But once you start asking those questions, once you realize there’s more out there, that’s when things begin to shift. My hope is to offer the tools people need to work through that process—to realize they can choose their own path, no matter what they were told before.
Diamond Smith. I’d love to hear more about the women and girls you work with through your nonprofit. Have any of their stories left a deep impact on you? And thinking about your ancestors—and those who will come after you—does it give you a sense of responsibility to preserve these stories and serve as a guide for future generations?
Soumya Boutin. One thing that stands out across the board is just how hardworking the women in my culture are. It’s not about earning more or achieving something flashy—it’s about surviving, simply existing with dignity. That kind of resilience has been passed down to me, and I’m really grateful for it. I definitely want to share those stories—maybe write them into a book one day.
Over the summer, I went to Morocco for three weeks and interviewed as many elders as I could. I wanted to preserve the stories that are disappearing with time and technology—especially the Amazigh culture. I asked about everything: the meals they ate, where they got their food, what winters were like, what life was like during French colonization, and after the Arab powers returned. These details may seem small, but they’re deeply meaningful.
Growing up, I heard the stereotype that women are the emotional ones, the weaker sex. But when you listen to these women and what they’ve lived through, that narrative falls apart. Their stories are full of strength and clarity. My grandmother on my mom’s side is especially important to me. When I was considering moving here, a lot of people in my family said no—'She’s a girl, she’ll come back pregnant,' things like that. But my grandmother pushed my parents. She said, 'You cannot let your daughter stay here. She has to go and get an education.' That strength came from her own lived experience.
Every woman in my life has a story like that. And yes, it’s heartbreaking that women often have to suffer so much to gain certain insights or freedoms—but we also need to celebrate them for it. We need to honor how they pass that strength to the next generation, teaching us that we can do things, that we don’t have to hate ourselves for our gender. My grandmother means so much to me, and I hope I can honor her story—and the stories of many other women—through my writing.
Diamond Smith. It’s clear that storytelling and healing play a huge role in your life. Through your lens, what are some ways we can collectively care for ourselves and our communities during these political times—especially with things like erasure and DEI being pushed aside under the current administration? And personally, what have you done to take care of yourself while navigating all of this
Soumya Boutin. What really helps me get through this is honestly... I'm a political junkie. I’m constantly reading and keeping up with what’s happening. And right now, it’s hard. It’s sad—especially when you realize how much people have fought to get us where we are, and how quickly all of that can be erased. That part is really difficult to sit with.
But something that gives me strength is knowing this: no matter how hard they try to roll back laws or erase progress, we will always be here. People will keep fighting. There will always be those who stand up—for their rights and for others. And that’s incredibly comforting.
It’s easy to get discouraged by what those in power are doing. But then you see something like the nationwide protests on April 5th—and how many people actually showed up and made noise. It reminds me that while leaders may have their agendas, there’s power in everyday people. There are always those you can count on to show up, especially in difficult times. And again, yes—they can erase laws, but the people, the movement, the memory? That always comes back.
Diamond Smith. Have you heard of care ethics before? It’s a feminist concept—Bell Hooks speaks on it too—where taking care of ourselves, especially as women of color, is seen as a radical act of resistance. It's about reclaiming ourselves and challenging systems like colonialism and patriarchy through intentional care.
From what you’ve shared—about your grandmother, your storytelling, your presence in community—that all feels very rooted in a matriarchal structure, like the one care ethics envisions. So I’m curious: how do you think we can extend those values into our daily lives? How can we practice that kind of radical care in a way that sustains us and others?
Soumya Boutin. I think one of the biggest shifts we need to make is moving away from thinking of ourselves purely as individuals. We need to see ourselves as part of something greater. And that applies not just to our relationships with other people, but with the planet itself.
There was a study—I'm forgetting the exact numbers—but it found that only about 20% of what makes us 'human' is actually human. The rest of us is composed of elements that come from rocks, the ocean, the earth. That just really stuck with me. It’s a powerful reminder that we are not separate from the world—we are the world.
In Western society, there’s this obsession with self-improvement that often leads to self-criticism. And while growth is important, I think that focus is misdirected. When you start to see yourself as part of a community or a greater whole, you begin to care for yourself and others differently. You realize your well-being is connected to everyone and everything around you.
That’s a practice I’m still working on. I’m not perfect at it—but I do want to keep growing into that mindset of radical, interconnected care.
What Boutin is referring to is an article by BBC. Writer James Gallagher explains, “More than half of your body is not human, say scientists. Human cells make up only 43% of the body's total cell count. The rest are microscopic colonists.”
Diamond Smith. This makes me think a lot about the Western hustle culture we live in—how much pressure there is to constantly improve, to perform, to perfect ourselves. There’s this quote I love: 'We were never meant to look at ourselves in the mirror so much.' We weren’t really meant to obsess over our appearances or constantly be aware of how we look.
It feels like beauty has become something we’re forced to construct, rather than just something that’s part of our being. And when you think about things like cosmetic surgery, especially the kind that erases ethnic features, it feels like a direct extension of colonialism—this quiet, ongoing erasure of identity.
So I wonder, what are your thoughts on that? How do we start unlearning this and return to seeing ourselves—and each other—as whole without needing to alter or hide?
Soumya Boutin. I’ve been reading this book called The Anxious Generation, and it really explores how our generation is both the most anxious and most depressed—despite, historically, having some of the best conditions. We have modern medicine, we’re not living through constant personal warzones... yet we’re struggling so deeply.
And part of that, I believe, comes from this hyper-fixation on the individual. We're always standing in front of the mirror, always consuming the details of other people’s lives, constantly reflecting on how we appear. That level of self-awareness just isn't natural.
Even when people say, 'Everyone is beautiful,' I don’t think the original meaning was visual. Yes, we can acknowledge visual beauty—but I think the deeper point is that we’re not meant to think about what we look like this much. And now, so much of our anxiety and depression comes from the fact that nothing about our modern world resembles what it really means to be human.
It's not necessarily a bad thing or a good thing—it’s just so far removed from what we evolved to be. And maybe our brains are still trying to catch up, to adapt. But something about this constant self-surveillance, this pressure to be perfect—it’s reshaping how we experience life. And it’s heavy.
Diamond Smith. In a recent press release, former President Trump stated, quote: 'We have ended the tyranny of so-called diversity, equity, and inclusion policies all across the entire federal government—and indeed the private sector and our military. Our country will no longer be woke.'
How do you see this kind of rhetoric and policy shift impacting your work and your mission? And what are your thoughts on that statement, especially in terms of the long-term effects it might have on marginalized communities?
Soumya Boutin. I can see this from a few different perspectives. For one, even within my own community, there are people who don’t agree with the kind of work I’m doing. So when I hear statements like that from Trump, it’s not just threatening to my mission—it’s dangerous. It taps into a fear among many white people that their power is being taken away. But in reality, Trump doesn’t care about these issues—he cares about himself.
Getting rid of so-called 'woke' policies benefits the wealthy. It protects them from scrutiny by keeping attention off the ways they exploit the Global South and maintain generational wealth. To do that, they create enemies: people of color, queer communities, women, anyone who doesn’t fit the straight white male agenda. That’s dangerous. Because it’s not just political messaging—it’s the first step in dehumanization.
If this rhetoric continues, people like me—and the communities we serve—will face more attacks. And yes, it will affect my work directly. People may stop donating to small, grassroots causes like mine, not because they don’t care, but because national attention shifts. They’ll feel pulled toward major crisis fronts like Planned Parenthood or international conflict zones, which are also urgent—but we risk losing focus on the bigger picture. We're getting more individualistic. We're losing sight of how all our struggles are connected.
We were, for a while, making real progress in understanding the human experience. There was momentum. Now it feels like we're backtracking. Some people say, 'Oh, it’s just about getting rid of pronouns'—but it’s not just that. It’s about erasing anyone who doesn’t fit a narrow mold.
And that’s terrifying—because history has shown us what happens when people are slowly dehumanized. We know where that road can lead. It’s not just a policy shift. It’s a warning.
Diamond Smith. Teaching to Transgress by bell hooks—I came across it in one of my classes, and I feel really lucky, because literature by people of color often isn’t prioritized in college settings. But there’s a quote from her that’s always stayed with me: 'To teach in a manner that respects and cares for the souls of our students is essential if we are to provide the necessary conditions where learning can be deeply and intimately begun.'
So I want to ask—how do you embody this practice in your own life? What parts of that have you experienced in your own education? Because in many ways, you are an educator too—through your activism, storytelling, and how you navigate political spaces.
Soumya Boutin. I’ve definitely seen that idea reflected in some of my classes—though I do think voices like Bell Hooks and other authors from marginalized communities should be centered more often. For example, I took a class last semester on power structures that introduced us to a range of thinkers, from The Power Elite to later discussions on Bell Hooks and women from different societies and underrepresented communities. I was exposed to a lot of new writing, and I’m really grateful for that.
Even if you’re not deeply educated in all of it, just having that exposure—just a small signal—can make a big impact. Sometimes it’s those little moments of recognition that open your mind the most. I’ve been lucky, too, with the people I surround myself with. My friends come from diverse communities, and even the media I consume has helped me educate myself further.
I do think we need to take what Bell Hooks said more literally and apply it more fully to education. Right now, education is often treated like a business—an investment in yourself. And yes, self-investment is important, but within a capitalist society, that usually just means finding a job. There’s so much more to learning than that.
I really hope we shift how we view academia—not as a tool for making more money, but as a place for real understanding and growth. And I feel very lucky that the institution I’m in right now allows me to see education in that way. I know that’s a privilege, and I’m thankful for it.
Diamond Smith. Given your background in journalism and political science—fields that are especially critical right now—how does your work help combat the anxiety that comes from societal stereotyping, stagnant identity narratives, or the tension between personal values and public perception?
With the backlash against critical race theory and the erasure of gender education, there are so many misconceptions and limitations placed on what can be taught or discussed. So in light of that, how does your role as a student, activist, or aspiring professional help push back against that erasure?
Soumya Boutin. It’s really difficult—especially because a lot of this is also tied to immigration. Even though I’m a U.S. citizen, it still feels like there are no clear protections anymore. Everything feels uncertain. And in this kind of political climate, I think one of the main goals of those in power is to censor us—to make us silence ourselves. That’s how they win.
I’m glad some universities are still finding ways to fund critical race theory and protect those conversations, but it’s not enough. What I’m focused on now is finding ways to keep pushing my beliefs forward without censoring myself. I don’t want to shrink myself or my voice. I’m considering law school and possibly working with the U.N. or even within U.S. politics—if there's space for someone like me to do that. My goal is just to continue existing and doing the work. Because sometimes, existing itself is a form of resistance.
Yes, critical race theory matters. Yes, education is essential. But what really threatens these systems is our continued presence. That’s what they can’t control. We saw it during the Civil Rights era—the sense of community and purpose, that unstoppable momentum. They couldn’t legislate that away.
In the future, I just want to write and speak on the truth: that what’s happening is not right. And sometimes, saying that out loud is enough. It’s enough to keep the fire going, to remind us of where we’ve been—and to push us further than we’ve ever gone.
Diamond Smith. Thank you for sharing all of that. It’s really beautiful. Listening to you speak about your grandmother, your mother, and all the powerful women who’ve shaped your life (role models as well, like Malala Yousafzai)—I just want to say, that same strength is absolutely shining through you. As you continue doing the work you're doing—often in the face of criticism or cultural tension—what keeps you grounded? What values or people do you return to when things feel heavy or uncertain? And in all of that, what role do you think empathy plays in helping us move forward, both personally and collectively?
Soumya Boutin. [Thank you], I always say Malala got lucky with her dad—and I got lucky with both my parents. Their support has meant everything. Without it, I wouldn’t be here. And my brother—just having him in my life, the bond we share—it’s something that constantly grounds me. I genuinely feel like one of the luckiest people on this planet. Because to live two lives, in two different worlds, and carry the wisdom of both—it feels like a kind of reincarnation. I carry that knowledge with me, and I hope to use it not just to help my family and community, but to offer the world a perspective rooted in care and empathy.
Empathy, I think, is one of the most powerful tools we have. It’s what makes us human. Other animals feel empathy, sure—but not like we do. And right now, in the world we’re living in, I believe empathy might be our greatest weapon. I can’t even begin to say enough about how much I owe to my community and my parents. Even now, when extended family back home disapprove of what I’m doing, my parents never once blame me. They just tell me to keep going. And I do—because I know I’ve won the lottery in every sense. I’m here because of their love, and I’ll keep doing the work because of that love.
