About Me

Profile

About:

Howdy! My name is Doha (pronounced cookie-DOUGH-HA) and I'm a fourth year Political Communication and Government double major. I am a first generation American who was raised by two loving, native Egyptians. After marrying, my mom and dad moved to Las Cruces, New Mexico where I was born. (They essentially left one exotic desert to dwell in a smaller, far more deserted one.) I have lived in El Paso since the age of two and consider it to be 'mi casa.' In fall of 2010, I moved to Austin and, what can I say?--I love the University of Texas. I am a proud Texas Spirit, the Resident Director of Dobie, and a former intern for Congressman Lloyd Doggett. Texas 4000 is my pride and joy--I truly love it like no other. After graduating in May 2014, and returning from Alaska, I plan on attending law school to become a corporate lawyer.

Why I Ride

My mother always told me I was not a crier. Growing up, while watching episodes of our favorite dramas, I’d often stare blankly at the screen while she, wiping tears away at the virtual death of one of our favorite actors, would jokingly remark, ‘Is that heart of yours feeling anything? You know, it’s okay to not be tough for once.’
I can recall crying exactly three times in my life. For all three times that I can recall, cancer was the common factor.

Faisal Abdelfattah-- Jan. 2011

My uncle always had a knack for giving me good advice. I remember sitting beside him on the living room couch on my third birthday struggling to brush my Barbie’s hair. I was only moments away from getting in a fist fight with the doll when he kindly interjected, guided the brush, and said, "Patience, Doha. Be gentle." Upon further investigation of the doll, I discovered something else besides her tangled hair--her dress was wet. I lifted up the dress to find that she was not wearing any undergarments. I, in complete shock remarked, "Uncle, the real problem is not her hair, it's that she doesn't even have any underwear!!!" I threw the Barbie to the opposite side of the couch and three minutes of sheer laughter ensued.

He was the light of my life and I was his.

From celebrating birthday parties of every age, to graduations from every level of education, to engagements, to award ceremonies, to religious holidays, to casual gatherings, and to every occasion imaginable-- my uncle was always there. Spring of 2007, he was diagnosed with cancer. From that moment onward, the time we spent together was comprised of hospital visits, chemotherapy sessions, and visits inside of his home as he became too weak to go elsewhere. It remained that way for five years. Before leaving to Austin in January of 2011 to begin the second semester of my freshman year, I remember visiting him for what would be the last time. With whatever words he could mumble out of exhaustion, he left me with some of the greatest words of advice. With that, I said I loved him, kissed him on the forehead, told him that I hoped to see him at my UT graduation and left. Within two weeks, my uncle's five year battle to cancer had ended and unto God he had returned. Finding out he had cancer and losing him to the disease five years after account for some of the hardest moments of my life.

Daniel Pecquet, Oct. 2011

I recall, with every detail, the day I met Danny. It was the first day of my freshman year in 2006. I had been invited to join the JM Hanks High school speech and debate team. Danny, the coach with a few championships under his belt, introduced himself to me as I timidly sat in the back of the classroom. He looked over, smiled, then said, "Welcome to the team. Now, let's get to business."

The months that followed consisted of hours of after school practice, constructive criticism, and the development of a new-found friendship. Fall of 2007, I decided to perform a condensed version of "My sister's keeper"--a story of a young girl who suffers from cancer. Upon performing it one day after school, Danny, who sat at the opposite side of the classroom, paused momentarily and said, "You're not quite playing the part--you have to make the audience feel something. Don't you get it, Doha? She's dying from cancer." Danny pushed me to perform at my best. Two years later, he was standing beside me as I received a state championship. And every tournament and award ceremony till the day I graduated, Danny was there.

December of 2010, after my first semester of college, we decided to grab dinner at Hudsons with a few teammates. The night went great. We laughed till we couldn't breathe like old times and then said our goodbyes. Days later, I received a message from Danny on Facebook telling me that he had been in the hospital since our dinner date. He provided a hospital room number, address, and the message concluded with, "I don't want to scare you when (and if) you see me, Doha, but the news is not great. My spirit is in need of lifting." I remember waiting outside the room as the doctor shared the results to which I heard him say, "The cancer you have has four stages. If I had to rate your current state, I'd put you at a 4.5." After the doctor left, the hour that followed was filled with sobbing and an elongated pause of silence to which he mumbled, "It's like I'm living the role of My Sister's Keeper."

I left that winter break uncertain of when and if I would see him again. In July of 2011, Danny visited me during one of his trips to Austin and it was at the steps of Dobie, the place where I currently reside, that we said our last goodbyes. In October of 2011, Danny passed away. He assured me shortly before that we'd "meet again in heaven." And, until then, I'll be waiting.

Mohammad Naguib-- Dec. 2011

In December of 2011, I returned home to El Paso after five long months of not seeing my family. I had just concluded the fall semester of my sophomore year and during the car ride home, I learned that cancer had struck for a third time. Another uncle of mine had been diagnosed with cancer and had fallen into a coma shortly after. That month was rough. With the capabilities of technology and our good friend Skype, my father and I were able to experience the suffering of my uncle, who resided in Egypt, every day that month almost first hand. A week before I left to Austin in January, my uncle passed away and he, too, returned to God.

I lost three loved ones to cancer in 2011. In 2014, I hope to ride to Alaska in their honor. I ride in honor of my uncles and my debate coach. I ride as a simple token of appreciation for having a hand in raising me, for shaping my public speaking career, and for teaching me how to love. I ride in honor of everyone whom I've seen suffer from the disease, first and second hand. I ride in honor of those whom I will lose to the disease in the upcoming years. I ride as a celebration of life and strength. Most importantly, I ride for a cure.