What the Eyes Don’t See is a story of one woman boldly speaking out against corruption, racism, and environmental injustice. But throughout her book, Mona Hanna-Attisha also shares stories of her family’s longstanding commitment to social justice, progressive values, and upholding the righteous truth no matter the risks. Throughout the book, Mona invokes these stories about her closest relatives and her most distant ancestors—from freedom fighters to radical organizers to public health advocates—in her greatest moments of self-doubt. By wielding these stories as reminders of her family’s legacy, she banishes uncertainty and sadness time and time again, finding the motivation to soldier on in her own battle against environmental injustice and the government’s neglect. In this way, the book suggests the importance of family values and traditions.
Mona describes the solid foundation her parents gave her in life by constantly telling her stories about their family’s roots, its values, and their hopes for its legacy. “I am Iraqi” are the first words of the first line of What the Eyes Don’t See—and as the book unfolds, it becomes clear that Mona’s Iraqi heritage and her connection to her family in Iraq is a central part of her life. Mona’s family history is full of exciting stories of pioneering public health advocates, dedicated left-wing resistance fighters, and brave community leaders who earned their neighbors’ love and support in times of crisis. Because Mona and her brother Mark were brought up by parents who were proud of their family’s long history of fighting for justice, equality, and community, Mona learned early on that these values were important and admirable. Mona was passionately involved in local environmental activism as a teenager, and she went on to become a pediatrician working in Flint, Michigan, an underserved community that was deeply in need of passionate doctors. Her life choices—which centered around fighting for others and standing up for the right thing—were rooted in the values that had been passed down through her family for generations.
In her moments of deepest fear and self-doubt as a whistleblower in the Flint water crisis, Mona found herself turning to her family for confirmation that she was on the right path. Shortly after Mona held a press conference in which she presented data showing that the residents of Flint were being poisoned by their water supply, several state agencies—including the Michigan Department of Environmental Quality and the Michigan Department of Health and Human Services—tried to tear down Mona’s research. They held press conferences of their own to claim that Mona’s research had been “spliced and diced” and that she’d exaggerated her findings in order to make the state look bad. This, of course, deeply upset Mona. But when her mother (whom she calls Bebe) called her on the phone the evening after the state agencies’ retaliatory press conference, Bebe told Mona how brave she’d been and what a good job she’d done speaking out on behalf of her patients. Bebe’s words of encouragement “kept [Mona] going”—feeling supported by her family was a crucial aspect of Mona’s perseverance. Mona also made sure to go by “Dr. Mona” in all of the many interviews she did with news media outlets all around the country as she stood up for her research before the entire country. Her grandfather, Haji, chose the name Mona for her precisely because he felt it would be easier for Americans to pronounce than the Arabic version, Muna. But Mona and Muna both mean “hope, wish, or desire.” Represented by the traditional, hopeful name her grandfather gave her, Mona felt protected and capable as she doubled down on her commitment to telling the truth about what was happening in Flint.
Mona’s ability to draw strength and confidence from her ancestors’ legacies and traditions shows how helpful it can be to have a moral foundation rooted in one’s family. When Mona and her colleagues began using code names for one another in their emails about the water crisis, she thought it was “kind of exciting” to go by the pseudonym “Fire Ant” because it reminded her of how her great-uncle Nuri had used a pseudonym, Anwar, while working as a radical organizer in 1930s Iraq. Mona and her colleagues were in a frightening situation: the state was potentially monitoring their communications, searching for information that could be used against them as retaliation for blowing the whistle on the Flint water crisis. But Mona found comfort and strength in comparing herself to the dedicated fighters and organizers who came before her in her family line. Mona’s family’s revolutionary roots inspired her to fight for the right thing, to never back down in the face of danger, and to focus on what matters in life: family and honor. Mona was frightened by the backlash against her and worn down by the environmental injustice and racism that came to light during the Flint water crisis. But she had a network of support in her family: her mother, her public interest lawyer brother Mark, and her treasured stories of her revolutionary relatives. Because Mona had such a strong foundation in a family whose values had always been centered around social justice and communal care, she was able to hold fast to those values in a time of crisis and create real change in her community.
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Family, Tradition, and Strength Quotes in What the Eyes Don’t See
The road behind my family disappeared too. The Iraq they knew was lost, replaced by war and ruins. In my mind, this lost Iraq is a land of enchantment and despair. But its lessons endure.
“He taught me to treat everybody well, because we are all equal, no matter what we look like, what we believe in, or how much money we have. To always do the right thing, even if it’s hard. Even if people tell you it’s impossible.”
“Just so you know what’s ahead,” Mark went on, “it could get rough. Many whistle-blowers, even if they’re successful in exposing fraud, have their lives destroyed. […] Many are retaliated against. I have clients who have lost their homes and friends, their marriages destroyed. One even killed himself. That’s why I always counsel new clients—even though they’re doing the right thing—that they need to seriously consider the costs. You have to be prepared for the worst.”
This is what it means to be a member of a family, to have people in your life who trust you and support you and who know you sometimes better than you know yourself. […] What we had was more than love. We understood each other. We were grounded in the same core ideals and morals—and were always moving toward the same goal: to make the world more just, more equitable, and a more human place. To do the right thing, even if it was hard.
What I love most about his story is Nuri’s bravery, persistence, and unfailing loyalty to a borderless progressive cause. He fought for something bigger than a country or a religion, a tribe or an ethnic group. He fought for all people, for humanity, with a hope that there was another way to live.
Down deep, something else was eating away at me. Aeb. It was difficult to describe without using the imprecise word shame. It was not just an Iraqi thing; it was an Arabic thing. It was the idea that you were never acting independently of your family or larger community. You always had a connection to a larger group, and there were always repercussions. If you behaved badly, or strayed even a little bit from the accepted norm, you would bring shame not only upon yourself but on your people. There was nothing worse.
Now, as the press conference loomed, I was beginning to see that my family’s saga of loss and dislocation had given me my fight—my passion and urgency. […] I grew up with dismay and knew how wrong leaders could be, how cruel and negligent. They have to be held accountable, have to be challenged, because power corrupts, and our moral sensibility can be so dulled that we let atrocities happen right around us, unless we manage to stay constantly vigilant, sensitive, aroused, and ready to take a stand.
I was drawing on something deep inside me. Maybe it was the letters my mom received from Haji in Baghdad, or the pictures I’d seen of the gassing of the Kurdish babies. Maybe it was the tenacity and optimism of Mama Evelyn or the strength and integrity of my dissident parents. Maybe it was the inspiration of my heroes, fighters like Alice Hamilton. […] Or maybe there was even something in my DNA, an ancestral inheritance of persistence and rebellion and activism, handed down to me from the generations of prolific scribes who had hoped to keep Nestorian traditions alive, or from Nuri […] with his brave rebellion, or from Paul Shekwana with his passion for public health.
I was just the last piece. The state wouldn’t stop lying until somebody came along to prove that real harm was being done to kids. Then the house of cards fell.
“A small bird few down and tugged at the hem of his white dishdasha. The bird told Haji that he would take him to the doctor. But Haji laughed at the small bird, wondering how such a tiny bird could carry him. Soon another bird came and took the edge of his sleeve. Another bird came, and another, until hundreds of birds surrounded him. They each held a small piece of his dishdasha, and even his hair and his toes, and together the birds were able to lift him and fly him through the air.”
