Bright Light. Big Smile. Her Name Was Debrina Kawam.
The story of the woman set alight on the New York subway is a reminder that everyone, even when they’re anonymous, is a somebody.
Atop an article that ran in The New York Times on Jan. 4, there’s an old photo of a young woman named Debbie Kawam.
She’s pictured sitting in a sun-dappled patch of grass on what looks to be a summer’s day. One leg is stretched out in front of her; an elbow is propped up on the other leg. She’s dressed in high-waisted shorts and a white T-shirt. Her white ankle socks and deck shoes complete the look. She’s smiling—her eyes coyly gazing at the camera from beneath honey-blond bangs framing her face.
That picture was likely taken several decades ago when Kawam’s life held all the promise in the world. She was—as several news outlets have mentioned—the life of every party. The New York Times described her as “the cheerleader with the inner glow, dispensing high-fives in the hallways of Passaic Valley Regional High School” in New Jersey. She lived in the moment—whether she was traveling with girlfriends to Las Vegas or waiting on hungry patrons at Perkins Pancake House.
And then, at some point, things changed.
