The week after 9/11, 17-year-old Zaineb A. Hussein and her mother, Mariam, who had immigrated to Dearborn in 1977 with her husband during the early years of the Lebanese Civil War, were shopping at an estate sale on the west side of the city. Zaineb didn’t share her mother’s love of rummage and garage sales, but when she spotted a pair of ice skates that she simply had to have, she was glad she had tagged along. Her mother led a friendly negotiation over the price, until an elderly woman interrupted and told her mother to “go back to your country.” Zaineb instantly filled with anger. “My mom is my heart. You come near my mom and I see red,” she says. Zaineb was just about to lay into the woman when her mother urged her to hold back. “I was, like, ‘Are you kidding me?’ But my mom said, ‘Stop — she doesn’t know better.’” Then her mother turned to the woman and declared simply, “I am an American citizen and we are proud to be here.” The host of the estate sale, apparently mortified by the encounter, offered her the ice skates for free. They decided to leave without them.
Hussein recalls the encounter as one of her early formative lessons in politics. First, it showed her that, even though her mother had been born elsewhere and would always be viewed as a “foreigner” by some people, she still had so much pride in her identity as an American. Her mother’s roots here mattered to her, and she felt them as strongly as any other American. Second, Hussein says it taught her that you can’t always “meet fire with fire.” “If you really want to see a change in people, you have to be able to demonstrate that in a way that will be received,” she explains. Hussein says that lesson was reinforced again and again over the next few years as a student at UM-Dearborn, where she majored in history and political science. On a diverse campus, her classmates were hardly a monolith when it came to faith, values and politics, and her classes gave her countless opportunities to hone her skills in communicating with people who had views different from her own. More importantly, she developed a working view of human nature, one which makes it feel not just like a political cliché when she extols the virtues of trying to understand others’ views, even ones you might detest. “I think at UM-Dearborn, I really learned that my interpretation of something could be very different from another person’s — even if we were looking at, say, the same historical events,” she says. “I think that’s when I realized just how much our life experiences make us who we are. If you and I lead very different lives, we’re going to have different perspectives, different stories, different values. So if you want to communicate with someone, you have to start there.”
That perspective is certainly part of what has helped Hussein build a dynamic career alongside some of the biggest names in Michigan politics. Post-graduation, she initially headed to Lansing, where she worked for a half decade with the Michigan Department of Human Services and as a director of constituent affairs for then-Michigan State Senator David Kzenek. After burning out on the Lansing political culture, Hussein welcomed an opportunity to return to Wayne County, where she worked as the county’s director of diversity and inclusion and deputy director for external affairs for the county executive. She never thought she’d return to Lansing. But after a conversation with a colleague led to an unexpected opportunity in the Secretary of State’s office, she took a position working as Jocelyn Benson’s deputy chief of staff, where, among other things, she spearheaded minority group outreach initiatives during the 2020 election.
Hussein declares with an understandable amount of pride that she’s rarely had to apply for a job — she’s usually been recruited — and her current position is yet another example. When her longtime friend Abdullah Hammoud, a fellow east Dearborn native and UM-Dearborn alum, expressed interest in running for mayor of Dearborn, Hussein was all in — first answering Hammoud’s call for help with the campaign, and later, when he won, taking on the role of his chief of staff. Alongside Hammoud, Hussein says she’s found a place and a team that makes her feel like she could stay awhile. She sees the work Hammoud is doing as mayor as historic. Indeed, as the first Arab American to be elected mayor in the city’s history, the charismatic young executive is regarded as a symbol of the growing political power of Arab Americans not just locally but nationally. But more than that, Hussein insists what makes Hammoud special is how focused he is on doing the actual work of healing a young, demographically diverse city whose history has been pocked by multiple periods of anti-Black and anti-Arab racism. For example, shortly after Hammoud took office, the administration decided to host the first ever Dearborn-Detroit block party along the cities’ shared border. Hussein remembers more than one instance of a Black Detroiter coming up to the mayor, remarking that it was the first time they ever felt welcome in Dearborn. “I think with this administration, you’re seeing a team that’s actively coming to terms with our history and that’s trying to rectify many past practices that have hurt people in our communities,” Hussein says. “I do think we’re at an inflection point. When I was growing up, it was Arab Americans on the east side and white residents on the west side. But now, almost anywhere you go, you’re finding a diverse group. And people increasingly see our diversity as our strength.”
This moment of transition hasn’t always been smooth. Hussein says there are still outlier voices in the city who aren’t on board with this vision. The past year, in particular, has presented its share of challenges. The war in Gaza thrust Dearborn, which is home to one of the larger Palestinian diasporas in the U.S., into the national spotlight. Some of the old tropes about Arab Americans and Dearborn quickly found new life online and in the press, including a Wall Street Journal op-ed titled “Welcome to Dearborn, America's Jihad Capital,” which drew national backlash, including forceful criticism from Hammoud and UM-Dearborn Chancellor Domenico Grasso. As chief of staff, Hussein got used to handling death threats against Hammoud, sifting out which ones to bring to his attention and which to let the police address quietly in order to not cause him added stress. The team has also wrestled with how to use the spotlight to potentially exert their influence on the national conversation over the war. From the start, Hammoud has been outspoken in his criticism of the assault on Gaza and of the Biden administration, a view that’s shared by many in the city. Earlier this year, the collective frustration morphed into a much-talked-about political liability for Biden, as the then-presumptive Democratic nominee risked losing an important part of his coalition in a tightly contested must-win state. In January, Biden’s campaign manager reached out to Hammoud for a meeting. Hammoud turned them down, telling them he would be open to talking with actual policymakers, but not campaign operatives. A few weeks later, the administration followed up by sending several high-ranking officials to Dearborn.
When Hammoud and his advisors were making decisions about these events, Hussein says there was a surprising amount of unity in the room. It’s one of Hussein’s main jobs, of course, to keep the team tight, and working behind the scenes like this is definitely an underappreciated political craft. For Hussein, it’s about being able to spot great thinkers to put around the mayor, but also knowing how to rein them in when a decision must be made and there’s only a couple hours to do it. It’s about pushing talented people past their limits to get something that’s just a little bit better — and not making them hate you for it. And it’s also about being extremely politically aware of opportunities and political landmines. “I try to see things through all possibilities and outcomes, whether I agree or disagree with the approach,” she says. “If one word in a statement we’re putting out could be interpreted differently, then we have to have a plan to address that if that happens. That’s why we labor so hard over words and ideas. Everybody sees the world a little differently.”
Hussein has made her career working behind the scenes for other people, but she’s made enough of an impression that she now gets asked semi-regularly about whether she’ll run for office some day. “Never” is her quick response on the day we talk. Her explanation is that she doesn’t like talking about herself, and she thinks she can have far more impact by using her talents to elevate others, rather than just herself. It’s a nice sentiment, and rings as sincere, if a bit self-deprecating and deflecting. But I then ask if she has anyone in her life that disagrees with this self-assessment. “There are a few people,” she says, noting that one of them is an influential mentor. I then point out that her logic seems sound if she’d be running for legislative office, but her self-described talents — pushing people, helping diverse teams gel, taking pace and crises in stride, anticipating all possible consequences of a decision, listening to diverse constituents — sound like a nice toolbox for an executive. “I guess you never say never,” she says.
Hussein did run for office — once. She was elected junior class president of Fordson High School. Her slogan was “Ask not what Zaineb Hussein can do for you. Ask what you can do for Fordson.” “I know, super cliché. But I thought it was very cool,” she says, smiling. As a person who puts a lot of stock in the power of words, no doubt she’d come up with something better next time.
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Story by Lou Blouin. Photos by Annie Barker.
