Like almost every girl she knew, Esraa started wearing a head scarf when she was in middle school. At the time, she thought she had chosen it.

But in college, when she joined student movements and led protests fighting to preserve the right of free expression, she started to realize how limited her choices were. “When I looked to see what was wrong with me, I saw the veil,” Esraa told me in that first meeting.

It was a bold statement in a country where the large majority of women are still veiled and where the veil is loaded with meaning. It is modesty, it is ideology, it is culture, it is tradition, it is sacrifice, it is identity — ripping it off is akin to changing skins.

The first time Esraa and I spoke, she was nervous. But as she relaxed and I began achieving the much-coveted “fly on the wall” status, I grew nervous.

We often filmed with our iPhones to avoid drawing attention to Esraa or to our work, especially when we were in public. And I reminded her repeatedly that I was a journalist, that the camera was rolling and that she had a mic attached to her. Esraa laughed because she had stopped caring.

Why take the gamble? I asked her on our last day of shooting.

“Because I need to have those safe spaces where I can express myself in an absolute way, without being judged,” she answered. “I don’t need anyone’s sympathy or pity. I need to speak to people who will have respect for me and for my experience.”

She saw in my camera an opportunity to be who she wanted to be. The small stage I offered Esraa, the direct questions I asked her and the interest I took in her personal evolution were everything she craved. She understood the consequences of letting herself be heard.