By Peaches Calhoun and Okon Ekpenyong

Attorney Anna Sanyal opened the ceremony not as a formality, but as family. With warmth and wit, she named what the room already knew in its bones: Ajmeri Hoque is the first Bangladeshi elected to public office in Ohio, the first Muslim judge in the state’s history, and one of the first South Asian judges to serve Franklin County. She traced the quiet grit behind the robe—two bar exams in two states, a private practice built from the ground up, and recent work as lead counsel for Ohio State students arrested during protests for Gaza.

This was not a résumé being read.
This was a life being witnessed.

Judge Zach Gwin followed, pulling back the velvet curtain on the people’s court—the municipal court—where fear walks in before hope ever does. He spoke of Ajmeri meeting clients in their homes, their workplaces, and their treatment centers. Not from a distance. Not from a perch. But eye-to-eye, story-to-story.

“Representation matters,” he said.
“But understanding matters just as much.”

Then the room shifted into something deeper.

Representative Munira Abdullahi rose and called Ajmeri “my sister,” not as a slogan but as a truth formed by late-night calls, relentless service, and frontline courage. She spoke of Ajmeri standing with students when silence would have been safer, when stepping back would have been easier. She quoted scripture that echoed through the chandeliers:

Stand firm for justice—even against yourself.

Across the room, Representative Dr. Anita Somani layered that courage with context. Post-9/11 fear. Post-COVID scapegoating. The long arc of xenophobia pretending to be protection. She said what every immigrant parent in that room was thinking without saying: visibility is not vanity—it is safety.

Attorney Geraldine Rosario then told the quiet stories that never make headlines. Of a future law student who asked for help and received outlines before nightfall. Of community members calling for voting guidance, legal clarity, and a voice in a system that often refuses to speak plainly. “She is,” Geraldine said, steady and proud, “a tremendous asset to our community.”

And then the room drew its breath.

Judge Beatty Blunt stepped forward—her presence calm, unshakable. The family rose. Phones lifted like stars finding their constellations. With steady authority and quiet grace, sheadministered the oath.

Right hand raised, heart forward, Ajmeri Hoque swore to support the Constitution of the United States and to faithfully and impartially serve as Judge of the Franklin County Municipal Court.

Two women.
Two benches of legacy.
One transfer of power.

When Ajmeri spoke, she did not tower—she reached.

She honored her parents’ sacrifices. Thanked volunteers by name. Quoted Ellen Johnson Sirleaf: “If your dreams do not scare you, you are not dreaming big enough.” She named the women whose shoulders held this moment—Munira Abdullahi, Anita Somani, Denisa Laban, Nadia Rasul, Dr. Greg Lam—and then turned toward the young people in the room.

You belong.
Without sanding down your name.
Without softening your faith.
Without shrinking your story.

And then, beneath crystal light and quiet fire, she closed with Tupac:

“I am a reflection of the community.”

In that room, in that hour, she was exactly that.

Because while ugliness shouted from afar, dignity dined in Columbus.
While insult sought attention, excellence commanded the room without raising its voice.
And while the nation argued over who belonged, Franklin County quietly installed a judge who already knew the answer.

For a few radiant hours at the Boathouse Vineyard, America looked like what it always claimed to be:

Elegant.
Plural.
Unapologetically human.

And when the gavel finally lifted, it did not echo as power alone.

It sounded like a promise.

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