Khadija Monis ’25 (right) spoke at a graduation celebration dinner that brought together our Afghan students and many of the people on campus who have supported the women since they arrived in December 2021 as part of Cornell's Scholar Under Threat program.

When I left my home in Afghanistan, I packed only two things: my hope — and my grandfather’s dream.

Today, as I stand in front of you in a graduation gown, I know that I carry more than a degree. I carry the stories of every Afghan girl who still dreams behind closed doors.

Good evening to our esteemed faculty, mentors, friends, family members — and most importantly, my fellow Afghan graduates, my sisters in this journey.

We are especially honored to be joined by our mentors and the founder of the Asian University for Women, Mr. Kamal — the place where this transformation began.

AUW wasn’t just a university —

it was where our broken wings slowly healed.

Where pain turned into resilience, and strangers became sisters.

Where I found my voice again.

Mr. Kamal, to us, you’re not just the founder of AUW.
You are the founder of possibility — of dignity — for girls like us.

Afghan girls.

Hazara girls.

Asian Girls.

Girls who were told “no” every time they dared to dream.
When the world turned its back on us, you opened a door.

You saw us.
You said we mattered.
And in a time when we had lost everything, you gave us the one thing that could never be taken away:
An education.

A future.

The possibility of becoming Cornell’s Class of 2025.

To our incredible Cornell family — faculty, mentors, advisors, peers, and every single one of you:

Thank you for seeing us — not just as students, but as whole human beings carrying stories, scars, and hopes.
You welcomed us with open hearts, gave us room to stumble and stand again, and reminded us that we belong — even when we doubted it ourselves.
You showed us how to keep going when the weight felt too heavy.
Thank you for giving us a place to breathe, to grow, to be heard.
Your kindness lives in us now — and we will carry it wherever we go.

To my chosen sisters — Diana Ayubi, Shurshid Hussaini, Tamana Ghaznawie, Simah Gul Sahnoosh, Spehra Azimi, Shulria Mirzaiee, Tamana Ahmadi, and Shigufa Nighat.

I’ve lost count of the days I felt numb — days when I wanted to give up, not just on school, but on everything.

But then I’d see your eyes, full of fire. Your laughter echoing in the halls. Your strength — and it would wake something in me.

You reminded me to breathe again. To try again. To hope again.

We cried by Beebe Lake under skies that held our secrets.
We walked alone through cold nights.
We wiped our tears with the sleeves of our sweaters and screamed silently into our pillows when it was all too much.
We stared at screens filled with words we couldn’t understand, frustrated by the “fancy vocabulary” that made us feel small.
We fell asleep with swollen eyes and woke up with no choice but to carry on — eyeliner covering pain, steps heavy, hearts heavier.

And still, we kept moving.

Because we weren’t just students.
We were daughters carrying our families, sisters holding up our communities; women breaking every rule ever written to keep us small.
We became everything for everyone — mothers, providers, translators of hope.
We sent money home, listened to our mothers cry, and still turned in assignments.
We held pain in one hand and dreams in the other.
We were never handed a map.
We were the map.
We knocked on doors that were never meant to open for girls like us.
And when they didn’t open — we pushed. We broke through.

So today, as we stand on this stage, know this:
We didn’t just earn a degree.
We earned a legacy.

One built from midnight tears, whispered prayers, and an unshakable belief that even the most broken wings can still remember how to fly.

To the brilliant Afghan graduating class of 2025 — this is for you.

And I want you to listen closely. Hold these words close — not just for today, but for every day ahead:

Every time students pack up to go home ...
Every time we see parents arriving at Cornell, helping their children move in, carrying boxes, hugging goodbye…
Something breaks quietly inside us.

Because many of us won’t get to see our families.
Not this semester. Not this year. Maybe not for years.

Not because we don’t love them — but because war, borders, and politics have built walls between us.
So we carry our longing in our hearts, and we keep going — knowing that even if our families can’t be here to witness this day, we carry their love, their sacrifices, and their hopes in every step we take.

Graduating from Cornell University is not the final achievement.
This degree, this moment — it’s not something that was simply given to you.
You fought for it.

You fought through language barriers, unfamiliar systems, late-night tears, aching
homesickness ...
You carried your entire world in your heart while sitting in classrooms that were never designed with us in mind.

So don’t ever see this as the end. Because we know — deep down — this is just the beginning.

We are not just students who made it out.
We are daughters and sons who carry stories of war and courage.
We are mothers and fathers to our siblings.
We are the only hope for families still surviving under skies that don’t always promise tomorrow.

Afghanistan is hurting. It is breaking. And I know it hurts even more to see it from afar.

But that’s exactly why you matter so much.

You are not just graduates —
You are healers. You are rebuilders. You are the light in the dark.
You are the generation that will write the next chapter — one filled with dignity, safety, and hope.

So wear your gown proudly — not for the fabric, but for the journey it represents.
Let the world see you — and let Afghanistan feel you.

You are not finished.
You are just getting started.

May we carry our homes in our souls, even when they feel far away.
And may we never forget where we came from — the pain, the strength, the love —
And never stop dreaming of the world we are meant to build.

Thank you.
Khadija Monis