Today I was to be awarded my Master of Arts in Journalism at the University of Western Ontario in London, Ontario, but I didn’t attend my convocation. Before I tell you why not, I would like to apologize for that wordy sentence you just read. The reason behind stating the exact name of the degree is because one of my professors in the program insisted that we be precise about what the degree is called. She said that it was our good fortune that the program was a blend of both practical as well as theoretical knowledge of journalism. Hence, it wasn’t just a Master of Journalism program but Master of Arts in Journalism.

Coming back to my inability to attend my convocation, which by the way happens to be the third graduation ceremony I miss after my high school and bachelor’s, it was mostly due to the high cost involved in the flight and hotel expenses. Did you know that the distance between Vancouver and London, Ontario, is the same as that between Vancouver and London, England? OK, maybe not the same distance but their ticket prices are quite similar.

Anyhow, I thought to myself that if I have to spend about a grand to attend my convocation, I may as well spend that money traveling and seeing a new place. After all, the degree can be mailed to me for just $25. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t care about the degree. Not at all. In fact, j-school (as we like to endearingly call it) was undoubtedly the best year of my life yet. I learned the craft, made some great friends, and even got to travel abroad for an internship in this one year.

I woke up this morning and signed onto Facebook ritualistically. My ‘news feed’ was filled with my classmates’ pictures (London is three hours ahead of Vancouver) with robes on and degrees in hand. Some of them posted their parents’ pictures who looked oh so proud being there for their kid’s big day. That’s when I really felt like I missed out my big day. I wished I were there to put on that black robe for the first time in my life and to have my parents by my side all proud. I wished they could see me walk on that stage to collect my degree.

It’s not the piece of paper that I hold dear but what it represents. To me the degree (which I am yet to hold in my hands or hang on my wall) is a reminder of all that it took for me to be where I am today. How fortunate am I to have the privilege of studying not just a craft that has a great deal of potential in social service but also at a university that is so reputable with professors that are so passionate about what they teach!

The degree is a reminder of all the years I spent in Kabul as a child where there were times when schools would close down for months at end due to war. A reminder of the days when my mother would homeschool me so that I might not fall behind and the days I did go to school when the war found a home in another part of the city. The days when I could go to school wearing anything I wanted and the days when I wouldn’t be let into school if I didn’t wear a veil. The days when I could walk to school with no fear and the days when walking to school meant risking my life perchance a bomb lost its way and mistook a civilian for an enemy.

The degree means a great deal to me. Need I say more?

The great American poet, Khalil Gibran, rightly said, “Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation?”