Graduation’s knocking, and here I am, a storm of feelings in anticipation. Sold the college dream of the “best years of my life,” I instead rode a whirlwind of ecstasy and agony, far from the promised joyride. Those words, once a beacon of excitement, now mock me with the irony of hindsight. Sure, I’ve grown, transformed, even soared at times – but at what cost? My journey through college wasn’t just a chapter of enlightenment; it was a battleground of unexpected trials and hard-won battles.
When I first stepped onto Berkeley’s campus, I was a freshman with big dreams and even bigger plans, ready to embrace what I believed would be the pinnacle of my young adult life. What I did not anticipate, however, was finding myself at the epicenter of one of the most contentious political debates on campus and in the world – the Israel and Palestine conflict.
This issue, far removed from my academic pursuits, chose me as its champion, thrusting me into a role I neither sought out nor desired. Politics, especially those surrounding this complex issue, were never my passion, yet they became my battleground.
My journey through college has been anything but ordinary. The expectations of a tranquil academic pursuit quickly gave way to the reality of activism, as I found myself compelled to stand up for my beliefs and my community. Despite my initial reluctance, my identity as a proud Jew demanded that I not only face these challenges head-on but also become a vocal participant in the discourse – often at personal cost.
This final year, which was meant to be a culmination of my academic and social experiences, transformed into a relentless schedule of meetings with lawyers, speech preparations, and community rallies. The leisurely weekends exploring the city or enjoying picnics were replaced by engagements that took me across the country and even the ocean; leaving me absent from the campus and community I called home. My physical presence at Berkeley was limited, and my social interactions dwindled to brief exchanges and questions about my whereabouts.
The frustration and disappointment I feel are palpable. My anger is not only directed at the circumstances that hijacked my college experience but also at the institution that promised a safe and enriching environment. The very essence of my college years, which should have been marked by exploration and growth, was overshadowed by a fight for my right to exist, to be true to myself, and to navigate my campus safely.
YET, AMID this turmoil, I cannot help but ponder the path not taken. What if I had chosen silence over action? Would my college experience have been easier, more enjoyable, filled with the friendships and social life I envisioned? When confronted with acquaintances who question the changes in me, I struggle to articulate the transformation I’ve undergone. It’s a reflection not just on my journey, but on the broader question of what happens to us when we’re thrust into battles we didn’t choose.
My values remain unchanged
Despite the challenges, my core remains unchanged. I am still that girl with big dreams and bigger plans, who finds joy in the simple pleasures of life, like cooking for friends and cherishing the early morning stillness. Yet, I am also someone who has learned the value of standing up for what I believe in, even when the cost is steep. This graduation dilemma, then, is not just about the conflict between what was expected and what transpired, but about the deeper journey of self-discovery, resilience, and the enduring quest for justice.
In the eye of a storm I didn’t see coming, I found a purpose I didn’t know I needed.
Dubbed the “infamous Berkeley Zionist,” a title I never sought, I’ve become a beacon for incoming Jewish students and their anxious parents, all seeking guidance in a sea of uncertainty. As questions flood my inbox, they echo the internal debate I’ve grappled with: Given the chance, would I choose the same tumultuous journey? The simplicity of the answer belies its depth – I wouldn’t change a single moment. This resolve is what I impart to every worried parent and prospective student. I urge them towards the institutions that challenge us, that thrust us into the national spotlight, not despite but because of the adversity they present.
Imagine a world where fear silences us, where the easy path becomes the only path because we dare not embrace our full Jewish identities. That is a future too grim to contemplate.
So, I say: Let us choose the challenging roads, the Berkeleys, the Columbias, the UPenns, and the Harvards of the world. It’s not about seeking the “best years of your life” but rather, engaging in the most formative.
As I stand on the precipice of a new beginning, the memories of battles fought and lessons learned are my most treasured possessions. These years may not have unfolded as I dreamed, but they have forged me in ways I could never have anticipated.
This journey through college has not just been about academic pursuit; it has been a crucible of identity, belief, and resilience. The graduation dilemma, in all its complexity, signifies a passage not just of time, but of growth and self-discovery.
It is a testament to the idea that the most profound journeys are often those we would never have chosen for ourselves, yet they shape us into individuals capable of shaping the world.
The writer is a UC Berkeley undergraduate. She is the daughter of Soviet refugees and a first-gen student, passionate about creating a more inclusive and understanding community.