Ameer Sajid M Adzis

Class Valedictorian

To our University President, Father Mars P. Tan, of the Society of Jesus; our esteemed guests of honor, Dr. William G. Padolina; the Institute of the Sisters of Mercy of the Americas – Philippines represented by Sr Helen Libo-on; Atty. Benedicto R. Bacani; esteemed members of the Board of Trustees, administrators, faculty, formators, staff, alumni, beloved families and friends, and most of all, to my fellow graduating students—good morning, magandang umaga, maayong buntag, mapya mapita, and Assalamualaikum warahmatullahi wabarakatuh

If there’s one truth I’ve come to understand here at Xavier University, it’s this:

We did not walk these halls just to earn degrees, but to be formed—by purpose, by challenge, and by the quiet work of becoming.

They say formation is slow work—quiet and unglamorous. The kind that doesn’t unfold in applause, but in the spaces between the spotlight. In the moments no camera captures. In the loneliness of the dorm, where silence grows so loud it asks questions you’re not ready to answer. In classrooms, sitting in the back row, wondering if your story belongs. In council meetings, where your voice shakes but speaks anyway—because someone has to. In a foreign city, where you’re both guest and witness, carrying home like a folded note tucked in your chest.

Each of us came from different places, carrying our hopes and hesitations, our families’ dreams, and our own silent questions: Will I find my place here? Will I be seen and understood?

My Ateneo story is not one of constant triumph. It is the story of learning how to stay.

To stay when you feel out of place. When you’re uncertain, invisible, overwhelmed. To stay not because you’re fearless—but because something deep inside believes the struggle might someday make sense.

I came here carrying more than a suitcase—I carried a name where professors have to pause before pronouncing. The fear of not fitting in. The pressure of representing more than myself, with a past too layered for a 3-minute introduction, and a future I hadn’t yet dared to imagine.

But I came with hope. That this place—with its Jesuit teachings, its blue-colored hallways, its quiet promise of formation—might help me become more than the sum of my fears.The kind of hope my babubai and mamangtuwa have whispered in their duas. The kind my ama and nana have carried through years of sacrifice.The kind my people have held onto, even in the darkest of times.

What I found wasn’t magic. It was something more enduring.

I found people who never asked me to set aside parts of who I am—but encouraged me to bring them forward. I learned that the Atenean way isn’t about blending into sameness; it’s about allowing our differences to shape and enrich the fabric of this place.

I was reminded that belongingness was only the beginning. Because once we feel seen, the next question is: How can we help others feel the same? My attempt to listen to the unheard and to acknowledge the unseen brought me to the Central Student Government, where we quietly worked to make sure every student felt represented. It led me home to the Bangsamoro Youth Parliament, where we dreamed of policy grounded not just in law—but in justice. And as an International Studies student, it brought me beyond borders, through global exchanges like the American Leadership Experience and AFS Intercultural Programs. I sat beside changemakers from across the world, realizing that while our languages differed, dignity and justice sound the same in every tongue.

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