Laila Marwan Salih
Cornell ‘25
assalamu alaykum wa rahmatullah wa barakatuh.
for those of you who don’t know me, my name is laila marwan salih. on campus, i’m commonly known for serving as president of the muslim educational and cultural association or MECA for short and for the work i’ve done to raise awareness about my home country, sudan.
to be completely honest, i didn’t interact much with the muslim community until april 15, 2023.
for those of you who don’t know, that’s the day sudan fell into war.
subhanallah, my mother had been at the khartoum airport the one that was bombed. the only reason she wasn’t still there was because she flew out two weeks earlier... to visit me. in ithaca. for the first time.
that’s how close it was.
from that day forward, nothing felt the same. in the background of every meeting, every class, every iftar there was war. there were headlines i couldn’t process. phone calls that didn’t go through. family displaced. videos i couldn’t unsee. family members i couldn’t reach.
i would sit in spaces here ,smiling, planning, leading, and part of me was somewhere else entirely.
how do you carry your people in your heart while trying to carry yourself through a campus that never pauses for grief?
there is a unique pain in leading while mourning.
in celebrating wins on campus while watching your homeland bleed.
in being proud of what you’ve built here while knowing the things you love most back home are being torn down.
but even in that grief, allah surrounded me with mercy.
one of the places that gave me strength, strangely, painfully, beautifully, was protest.
protesting for sudan wasn’t just about raising awareness. it was about reclaiming something, dignity, voice, breath. it was standing in freezing weather with signs that felt too small for the weight they carried. it was begging people to care about a country that felt forgotten by the world. and it was holding my people, even if only through a microphone, a chant, or a prayer.
there is a loneliness that comes with advocacy.
there is a heaviness in being the one who says, “look,” over and over again, while wondering if anyone actually will.
but in that loneliness, i found something powerful: purpose.
serving while grieving for sudan was the hardest thing i’ve ever done.
but advocacy reminded me that even if i couldn’t stop the war, i could still witness. i could still say: “my people matter.” i could still carry their names. their stories. their lives.
and that is what sudan taught me, too.
resilience. dignity. unwavering love.
that we serve not only in ease, but especially in hardship.
cornell is far from easy. but it became something sacred to me, not because it was perfect, but because we made it meaningful.
we turned despair into protest. turned silence into sound. turned heartbreak into action.
my leadership hasn’t been perfect, and i am far from it.
but the prophet muhammad (SAW) said:
“ ال َخاِد ُم ُهْم ْ َقْوم َسِّیُد ”
“the leader of a people is their servant.”
And that is what i tried to be. not someone with a title, but someone who showed up. who raised her voice when it was easier to stay silent. who gave what she could, even when it didn’t feel like enough.
how do you say goodbye to a place that held you while you held the world?
how do you walk away from something that took everything from you, and gave you everything in return?
what does it mean to leave behind a place you’ve poured your soul into, a community that made you who you are?
you don’t really. not all the way.
but you walk forward, with gratitude. with stories. with a heart that somehow still believes in barakah after everything.
to every person who stood beside me, prayed beside me, made space for me, thank you. you’ve given me more than i could ever return.
and now, to my fellow seniors:
we made it!
not just through exams or credits or long winters. we made it through heartbreak, through grief, through world events that asked too much of us far too soon. we made it while carrying our homes, our histories, our identities, in spaces that didn’t always know what to do with them.
we led. we spoke out. we stood up.
we loved each other through exhaustion, through uncertainty, through change.
and somehow, through all of it, we didn’t just survive. we built. we witnessed. we became.
so before we rush to the next chapter, take a breath.
honor the version of you that walked onto this campus not knowing how it would all unfold.
honor the version of you who stayed up late nights helping others while breaking silently inside.
honor the version of you who kept showing up.
we are not leaving empty-handed.
we are leaving with conviction. with clarity. with the kind of strength that only comes from living fully and feeling deeply.
may allah guide our next steps.
may he make us light in every space we enter,
and never let us forget who we are, or who we fought to become.
may he accept what we’ve done,
forgive what we couldn’t,
and uplift the oppressed, in sudan, in palestine, in kashmir, and everywhere hearts are breaking.
may he accept the seen and unseen, the loud and the quiet, the work and the intention.
and may he always keep our hearts soft, our path steady, and our community strong.
wassalamu alaykum wa rahmatullah wa barakatuh.
