It is with deep gratitude that I stand before you today to receive this honorary doctorate. And so, before anything else, I want to begin by dedicating this honor.
I dedicate it to every Syrian student who was expelled for their political beliefs.
To those who were denied their academic records by the Assad regime.
To those who were killed protesting at their universities.
To the detained, the disappeared, and those tortured to death.
I dedicate it to those who were denied safe passage to continue their education because of racist and discriminatory asylum policies.
I also dedicate it to the martyrs of Aleppo’s revolution—those I knew, those I witnessed being killed.
In Aleppo’s public squares, we made them a promise: that we would keep their memory alive. Since I survived, I try to fulfill that promise.
But this is not just for the past. This is for the future.
For the generations to come who will carry this fight forward—for a Syria where no one is tortured to death, where no genocide is allowed to unfold silently, where truth matters, and where justice matters.
We are not there yet. But I believe—truly believe—in the courage, faith, and dignity of the Syrian people.
They will carry this fight forward. This doctorate is for them.
What I want to share with you today are some of the lessons I’ve learned over the years—lessons I hope will resonate as you take on the difficult work of protecting and promoting human rights in a world where genocide is unfolding in places like Sudan, Yemen, Congo, and Gaza, and where political detainees—from Abdulhadi al-Khawaja in Bahrain to Alaa Abdel-Fattah in Egypt—continue to plead for freedom.
Lesson One: Activism is never a solo act.
The myth of the lone hero—the single face used to symbolize entire struggles—some might claim it makes a story more relatable, but it distorts reality.
Real change is collective. It takes protest, it takes organizing, it takes writing and connecting and lobbying.
Social media may reward individual methods of activism, but movements are built by many.
I was never the bravest in Syria. I was never the loudest feminist. I was—and still am—one of many. And I am proud to be one of many.
Lesson Two: It will be hard.
Standing up to oppression comes with a price. Many paid it.
We didn’t choose the price—we didn’t strive to pay it—but we knew it would come.
Sometimes it’s losing our jobs. Sometimes our freedom. Sometimes our lives.
If we don’t anticipate that when we resist oppression, oppression pushes back, we will reach a moment of defeat too early.
And we cannot afford to be broken early in the fight.
Lesson Three: Yes, it’s complicated—but some things are not relative.
Syria taught us how messy geopolitics can get. Iran, Israel, Turkey, Russia, the U.S.—they all showed up.
At one point, we joked we needed a traffic light to direct the warplanes above us.
But still: hospitals should not be bombed. Not in Gaza, not in Aleppo, not in Ukraine.
Children should not be killed based on identity—whether in the Coastal areas / Sahel in Syria or in Palestine.
Women should not be jailed for what they wear—or for what they say—whether in Iran or Afghanistan.
The more we let human rights become conditional—dependent on alliances or geopolitics—the more we, the people, lose.
We must understand geopolitics, but it’s important for us not to be divided by it.
Lesson Four: Always ask—what can be done?
Yes, we are overwhelmed. What is happening in the world is meant to exhaust us. The injustice is relentless.
So when you feel powerless, you must return to your collective—your fellow comrades—and ask again: what can be done?
Over 14 years of struggle in Syria—earthquakes, prisons, bombings, chemical weapons massacres—we kept asking: What can we do?
In the face of bombardments, Syrians created the White Helmets to save lives.
When hospitals were targeted, doctors took many hospitals underground.
When we were exiled, we supported international trials for perpetrators in Europe.
We documented chemical weapon attacks to counter Russian propaganda.
Families formed associations to keep searching for their missing loved ones.
Sometimes we failed. Sometimes we didn’t know what to do. But we asked anyway—and tried anyway.
It was always that question—what can be done?—that carried us forward, even when the world told us it was over.
That he had won. That nothing could change.
We didn’t believe it then. I don’t believe it now.
Even now, in this transition period, we keep asking ourselves:
– What can be done about sanctions that are paralyzing recovery efforts?
– What can be done about sectarian genocidal massacres that are still happening in the Sahel—some of them supported by factions now officially part of the new government?
– What can be done to stop the Israeli invasion in southern Syria?
– What can be done to ensure a real transitional justice process for all victims?
Now, to those of you here today.
I hope you find your collective—your fellow comrades—and with them, may you find what can be done, again and again.
Because human rights work—real human rights work—is messy, complex, and essential.
This honor you’ve given me today—I receive it with deep gratitude.
And I carry it forward, not as personal recognition, but as a reminder of all those whose names you do not know.
Who never got to stand on this stage.
Thank you.
And thank you to the University of Essex—for this recognition, for holding space for voices like mine, and for continuing to be a place where human rights matter.
I hope to come back here one day soon—to pursue a PhD and contribute to the growing body of research that supports transitional justice, truth-seeking, and long-term accountability for Syria and beyond.
Marcelle Shehwaro 
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