The government would call her a “displaced person” — someone who has fled their homeland to another country and cannot safely return. When she fled Afghanistan to Bangladesh, she faced life crises: her brother killed by the Taliban, her father lost to COVID-19. She misses her far-away family. She knows that one day she will take over their financial support.
In the photo, she’s mixing up some compounds in a chemistry lab, her oversized glasses and lab coat engulfing her in a shy smile. It’s not that she likes chemistry; to be honest, they’re like oil and water. But she dutifully combines the elements, completing the required courses at the women’s college where she’s studying on a scholarship so she can pursue the subjects she really loves: politics, philosophy, and economics.
While taking many of the classes she loved and hated, she also organized a therapeutic writing group for the incoming students, mostly Afghans but also from other East Asian countries, who, like her, were denied higher education and funded by scholarships and donations, were navigating the same new world where academic possibilities abounded but where cultural isolation and personal loss were complicated.
The groups she coordinates are reflective responses: when students write and read to each other, little windows and doors open between them, little homes for those who feel homeless.
Her classmates came to Bangladesh with dreams. She has dreams too. Her most cherished dream is to get a Master’s in Foreign Service from the United States after graduating in a few months. She has checked over and over the many application steps (in this respect, the application process is similar to a chemistry exam). The documents are perfect.
Imagine her delight when she received an acceptance letter from the prestigious American school she most wanted to attend. The school’s website states that its mission is to develop “service-oriented leaders with a deep understanding of the ethical components of international affairs.” It adds that its graduates go on to become world leaders, ambassadors and human rights advocates. “Join our 100-year tradition of global service,” it concludes. “We can’t wait to see your contributions to our community!”
This is her dream – in one word, too many words – she wants to contribute to the world.
But the admissions letter makes little mention of scholarships for international students. The university’s annual tuition fee for 2024-2025 is “approximately $86,778,” broken down into per-credit fees and living expenses components. There are no need-based reductions or deferrals, and admitted students must demonstrate the ability to pay at least one year of tuition in order to apply for a visa. She has been offered a small scholarship, but it’s nowhere near what she’s asking for.
The $86,778 is enough to support many Afghan families for an extended period of time, but it is prohibitive for a single person seeking a first degree in education.
The website presents options, but they are labyrinthine and difficult to understand even for those familiar with the terms. Assistantships and fellowships are available, but they are few in number, and there is no assistance with obtaining visas. Refugees are welcome to apply, but are not eligible for federal loans. A “limited number of scholarships” are based on faculty recommendations, but international students compete with Americans for them. A list of private lenders is provided, but the university is careful to distance itself from any resulting loans or debt.
In other words, she was given a dream but little financial support to make it a reality. She was displaced once and now she is financially displaced again.
There are pieces of a way to cover the rest of her tuition. It’s unclear whether they will work. The small community that knows and respects her has deep pockets. Meanwhile, the university’s endowment is just a few billion dollars away. The university is looking for future international leaders, and it’s recruiting extraordinary people.
Recently, she updated me from Bangladesh. “Unfortunately, tuition fees are expensive. Unimaginable,” she wrote. She added a P.S.: “I am moving away from chemistry,” she wrote. “Hopefully I never come across chemistry again in my life. Best regards.”
Elisa Elie is a psychiatrist.
