The robes or gown are borrowed from ecclesiastical tradition. The Latin phrases are remnants of aristocratic legacy. The architecture — columns, arches, marble — is designed to impress, not to educate. These symbols are not chosen by accident. They are part of a theatre that legitimises the institution and flatters the graduate. But they also reinforce hierarchy. They remind us who built the system, who controls it, and who is allowed to ascend within it.
For many, the ceremony is the only moment of visibility. Years of study, debt, and quiet struggle are compressed into a few seconds on stage. A name is called. A scroll is handed over. A photo is taken. The applause is polite. The moment passes. And then — silence. The job market doesn’t care. The employer may not even ask. The scroll becomes wall décor.
My memory recollects It was issued on the morning of the ceremony. Folded neatly, tagged with a number. I collected it from a long table in a hall I’d never entered before. No one asked my name. Just the number. The fabric was heavy, synthetic. It smelled faintly of starch and dust. I put it on in a crowded back room of the ICC, surrounded by others adjusting collars, smoothing sleeves, checking mirrors. No one spoke. They are designed to evoke tradition, to signal legitimacy, to stage belonging. The robe is not just fabric; it is a costume borrowed from ecclesiastical and aristocratic lineage.
We walked in silence, the procession was slow, rehearsed into the hall. The gown moved with me, but it didn’t belong to me. It belonged to the institution, I could have purchased one, but really, what was the point?
Someone told me the cap symbolised completion. That it crowned the learner. That it marked the transition from student to graduate. But I didn’t feel crowned. I felt covered. The purpose, they said, was recognition, but it recognised the institution, not me the individual. It marked the end of a process, not the depth of a journey. I had learned, but not in the way they measured. I had changed, but not in the way they recognised. Afterwards, I took it off and held it in my hands. It had no weight, no warmth and no memory.
The scroll is not just paper; it is a prop, often blank, handed over with solemnity. The Latin phrases — honoris causa, cum laude, ad astra — (well, huh, not this time, but it fits the mood) are not just words; they are incantations, meant to elevate the moment beyond scrutiny.
Graduation is performance, not transformation. The student walks across the stage, receives the scroll, poses for the photo. The audience claps. The institution smiles. But the transformation — if it happened at all — occurred long before this moment, in private, in struggle, in silence. The ceremony is not the proof of learning. It is the proof of passage. And sometimes, it is merely the proof of payment.
Yet we hunger for ritual. We want to be seen. We want our effort to be acknowledged. We want to belong. This is not weakness — it is human. Ritual gives shape to transition. It marks time. It offers closure. But when ritual is controlled by institutions, it becomes theatre. It flatters the system more than the individual. It celebrates compliance more than courage.
