Graduation Speech: Katrin Zender

 Góðan daginn allir, og takk fyrir komuna.

When I was asked to give a speech for graduation, I found myself thinking about a question that accompanied many of us here: why?

For me, that question started long before I arrived in Iceland. When I told people I was moving to the Westfjords, most of the responses were some version of, "Why?": Why move somewhere so far away? Why move to a town with a smaller population than my high school back home? Or Why leave behind everything familiar for a place most people have never heard of?

But I know I wasn't the only one answering those questions. Many of us had family members, friends, coworkers, and loved ones asking the exact same thing. Some of them were excited for us. Some were confused and some probably looked up Ísafjörður on a map and probably became even more confused.

At the time, our answers may have been different. Some of us came to advance our careers, to change careers, to pursue a long-held passion. Some came because we wanted a new challenge or a new beginning.

Whatever brought us here, we all took a chance on ourselves and also this place.

And if I've learned anything during my time in the Westfjords, it's that sometimes the reason you arrive somewhere is not the reason you stay.

All of us came for a master's degree. But somewhere between deadlines, thesis work, group projects, and undoubtedly too many cups of coffee, this place became much more than a university experience. We became part of a community.

We watched classmates become friends, watched friends build lives here, buy houses, have children, adopt pets. We watched people take chances on themselves and run businesses, organize events such as open mics, and create spaces that brought people together. We witnessed people rally around each other for milestones and celebration. Meaning we got to see firsthand how a small community is shaped by people willing to show up and contribute something of themselves time and time again.

Many of us also tried our best to learn Icelandic. Sometimes more successfully than others.

There were small victories: understanding a little more than the week before, holding a conversation a little longer than expected, or finally following along during coffee breaks at work.

And then there were moments that reminded us we still had a long way to go.

For me, learning the difference between 15 and 50 in Icelandic proved more difficult than expected. At one point, I confidently ordered what I thought was 15 meatballs at IKEA, only to be met with raised eyebrows and a look that suggested I had accidentally ordered enough food for an entire family.

But I think many of us have our own version of that story. Moments where we got something wrong, felt slightly out of place, and learned to laugh at ourselves. Those moments were signs that we were trying to become part of this place rather than simply passing through it.

Together, we experienced things that still might feel unreal when we think about them. We've traveled through some of the most beautiful places many of us have ever seen. We've hiked mountains, camped in incredible landscapes, and explored places that looked like they belonged on postcards.

For me, I think of Hornstrandir, where the scale of the Horn made me feel wonderfully small. I think of Svalvogar, just around the corner from here, where I learned that rocks and bikes are only compatible up to a certain point, and walking is probably a better bet. I think of the pool in Norðafjörður which felt placed at the edge of the world and camping under views that hardly seemed real. I know many of us have our own places like that–places we enjoy with company or in simple solitude.

We've also shared experiences that only seem normal because we've lived them together. Many of us have trudged through snowstorms just to get to class, have developed a complicated relationship with the midnight sun, which somehow manages to be both magical and a complete enemy of sleep or its less glamorous twin, the winter darkness. Or surviving power outages, sometimes for hours at a time, and having candlelit dinners. Or being attacked by kria while on bikes or on foot to Bonus.

Yet despite all of those sometimes rather odd occurrences, what I love most about this program is that everyone arrived with a different story.

Some of us came from completely different academic backgrounds. Some were changing careers. Some were leaving home or living alone for the first time. Some were experiencing Iceland altogether for the first time.

Yet somehow we all ended up here together.

We came from different countries, cultures, and stages of life, but we shared a willingness to start something new. We all took a chance on ourselves, and I think that is something worth celebrating.

I also don't think any of us got here alone.

And today, as we celebrate our own achievements, I think we should also celebrate the people who made them possible. While we wrote the papers, completed the research, and earned these degrees, we did so because others created opportunities for us to succeed.

When I look around today, I see families who supported us from afar and friends who supported us up close. I see faculty and staff who believed in us and cheered us on along the way. I see the students who came before us and helped build these programs. I see the people of Ísafjörður and the Westfjords who created a community that welcomed us, challenged us, and gave many of us reasons to stay longer than we originally planned.

What was supposed to be a just degree became a unique chapter of our lives.

As we close this chapter and begin whatever comes next, I hope we carry a little bit of the Westfjords with us. For some of us it might be some sea glass or shells we found at the beach, a fondness for birds chirping in the early hours of the morning, or a stolen pint glass from Dokkan. For others it might be a new found passion for jellyfish, rhubarb, knitting or just living a slower life among the busyness of our world today.

What I will take with me is how this place has taught me that change rarely starts with something grand. More often, it begins with small acts repeated every day.

Living in a small community makes it impossible to believe that your actions don't matter. Here, we have seen how even just one person's kindness, effort, or generosity can ripple outward. We were witnesses to how this community is being built, and are a part of its architecture, too. This didn’t happen all at once but through countless small acts of care. It begins with saying góðan daginn to a stranger or stopping in for a chat. It begins with putting yourself in someone else's shoes or caring about your neighbors. It begins with creating spaces where people feel welcomed, heard, and valued.

As graduates, we leave here with degrees, but hopefully we also leave with the understanding that wherever we go next, may we continue building and being part of communities, remain curious about experiences different from our own, and remember that meaningful change often starts smaller than we think.

And when we inevitably find ourselves facing uncertainty, I hope we remember one final lesson Iceland has taught us:

Þetta reddast.

Congratulations, Class of 2026, and thank you.