Life, for me, was always a race towards ideal things. As a young member of society, I was hopeless for change, not only because of the state of the world, but also because of the lack of agency. One of the first things we discussed in the fellowship was, “Are we hopeful?” I was surprised to hear how similar the conditions were across the world, and how many people felt they had very little agency to achieve the ideal. I thought, maybe hopelessness is real?
But then, if there's one thing this program taught me, it is how to hope, and why. The study tour in Rome, Italy was a week where we got acquainted with members from across the world, met officials in contributing positions, and people who looked out for the little person. Looking at this, I asked myself again: How do they do what they do, despite the world being so uncertain?
Interacting with them revealed to me that hope is not something found in the ideal or in the race towards perfection. In fact, I'd say hope is not even an emotion or a feeling. Hope, just like the world, is uncertain. It is the conviction to continue and the refusal to become cynical. After this fellowship, I learned that hope is a privilege because it keeps curiosity alive. It keeps us willing to listen, to serve, and to remain in conversations. Hope helps us participate in humanity. It is the hope that understanding is still possible, despite disagreements. It makes us try, even when we are confused or lost.
The "Speaking Across Conflict Workshop" developed by Resetting the Table was a huge contributor to this realization. In this workshop, we were taught how to truly listen to someone. It's easy to say, "Hmm, this isn't feeling productive. Let's end the conversation," and run away from discomfort. But how do we get to learn about someone if we leave at the first sign of disagreement? The activity taught me to let discomfort exist while continuing the conversation, trying to understand where the other person was coming from instead of condemning them for not agreeing with me. Agreements may not always be achieved, but the point was never to resolve conflict—it was to reaffirm dialogue.
The conversations at the Jesuit Curia and Jesuit Refugee Services (JRS) opened my eyes to real-world problems I had previously understood only in theory. From artificial intelligence and higher education to migrant livelihoods, these were no longer issues on paper, but people living through them every day. Listening to both the professionals and my fellow cohort reminded me that meaningful change begins by recognizing the dignity of the person before trying to solve the problem.
Now, I can say that I learned how to hope. Who taught me that? It was not the experiences alone, but the people. I met people who were curious, kind, empathetic, humble enough to ask questions, and humble enough to learn. Hope gives community direction, and community, in turn, gives hope a place to grow. And that's when I realized I didn't just discover hope, nor was it only personal—it was cultivated in the cohort. Every meal, walk, run to the buses, wait in the rain, conversation, and moment of vulnerability reminded me that hope grows collectively before it is lived individually.
The fellowship didn't leave me with answers; it left me with four questions. A way of living, and a way to cultivate hope. Who am I? What is my purpose? What does the world need from me? And how do I do it? They're not meant to be answered, but lived every day.
Now, to answer the original question: for me, global citizenship is not simply being boundless, but the conscious choice to listen and converse, the courage to be present, and the humility and readiness to serve even in an imperfect world, all with the hope for a better tomorrow.
