The Marks That Didn’t Define Guluna

By Fatima Sami

The village of Daggar rested quietly between two gentle hills, where narrow dusty paths passed by small mud houses and evenings carried the smell of wood smoke and soil. Life in Daggar was slow and predictable, shaped by morning prayers, school hours, and long sunsets. Dreams in such a place were often modest—but for some, they were deeply powerful.

Guluna was one of those dreamers.

At seventeen, she lived with a silent determination that few noticed. Every afternoon, while other students rushed home to rest or laugh with friends, Guluna sat beneath an old neem tree with her books spread around her. Her goal was simple but bold: to pass the MDCAT test, an exam that could change her future and allow her to study medicine.

For months, she worked tirelessly. She memorized law concepts, revised biology late into the night, and solved practice questions until her eyes burned. She believed—like many young students—that effort always guaranteed success.

Then the results came.

That morning, Daggar buzzed with hushed conversations. Parents asked careful questions, students compared numbers, and futures seemed to hang on thin sheets of paper. Guluna walked home slowly, her result folded tightly in her hand.

When she finally opened it, her heart sank.

Her marks were low—especially in the law section. Much lower than she had expected. The ground beneath her felt unsteady. Tears filled her eyes, not loudly, but heavily. She thought of the nights she stayed awake, the sacrifices her family made, and the hope she carried so carefully.

For the first time, she felt like she had failed—not just the test, but herself.

That evening, Guluna skipped dinner and sat alone in the courtyard, staring at the cracked earth. The moon was bright, yet her thoughts were dark. Doubt crept into her mind. Am I not intelligent enough? Was this dream never meant for me?

Her father, Hakeem Khan, noticed her silence. He was a calm, thoughtful man, respected in Daggar for his wisdom rather than his words. After evening prayers, he sat beside her without asking questions. They listened to the quiet night together.

Finally, Guluna spoke.

“Baba… I didn’t do well. My MDCAT marks are low. I tried so hard.”

Her father did not scold her. Instead, he smiled gently.

“Do you know why rivers never stop flowing,” he asked, “even when stones block their way?”

Guluna shook her head.

“Because they learn to bend,” he said softly. “Life works the same way. Not every obstacle is the end. Some are lessons.”

He folded her result paper carefully and returned it to her.

“These marks do not define who you are. They only show where you need to improve.”

“But people will judge me,” she whispered.

“People see one moment,” he replied. “Allah sees the whole journey. Life has ups and downs. Sometimes improvement doesn’t come first—it comes later, after patience.”

He shared stories of his own failures—missed chances, hard years, and painful restarts. “If I had stopped after falling,” he said, “you wouldn’t be sitting here today.”

That night, something changed inside Guluna. The pain remained, but it no longer controlled her. She understood that failure was not the end of her dream—only a pause.

In the weeks that followed, Guluna returned to her studies with renewed strength. She focused on her weak areas, especially law. She practiced consistently, asked for guidance, and learned without fear of mistakes. Some days were exhausting, but she remembered her father’s words.

Months later, when another opportunity came, Guluna faced it with confidence—not desperation. This time, her results reflected not only knowledge, but resilience.

As she walked through Daggar one quiet evening, Guluna realized a truth she would carry forever:

Exams measure marks. Life measures courage.

And sometimes, falling is simply the first step toward rising.