Dreams in a Dusty Corner of the World

Dreams in a Dusty Corner of the World

I wasn't supposed to make it this far—but here I am, an MBBS student who fought for every breath of hope.

By: Hamza Yaqoob

They told me dreams were for the rich. For the polished. For those born with clean uniforms, private tutors, and air-conditioned tuition centers. Not for a boy with dust on his shoes, hunger in his belly, and fear stitched quietly between the folds of every second-hand book he clutched.

I come from a place you won’t find on travel brochures. A place where the roads are cracked and the dreams even more so. Where education isn’t a right—it’s a gamble. And yet, I dreamed.

I dreamed of healing. Not just bodies, but lives. Maybe because I saw too many broken ones. Maybe because I watched my mother cough at night, not because of disease, but from the stress of unpaid bills and borrowed dignity. Maybe because I saw too many fathers become strangers under the weight of disappointment.

Whatever the reason, the dream took root early. Somewhere between the flickering of the candlelight I studied under and the long walks to school because bus fare was a luxury. I remember how I’d wrap my books in plastic bags during rainy season so the ink wouldn’t bleed. Funny how even paper knew how to hold on tighter than some people.

Survival Before Success

There were days I didn’t study to top exams. I studied so I wouldn't fall apart. That textbook wasn’t just a syllabus—it was shelter. Every chapter was an escape route. Every diagram of a heart or a kidney reminded me that if I could just hold on, maybe one day I’d be the one saving others from falling apart too.

No one talks about how isolating ambition is when you’re poor.

My classmates had home tutors; I had a worn-out notebook and prayers. They talked about vacations and gadgets. I talked about deadlines and discounted photocopies. They were planning for universities abroad. I was just trying to pass without losing my mind—or my part-time tutoring job that paid for my exam fees.

Still, I showed up. Every time. Tired, but showing up. Hungry, but showing up. Broken, but showing up.

The Weight of the White Coat

When I got into medical school, people clapped for me. They called me genius. Brave. But no one saw the nights I cried into a pillow so thin, it had more air than cotton. No one saw me skipping meals so I could save money for the next semester's books. No one saw me working late-night gigs online, teaching kids who had everything I never did, just so I could afford another day of this dream.

Medical school is hard. But being poor in medical school? That’s a battlefield.

I sat in lectures with a storm inside me. While others wrote notes, I calculated how many hours I’d need to tutor this week just to survive. While others took breaks, I emailed clients and begged them for five-star reviews so I could get my next freelance job.

It wasn’t just about becoming a doctor. It was about becoming someone I needed when I was younger.

The Quiet Strength of the Overlooked

You see, people love success stories. But they skip the chapters where it all almost fell apart. They don't want to know about the cracked sandals, the reused exam sheets, the nights with no electricity and the candle burning too fast.

They don’t want to hear about how I almost dropped out. How I thought of quitting—more than once—not because I didn’t believe in myself, but because I was tired of believing alone.

But I didn’t quit. I couldn’t. Because if I did, I’d be proving everyone right—everyone who said boys like me don’t make it. Everyone who thought dreams don’t grow in dusty corners.

But they do. I’m proof.

A Message to the Dreamers

If you're reading this from a small room with peeling paint and a heavy heart—know this: your dreams are valid. Not because of where you are, but because of who you are. Your struggle is not shameful. Your tears are not weakness. Your survival is not luck—it’s strength.

I am still that boy with dust on his shoes. Still walking. Still hoping. Still healing.

But now, I wear a white coat. I carry a stethoscope. And every time I touch a patient’s wrist and feel the pulse of life beneath it, I remind myself—I wasn’t supposed to make it this far.

But I did.

And so will you.

Author’s Note :

I write not because I have all the answers, but because I carry too many questions that deserve a voice. I come from a forgotten place, but I refuse to let my story be forgotten. Thank you for walking through this memory with me. I hope it lights something in you—especially if the world has tried to dim it.