The Power of Belief in a Child

I had just started my position as a teacher for Quran and Tawheed in a third-grade classroom. With only one month left before the academic year ended, I gathered my students to assess their learning levels, intending to design a better plan for their education.

I called on each student one by one. Finally, it was the turn of a boy sitting quietly in the back row. As I asked him to read his lesson, the rest of the class burst out, "Teacher, he doesn't know anything!" That moment stung me deeply. The boy sat in shame, eyes down, cheeks red, sweat forming on his forehead. The bell rang, and the students ran out for recess—except for him. He stayed behind, and so did I.

I gently approached him and began a conversation. He was withdrawn, convinced that he wasn't capable, that he was less than his classmates, and would never be able to catch up. I later checked with the school administration and found out that he came from a wealthy, supportive family—loving parents, siblings, a comfortable home. His lack of self-esteem wasn't born in his house—it had grown within the school walls.

I realized that somewhere along the way, he had been humiliated, overlooked, and dismissed—perhaps by teachers, perhaps by his peers. No one had truly seen him. The weight of being compared and rejected had crushed his confidence. That day, I made a quiet promise: I would help him rediscover his voice.

I knew that children, especially sensitive and intelligent ones, need delicate guidance. So, I began with small steps. I moved him to the front row, right in front of me. I gave him his own place—a seat of importance—so he’d feel like someone who mattered. I discovered he was sharp and capable.

One day, I wrote a complex Arabic sentence on a piece of paper. It was difficult to pronounce and memorize. I explained its meaning and told him, “Memorize this, but tell no one.” During recess, while others played outside, he stayed behind and we practiced.

At the end of each class, I told engaging stories. The students loved them and eagerly waited for the next episode. If someone hadn't done their homework, I would skip the story that day. This motivated them to help one another and stay on track.

One day, after a good lesson, the students begged for a new story. I began:

There was a tribe called Al-Qaraqaba known for their grand feasts during Eid. Each family raised their sacrificial cow a year in advance and took great pride in its meat. Among them was a man named Ali Al-Qaraqabi, whose cow was admired by all. But when the feast came, all the dishes were mixed together, and no one knew which meat belonged to whom. Then one sharp young man said:

“I recognized the neck broth of Ali Al-Qaraqabi’s cow among the neck broths of the cows of the Qaraqaba.”

(Arabic: Ana ‘araftu maraqat raqabat baqarat ‘Ali al-Qaraqabi min bayn maraq raqab abqar al-Qaraqaba)

I challenged the class: “Can any of you say this sentence quickly and correctly?”

They all tried, even the top students, but none succeeded.

Then I said: “The one who can say this is the most intelligent and aware among you.”

I glanced at the quiet boy—he raised his finger hesitantly. He had memorized the sentence perfectly, but still doubted himself.

I invited others to try first, and when they failed, I turned to him: “Can you say it from your seat?”

He did. Quietly, perfectly.

I clapped. At first, no one joined me—his voice was soft, and they didn’t expect it from him.

So I asked him again, louder this time.

“You are a lion,” I told him. “You are the smartest in this class.”

He stood up and said it again, this time with pride.

The class joined in applause. I invited him to the board, and again, he spoke with growing confidence.

The students were stunned—this was a side of him they'd never seen. I told them, “Ask him yourselves to say it again,” which they did. This was intentional: I wanted him to see that others respected him, wanted to hear from him, and that he possessed something unique.

When the recess bell rang, he walked out with the others—no longer a silent shadow, but in the middle of the group, smiling, called by name, celebrated like a leader.

Word spread around the school. Older students started noticing him. He now had friends, walked with others, and even shared the famous sentence at home with his parents and relatives—challenging them to say it faster than he could.

Later, his father came to thank me. He said:

“You healed my son in a way I can’t explain. Everyone in our family is shocked. You must be a doctor of the soul.”

Eventually, I transferred to another school. A few years later, I met the father again. His son had memorized the entire Quran, completed high school and university with honors, and was sent abroad for higher education.

Final Message:

There are many children like him—forgotten۔ insecure, overlooked—not because their families neglect them, but because schools do. Teachers hold power not only to teach but to transform. Belief in a child, when given at the right time, can be the difference between silence and success.

Believe in your students, and they will believe in themselves.