The Weight of Exams

In the quiet valleys of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, where poverty is heavy but hope still lingers, lived two brothers — Nabil and Sami. They were not just siblings; they were each other’s shadow, carrying the same dreams, the same burdens, and eventually, the same fate.

Their dream was simple: to lift their family out of hardship. But the same dream that was meant to save them became the very chain that pulled them under.

A Father’s Hope, A Family’s Burden

Their father was a laborer, his hands scarred by years of hard work under an unforgiving sun. He had little to give his sons except a belief: education was the way out. Every rupee earned went into their school fees, every sacrifice justified by the vision of a brighter tomorrow.

But hope came with weight — and for Nabil and Sami, that weight grew too heavy.

The Endless Grind

Each day began before sunrise with hurried prayers and a simple breakfast. Then came hours inside overcrowded classrooms, where teachers demanded memorization, not understanding. There was no space for curiosity, no encouragement for creativity — only the constant warning: failure is not an option.

Home wasn’t any easier. A dim light bulb flickered over their worn textbooks as the brothers tried to study late into the night. Unlike many classmates, they had no tutors. Borrowed books were their only tools. Exhaustion carved itself into their young faces, but they kept going, haunted by the silent plea in their father’s tired eyes:

You must succeed. Not just for you, but for all of us.

Pressure Without Mercy

In Pakistan’s exam-driven system, children are reduced to numbers. Marks matter more than mental health. Discipline outweighs compassion. Teachers are measured by results, not by the well-being of the souls in front of them.

Outside the classroom, society added its own weight. Neighbors asked, “How are the boys doing in their studies?” Relatives compared marks. Friends competed like rivals. In such a world, weakness was shameful, and asking for help was unthinkable.

So Nabil and Sami carried their pain in silence.

Cracks Begin to Show

As exams approached, the cracks became clearer. Nabil withdrew into himself, his once-bright eyes losing their spark. Sami battled panic attacks, his nights restless, his chest tight with fear.

Their family loved them, but love alone wasn’t enough. In their village, mental health was dismissed as weakness, or worse, as a lack of faith. There were no counselors, no support systems — only silence.

The Tragedy

Just days before their matriculation exams, the silence broke.

Nabil and Sami, unable to carry the crushing weight of expectation and fear of failure, chose to end their lives.

In a single morning, the promise of their future turned into the grief of their funeral. Two young souls, once filled with dreams, were buried before they even had the chance to live them.

More Than Just Two Brothers

Their story is heartbreaking — but it is not unique. Across Pakistan, countless children live under the same crushing system, where marks matter more than minds. Where creativity, kindness, and resilience are ignored in favor of grades. Where mental health is stigmatized, and despair hides behind closed doors.

Nabil and Sami are not just two brothers from one valley — they are the faces of thousands of children silently struggling in every corner of the country.

A Call for Change

Their deaths must not just be mourned; they must be a call for reform.

Schools must value well-being as much as academics.

Teachers should be trained to notice distress, not just drill lessons.

Counseling must be made accessible, especially in rural areas.

Families must nurture instead of pressuring, and redefine success beyond marks.

Because no grade, no exam, no report card is worth a child’s life.

Remembering Their Names

We must remember Nabil and Sami not as failures, but as dreamers. As sons, as brothers, as children full of potential who were crushed by a system blind to their pain.

Their story teaches us one final, painful lesson: education should lift children, not break them. Success should be measured in joy, dignity, and growth — not numbers on a page.

In the valleys of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, two desks remain empty. Two books remain unfinished. Two voices remain silent.

But if we truly listen to their story, perhaps their silence can become the beginning of change.

cover photo idea for this