The classroom of lost voices
It was the sunny say, Adleen entered the classroom, her mind swirling with countless thoughts. Would she just spend another day here, go back home, study and still not hear a single compliment? It was her seventh year in school, yet she was in the 4th class.
She remembered the very first day she had walked into this school as a nursery student. The scene hadn’t changed much since then, she was still invisible.
Adleen wasn’t a child with extraordinary knowledge or talents but she always tried her best, pushing herself as far as she could. Yet, in all those years, she rarely caught the attention of her teachers. Ma'am Zeenat, her nursery teacher had barely noticed her efforts. Meanwhile, children from more intellectual families, with polished English and confident smiles, were praised constantly. Their names were remembered, their achievements celebrated.
Her classmates spoke effortlessly. They used words that sounded refined, impressive. Adleen, however, always paused, carefully picking each word, making sure she wouldn't be laughed at. That caution became her nature.
Then came the parent-teacher meeting in her 2nd grade. Her parents stood silently while the teacher quickly summed her up: “She’s quiet, needs to speak more, average performance.” That one moment turned her world upside down. She had worked so hard, hoped so much but her teacher’s tone told her she wasn’t enough.
Adleen’s once pleasant space—her home—turned cold after that. She didn’t know how or when it happened, but it slowly became a place of fear. She dreaded the eyes of disappointment and the silence. She had tried to impress her parents, yet it was never enough. In their eyes, the words of the teacher mattered more than the effort of their daughter.
At school, too, things stayed the same. She once raised her hand to answer a question in English. Her voice shook slightly. The teacher glanced at her and moved on. Moments later, Hooriya gave the same answer in a louder, fluent voice. “Very good, Hooriya!” the teacher beamed. The class clapped.
Adleen sat back in silence.
It wasn’t that Hooriya was unkind. In fact, they eventually became friends. But even friendship couldn’t erase the truth. Hooriya had always been one of the favorites. She didn’t study much but she spoke with ease, smiled at the right time and knew how to talk her way through things. Her mistakes were overlooked. Adleen’s weren’t.
Adleen did win sometimes. In the 3rd grade, she got first prize in a handwriting competition. She was overjoyed. But her achievement was barely noticed—overshadowed by Hooriya winning the storytelling contest on the same day. The teacher announced Hooriya’s name with pride. Adleen’s was mentioned in passing.
Still, she continued. Quietly. Carefully. Endlessly.
This year, however, something new happened. It was the day of the first exam in her class. Adleen had prepared more than ever before. She felt a rare sense of confidence. But just before the exam could begin, Hooriya whispered something to the teacher.
“Ma’am,” she said, “I don’t think the class is ready today. Most of us haven’t studied much.”
The teacher nodded. “You’re right, Hooriya. We’ll postpone it.”
Adleen felt her heart shatter. Her chance—her moment—slipped away again, just like that.
Why did Hooriya have someone to listen to her excuses, while Adleen’s effort was once again pushed aside?
Thus, two stories emerged in the same classroom. There was Adleen—the hardworking, quiet girl whose efforts went unnoticed and Hooriya—the confident, fluent speaker who was always the teacher’s favorite, whether she worked hard or not.
Years passed. Both girls grew up, their marks improving steadily. Adleen built herself slowly, word by word, page by page. Hooriya stayed charming, still carrying the glow of confidence everyone adored.
When it came time to apply for jobs, both were ready on paper. Yet, they faced different hurdles. Hooriya lacked technical depth, but she spoke with such confidence that few noticed. Adleen had depth and substance—but still feared every interview room, every question that might make her voice tremble.
The world had changed, but it hadn’t fully opened its ears to the quiet.
In one of her final interviews, Adleen stood outside the room, her resume shaking slightly in her hands. She took a deep breath. She thought of every moment she had swallowed her words, every time she had been unheard, unrecognized, unseen.
This time too, she didn't feel confident speaking in front of the interviewers .
And then, a memory came back. A saying she once read during a school project:
“The mistakes of doctors can be buried beneath graves, the errors of lawyers locked away in files, the faults of engineers hidden beneath buildings, but the mistakes of teachers echo from the walls of a nation.”
