The GCSE Challenge, My sister and me

In England, we are party to the concept of GCSEs – which stands for general certificate of secondary education and are taken towards the end of five years of high school. They transverse many subjects and a wide range of complex topics.

During these five years of high school, huge vats of knowledge and extensive material are crammed by the concerned teachers into overworked and tired student brains, five days a week with no respite. and of course, ALL of it is absolutely necessary with regard to the culmination of the anticipated passing grades. Needless to say, much of the final school year is inundated by constant assignments, tests, quizzes and even more essays which are handed in, more often than not, after sleepless and exhausting nights.

In the winter of 2020, I was already in the deep end of my GCSE studies, with still a year to go before sitting the dreaded exams in June of 2021. But covid struck, and exams were cancelled for the higher grade. To say they were ecstatic would be lip service. They were beyond thrilled at the shocking and ultimately surprising notion of not sitting their final exams. Some students were upset, saying the judgement of predicted grades by teachers wouldn’t be fair and just, but mostly they just celebrated with abandon, revelling in the sudden removal of the heavy yoke of pressure which had been hounding them for close to a half a decade.

Our class did not join the excitement. After so many months of intense intellectual labour we did not want to see all our hard work go down the drain, all the hours could not be for naught. So, we reassured ourselves, there was still a year to go, and anyway, the government hadn’t said anything about cancelling the exams for two years, had they?

We continued studying, but not with the same perseverance as before. Even as covid restrictions lifted, we pursued our studies with an air of frivolity – sort of believing or hoping to, that it wouldn’t happen in any case. To invest so much effort would be a waste of time and energy.

We were right. The second strain bomb shelled upon us with disturbing intensity and in came the principal, telling us with a distinctly troubled face, that we would not be sitting real exams at the end of the year. But they were sufficiently prepared for this eventuality, she said, and our predicted grades would be verified by robust evidence which would then be reviewed by the exam boards.

First, we breathed the sigh of relief that we had been holding in for over a year. Then we received the presence of mind to ask what exactly, not sitting real exams was supposed to mean. It was then that we were informed that we would sit bona fide exams which would be set by teachers. The class was in an uproar. The uproar passed, we studied and sat those exams. I received my results in August. The white, plain envelope was waiting on my bed, but I just gazed at it dispassionately. This wasn’t what I had worked for, what I had strived towards. This wasn’t what I had spent nights bent over textbooks for, amassing a bucket of sweat and tears in order to understand a physics equation. I used my brain and skills to pass, but that was it. No cards, no balloons, no great aunt phoning up to see how it had gone.

Beginning in June 2022 my sister, just a year younger, spent six consecutive weeks sitting real exams. Difficult papers were placed before them each day each one more convoluted by experienced examiners and crafted for maximum dedication and precise concentration. Every day, I davened and whispered a heartfelt tefilla for her success and for siyata dishmaya, knowing that the entire extended family did too. Each night we wrote cards, brought her favourite foods and hung-up balloon festooned posters of encouragement, and well wishes.

?She struggled for five long years. so many sleepless nights bent over textbooks, going through trees of paper to achieve ultimate understanding in each subject by completing a plethora of mock exams. She studied at home. She studied at school. She studied at the small bedroom desk. She studied at her friends. She studied in the kitchen. She studied on the patio. She studied on the bus. She studied, with sweat and tears. With everlasting perseverance and good humour and still found the time to make everyone laugh.

A week ago, the results arrived. The room was hushed, cloaked in a tremulous silence as she opened the envelope with trembling fingers. Her cheeks were slightly flushed as she scanned the small print, and we stood not daring to make a sound.

Then she whoops. And she is smiling. We crowd around embracing and wiping each other’s tears. Grandparents are duly phoned with the good news. Celebrations are planned. We are her family; we have seen her through this. We would love her even if she hadn’t passed, just for all the effort and dedication and self that she has invested, always with a smile.

She passed.

Hazorim bedimah, berinah yiktzoro – one who harvests with sweat, will sow with song.

And sing we did.