School Wasn't Just Hard — It Was Lonely
By Sewar Al-Abbadi
I didn't know what it meant to feel "less," but I felt it in every moment — in every glance, in every time they praised the girls of the family while I sat silently in the corner.
I grew up in a small, modest house on the edge of a bustling neighborhood. The walls were thin, and voices from the street would creep in through the cracked windows. Inside, the air was always thick with the scent of spices my mother used to cook, and sometimes, the sharp smell of frustration when things didn't go as planned. My mother tried her best to keep the house running, juggling endless chores, while my father, weary from work, was present mostly through quiet gestures rather than words.
Among the many children in my family, I was the one they barely noticed. The cousins would gather with their achievements, their shiny certificates, their bright smiles and proud parents. I was the shadow that followed at their heels, the quiet girl who didn't seem to fit the picture.
Every visit to a relative's house felt like an unspoken contest. The compliments were never for me, but always for someone else.
"Did you see how your cousin topped the class again?"
"Why don't you try to study like your aunt's daughter?"
"She's always so neat and tidy, unlike you."
Their words weren't cruel, not intentionally, but they stung like invisible needles. I smiled and nodded, pretending not to hear, but at night I'd lie awake asking myself,
"What's wrong with me?"
School was a place I wanted to love, but I struggled. I studied hard, but my grades were never perfect. Sometimes I'd lose myself in the classroom, the teacher's voice a distant fog, while my eyes gazed out the window, dreaming of being someone else — a heroine, a bird flying free, not the forgotten girl sitting alone.
When the teachers handed out certificates, I'd slip away quietly before my mother asked for mine. It wasn't fear of punishment, but fear of her disappointed gaze. She loved me, but I always felt unworthy of that love. I was supposed to be like the others.
The word "failure" was never spoken aloud, but it hovered like a shadow, following me wherever I went.
One day in fourth grade, the teacher announced a surprise hair check — part of a cleanliness campaign. The girls whispered nervously.
Before the teacher reached me, a girl named Raghad, who always sought attention, loudly whispered,
"That's Suwar, she's unkempt. Stay away."
Her words crashed down like stones. The girls laughed and moved away from me. I stood frozen, tears streaming silently. I wished the ground would swallow me, the bell would ring, or I'd wake up from this nightmare.
I looked at the teacher, voice breaking,
"I want to go home."
She refused and asked why I was crying.
I said,
"Raghad is saying I'm unkempt."
The room fell silent. I felt exposed under a spotlight.
The teacher knelt, ran her hand through my hair in front of everyone, and said loudly,
"Suwar's hair is the cleanest in the class. We don't talk about each other like that."
Then she turned to Raghad sternly,
"You're punished. I will speak to the administration and your parents."
Though it was justice, the wound lingered. The mistake was corrected, but the scar remained. Every time I walked in class, I felt the same gaze. The word "unkempt" echoed for days in my ears.
I returned home carrying pain heavier than my age. I couldn't tell my mother—I was afraid she'd say,
"Why did you let them say those things about you?"
As if it was my fault. I was just a girl wanting to be loved, not hurt.
Fifth grade was no ordinary year—it was a year of pain and challenges I didn't expect. The bullying was constant—harsh words, cold stares, cruel laughter.
Once, a group of girls surrounded me and whispered loudly for all to hear,
"That's Suwar? She's always alone. Maybe she has no friends, maybe she doesn't know how to laugh."
They laughed cruelly. The world spun, and my heart pounded as if it would burst.
I looked around for help, but there was none. Even the teachers were too busy to notice the tears I hid.
I was afraid to speak, afraid to raise my hand, afraid to participate. My life felt like a dark path filled with sharp stones and knives disguised as glances.
When I reached sixth grade, I was exhausted from pretending.
I decided to work at the school cafeteria.
I signed up officially so I wouldn't have to face the girls' teasing. I sold bread, juice, biscuits—anything to stay behind the counter. They bought from me, smiled, and I smiled back, though inside I cried.
Despite the suffering, I tried to rise.
I bought a math course with my savings and promised myself change.
I studied alone, solved problems, raised my hand. The teacher noticed and once said,
"Suwar, you surprised me. Keep it up!"
That day, I held the course like a treasure.
But joy was short-lived.
One day, the course disappeared. Not lost—it was stolen.
I searched everywhere but couldn't find it.
I asked the girls; none admitted anything, but I knew someone took it.
Then I fell back.
The teacher noticed my drop in performance and said,
"Suwar, what's happening? Your grades are falling. Go back to your old self."
How could I tell her?
"My dream was stolen, and I can't afford another course."
So I stayed silent.
The year ended.
Not just the school year, but a year of silent struggle.
Everyone celebrated their achievements, and I returned with only a plain paper and a pierced heart.
During the holidays, while others enjoyed outings, new clothes, and family visits, I sat alone on my bed.
Holding a small notebook, I wrote multiplication tables repeatedly, memorizing them even when tired.
I read old storybooks, sounding out words letter by letter.
I carefully wrote letters, repeating my name "Suwar" over and over—as if convincing myself I existed and mattered.
I studied alone, without help or encouragement.
I fought my ignorance and weakness, telling myself,
"They might overlook me for chances, but they won't overlook me in life."
Every letter learned, every multiplication memorized was a tiny victory in a war only I knew.
---
The Voice Inside Me
"Why do I always feel like I'm invisible?" I whispered to myself one quiet night, the darkness wrapping around me like a heavy blanket.
"Why do they laugh and I stand alone? What's wrong with me?"
"You have to be strong," I told myself, though my voice trembled.
"You can't let them win. You have to believe in yourself—even if it's just a tiny spark."
"Maybe I'm not meant to be the shining star," I thought bitterly,
"Maybe I'm just meant to be the shadow."
Yet, even in that shadow, a stubborn hope refused to die.
"No," I said firmly in my mind,
"This story isn't over. I'm still here. I'm still fighting."
---
A Small Moment of Joy
One afternoon, as I sat quietly in the corner of the classroom, I solved a difficult math problem on the board. The teacher looked at me with surprise and smiled. For the first time, I felt a flicker of pride—not from anyone else, but from inside me.
"I did it," I whispered softly, feeling a warmth spread through my chest. It was a small victory, but it was mine.
---
A Strong Decision
That night, I sat by the window, the cool night air brushing against my face. I took a deep breath and whispered to myself,
"No matter what happens, I will keep going. I will not let fear or sadness stop me."
"This is my story," I said firmly,
"And I will write it with my own hands."
---
The Promise I Made to Myself
In the quiet of the night, when the world seemed still and my heart was heavy, I made a promise — not to anyone else, but to myself.
"I will not let this pain define me," I whispered.
"I will rise, even if the world tries to push me down. I am stronger than my fears, louder than my doubts."
I imagined a future where my voice was heard clearly, where my dreams were no longer whispered secrets but proud declarations.
The road ahead was still long and full of shadows, but for the first time, I wasn't afraid. The small spark inside me had grown into a steady flame.
"This is my story," I said, smiling through the tears.
"And I will keep writing it — with courage, with hope, with strength."
---
A Light in the Darkness
In high school, the pain didn't disappear—but something else began to grow: purpose. I still sat alone sometimes, but I also began to watch, to observe people's emotions and struggles. I saw how others were hurting too, in silence, just like me. It made me more kind, more patient.
Then came a teacher—Miss Kholoud. She didn't just teach us; she saw me. One day, she paused at my desk and said, "Suwar, I see potential in you. Don't let your past define your future."
Those words stayed with me longer than any lesson. They were the first seeds of healing.
At home, I started making sweets to escape the heaviness. At first, it was simple: kneading dough, measuring sugar. But when my family smiled and asked for more, I felt something new—I was good at this.
My hands, which once trembled with doubt, were now steady with skill. Slowly, I began to dream of something I never dared before: success.
It didn't happen overnight. But with every tray of maamoul, every mistake, every tear wiped in the kitchen, I was rebuilding myself—not just as a girl from the past, but as a woman with a future.
And today, as I write this, I know one thing:
The girl who was once laughed at, left out, and labeled as "less"… is becoming more than they ever imagined.
Her story is just beginning.