Contrary to the belief that all parents are experts, our journey begins the moment we hold our first-born. One day you are a perfectly ordinary individual, and the next, by virtue of holding a newborn, you are expected to morph into a visionary, capable of charting the perfect academic future for another human being. Dreams begin to expand faster than our children grow, and soon enough, those dreams run headlong into the most formidable adversary of all: the education system.
The story of all such households continues. After dealing with the teenagers and their complexities comes a major milestone in which we all must make a very hard choice: Matriculation or O-Levels. It is hardly a decision— more like a polite formality. The “prestige” of O-Levels and A-Levels beckons, and we all obediently follow. Choosing the right subjects after analysing the “aptitude” of our children becomes the first uphill task. Three electives have to be chosen in addition to five compulsory subjects. Dutifully, in our case, we stacked on 11 in total, believing— naively— that more options equalled more career options.
The exam journey began with Pakistan Studies and Islamiat. Harmless enough. We breathed a sigh of relief and convinced ourselves the system was working. But then came the nightmare: nine more papers in Class 11, spring 2023. Exam clashes. Multiple papers on the same day. It seemed the exam schedule was made without any consideration about the mental wellbeing of the candidates. Then came the political turmoil of 9 May 2023, when our daughter was scheduled to sit for three papers. Nothing prepares a teenager— or a parent— for that. A city in chaos outside, silence inside the exam hall— surely the perfect training ground for resilience. The uncertain political situation made the next one week an absolute disaster. We would find out at 9 pm if the scheduled exam would take place the next day. The stress, the anxiety, the trauma, is unexplainable. Meanwhile the parents, being a beacon of optimism, dutifully prayed for “outstanding results.”
During those weeks of trials and tribulations, we cursed our luck, the impossible exam schedule, the state of the exam halls and the unprofessional behaviour of the invigilators appointed by the British Council. We blamed everything except the core of the problem: The Examination System.
Then came the results. Our daughter triumphed. Against all odds, she emerged with excellent grades. And like fools, we forgave. The abusive system kicked her to the ground, and we thanked it for letting her stand again.
Fast forward two years. A-Levels, 2025. Our daughter, full of courage, chose four subjects— two STEM, two humanities— hoping to balance intellect with passion. Then came the hammer blow: May/June 2025 exam schedule— a masterpiece in logistical absurdity. Thirty-eight days of exams, but only eleven actual exam days. Eleven days to decide her future, eleven days to break her spirit. The distribution? Four exams in three days. Three exams in three days. And— brace yourself— five A-Level papers in two consecutive days. Five. Let that sink in.
I now feel that these exams are not designed to test knowledge. They are designed to test stamina. The true curriculum is not mathematics or literature but sleep deprivation, stress tolerance, and emotional fortitude. Cambridge calls it education. I call it institutionalised child abuse. The survivors may enter university, the rest quietly disappear into the statistics.
Curiously, there was little outrage. Other parents like us accepted this ordeal with stoic silence, as though it were a weather pattern beyond human control. Chai was brewed, online tuitions arranged, and children gently reminded that character is forged in the furnace of exhaustion.
26 April 2025 came towards us at lightning speed. The exams started and so did the sleepless nights, the continuous online tuition classes and the zombie-like state we found our child in.
Adding insult to injury, on May 7 our neighbour across the border chose to escalate hostilities. Drones over Lahore, anti-aircraft fire, panic everywhere. And then the devastating announcement: exams cancelled. One paper, worth 30 percent of a subject, vanished. A high-scoring paper, gone. Overnight, my child’s university admission slipped away— not because of her ability, but because Cambridge fell back on its favourite trick: “averaging.”
At first glance, this method may appear fair, but there are several issues with it. Firstly, “averaging” is applied only to students who did not sit for a particular paper, creating inconsistency. Secondly, true fairness would require all papers in a subject to carry equal weight, which is often not the case. Thirdly, the system places excessive pressure on students, as a single weak performance is amplified and can disproportionately affect the overall subject result. It reduces years of hard work to statistical guesswork. Why test knowledge when you can test probability? A child losing out on a top-ranked university admission is not the end of the world. Is it?
After the paper cancellation fiasco came rumours of leaked papers. Cambridge investigated Cambridge and declared— generously— that only “some” questions were leaked. Some questions? From a paper leaked in its entirety? Statistically absurd. But Zone 4 parents, we are expected to swallow this insult with gratitude and applaud Cambridge’s honesty and move along.
Ah yes, Zone 4. For the uninitiated, Cambridge divides the world into zones, and Pakistan— along with India, Nepal, Bangladesh, Oman, UAE, Iran, and others— sits in Zone 4. It is a sizable region, though clearly not significant enough to inspire exam schedules that resemble anything humane. Forty thousand Pakistani students each year. A mere rounding error in the great Cambridge empire. I say this without bias because the November 2025 schedule was released recently and, in a triumph of consistency, proved no better than the June one.
I now feel that these exams are not designed to test knowledge. They are designed to test stamina. The true curriculum is not mathematics or literature but sleep deprivation, stress tolerance, and emotional fortitude. Cambridge calls it education. I call it institutionalised child abuse. The survivors may enter University, the rest quietly disappear into the statistics.
At times I wonder if the fault lies with Cambridge alone. Perhaps it is also ours. We, the parents, who willingly march our children into this elaborate obstacle course, who convince ourselves that prestige is worth the cost, who complain in private but whisper in public. Perhaps we are not victims but accomplices.
But enough is enough. The silence must end. So here I am, raising my voice.
The question is: will you?
