Passing the test

The last year in the Syrian school system comes with a social, physiological and physical tax. A demanding year and a time of crisis for students entering the baccalaureate season, students and their families brace themselves for the final test that determines the shape of their futures. Rituals to contain the crisis are passed on semester to semester; here’s more of what goes on behind the scenes.

While most students are enjoying their relaxing vacations, the Syrian Baccalaureate students are still working hard in order to be prepared for the critical exams that many see as the gate to their entire future, a scene familiar to families with high school children every year.

Although secondary school, the equivalent to high school, is still only optional, students who choose to continue their studies have to choose between the “literary branch” – where the main subjects are history, philosophy, poetry and languages – and the “scientific branch,” which emphasizes mathematics, physics and chemistry. From tenth grade, therefore, they must determine which university, college or specialization they hope to attend, with the baccalaureate exam at the end of twelfth grade holding the final key.

The final exams of baccalaureate, held nationally, are truly an iron barrier, after which every student’s destiny will be drawn regardless of their previous student records or achievements, and with no second chance, unless they repeat the whole academic year.

Many have concluded that the only way to overcome the baccalaureate is “memorization,” learning the curriculum “letter by letter,” as one student described. While some may argue that the scientific method requires more analysis, most students simply etch the rules in the books in their short-term memory to pass the test, as they are not rewarded for creative or critical thinking.

Desperation, panic, food, and prayers

Such harsh circumstances have pushed many students, even those of middle class, to ask for the expensive help of the expert tutors who have the ability to predict some exam questions, and allow the students to be more familiar with the final exams settings. Parents and relatives of these students work hard by their side to provide them with the best studying environment, sometimes even preparing a food menu that supposedly helps energize the brain and body so they can withstand the pressure of the long studying hours.

Offering advice and prayer to keep panicked students safe from illness or danger in order to pass this crisis and not lose an entire year of their lives are also the norm. No excuses, no exceptions, every student is on tenterhooks till the results and every university’s grade requirements, decided by a curve system called Mufadalah, are out.

“I need 236 out of 240 points in order to achieve my dream and get accepted into medical school,” says one student, angrily adding, “this means I need to score over 95%. This is practically impossible; I can’t guarantee losing less than 4 points between all the tests.”

Another desperate student says, “Personally, I have given up my dream to be a chemist. I directed my interests towards the literary branch; it is more feasible and less risky. To get into law school on the first try is ten times better than spending a year or more in an unproductive panic.”

There is no doubt that this system has turned the last school year of the Syrian school system into socially, physiologically, and even physically demanding year. “During every baccalaureate season, I always ask young patients what year they are in. Knowing they are in twelfth grade is enough to explain the nonstop headaches and anorexia,” says one doctor.

In recognition of their heroic efforts, many have replaced greetings such as “hello,” or “how are you” with the more relevant “how are your studies?” or with encouraging words like “God be with you, I hope that this year of suffering will pass with success.”

Despite this, many students are still weighed down by their parents and relatives’ expectations demanding that students get grades good enough to get into medical school, or at the very least engineering, in order to preserve the “family’s honor.” As if the mountainous textbooks in the rooms they are confined in for a year isn’t enough pressure, add the guilt of potentially letting down a well-meaning family member; and the situation reaches breaking point.

“I don’t know what happened,” says one grief-stricken student. “When I read the first question, it felt like I knew nothing, like all the information had been erased from my mind. I couldn’t think or even see, and the panic attack ended in me collapsing. The moment I woke up in my bed was the moment I realized that I had just lost a whole year of my life.”

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Editor’s note: The editors of Forward Magazine testify that the description of agony in this article is not exaggerated. From personal experience, high school is a great ordeal in the Arab world, and is not only exclusive to Syria