The early bird catches the room—at least, that’s how it felt on the morning of the 2025 Secondary Entrance Assessment (SEA) Exam. Officials arrived early, preparing for the day ahead, and by the time I got there, a couple of students were already outside, chatting near the gate with the cleaner, whose tone was anything but soothing. The supervisor and other officials had arrived well before me, ready to ensure a smooth process.
At 7:00 a.m., we introduced ourselves, prepared our documents, and moved into the examination room. Setup was crucial—not just for the standard processes but for any unforeseen circumstances, including accommodations for a concession student. These are students with special needs—whether exam anxiety or learning disabilities—who require separate spaces to complete their papers. Their presence reminded me how exams are not just academic milestones but deeply personal experiences shaped by each student’s unique challenges.
As the students lined up outside the exam center, waiting for their turn to be recorded and seated, memories of my own school days surfaced. Among them was a young girl, larger in stature than her peers, sitting at the door in tears before the test began. Despite the nervous breakdown, she pulled herself together once inside, focusing on her English Language essay. It was clear that, for many, the fear of the exam was momentary, giving way to determination.
The structure of the SEA exam followed a predictable pattern—essay writing first, followed by mathematics, and later, the Language Arts paper. The boys in the group, despite their typical jocular behavior, showed their own moments of hesitation and deep concentration. There were only four boys in the exam room, alongside twelve girls—something that stood out to me. This school had once housed four Common Entrance classes, a sign of robust enrollment, yet here we were with only sixteen students. A sobering reflection on how times had changed.
During the exam, one boy struggled with a particular question, his frustration visible. I saw his confidence wane as he repeatedly shook his head, unable to grasp the concept. But resilience in youth is remarkable. As the exam progressed, his body language shifted—feet tapping, shoulders relaxing, an unconscious rhythm carrying him forward. By the time they moved on to language arts, he was in his element, absorbed in his work.
There was one moment that struck me deeply. After the break, I noticed an empty desk. The student who had sat there earlier had not returned. I stepped outside and saw him sitting on the floor in a side room, arms resting on his knees, his head hung low—defeat embodied. His teacher, recognizing him immediately, called his name. Slowly, dragging his feet, he returned to his desk. The contrast was poignant; the girl who had cried earlier now watched him with an expression that looked like empathy. Their silent exchange spoke volumes about shared struggles and unspoken understanding.
Outside the exam room, the setting was idyllic—breezy mountains adorned with bursts of yellow poui trees. Yet amidst this beauty, patches of squatter settlements dotted the landscape, a quiet reminder of the world beyond the school compound. Lost in thought, I let time slip past, marveling at the quiet resilience of the students before me.
Then, a shift—our lone, dejected boy transformed. As the final exam progressed, his posture straightened, his focus sharpened. He hummed softly, tapped his feet, and immersed himself in the task at hand. At one point, he caught my gaze and smiled before diving back into his work. It was a powerful moment—proof that the challenges of the day, though daunting, were never insurmountable.
As we wrapped up, sealing exam papers and preparing to leave, the weight lifted off the students. Their chairs scraped back, laughter burst through the room, and the solemn air of the morning dissolved. It was over. Outside, parents waited anxiously at the gates, exchanging words with passersby and teachers alike. Some students were greeted with ice cream, an impromptu celebration shared between teachers and their pupils.
I was invited to join them, but my mind was elsewhere—filled with reflections on the experience, on youth, on resilience. As I prepared to leave, one of the students cracked a joke. I don’t remember the words, but I do remember laughing. Every school has one—a sharp-witted, charismatic student who effortlessly lightens the mood.
And as I walked away, leaving them in their private world of post-exam relief, I knew this was just the beginning. The SEA exam may be over, but for these students, the real journey—the transition into secondary school—was only just beginning.
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