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From K Tamil Maran
There’s a story online about a professor in Russia who wouldn&#8217;t give a zero, not even for an exam paper left entirely blank. “A person,” he argued, “is never a zero.”
Whether one agrees with this or not, this line of reasoning might touch a raw nerve among Malaysians. It speaks to the quiet dread that a number can define a life.
Here, from their first report card, numbers follow our children. They dictate which class you enter, which doors remain open, and which quietly shut.
A failing grade is rarely seen as a stumble on the path of learning. It becomes a stamp, an identity: “Not good enough.&#8221;
“The moment students start seeing zeros, they start to disappear,” a teacher from Kuala Lumpur once told me. “It’s not a lack of care. It’s a form of self-preservation.”
Walk into any exam hall and look at the blank pages. They are not always a sign of indifference. More often, they are monuments to fear &#8211; of a wrong answer, of a teacher’s sigh, of the confirmation that &#8220;I am weak.&#8221;
And the system, in its cold arithmetic, records that silent struggle as a simple, judgemental “0”.
Nadia, a Form Four student, knows this feeling all too well. “At my kitchen table, with my mother, I could solve the problems. But in that hall, my mind just… emptied. And that zero didn’t tell me I’d failed a math test &#8211; it told me I was a failure.&#8221;
This isn&#8217;t an argument for handing out marks like consolation prizes. Rigour and standards are the bedrock of real achievement. But how we communicate failure &#8211; the tone, the context, the next step &#8211; carries as much weight as the test itself.
Psychology offers a clear lens: children who believe their intelligence is fixed will see a zero as proof of a permanent flaw; those who believe it can grow will see it as a challenge.
The difference isn’t in the child’s ability but in the world we&#8217;ve built around them &#8211; a world that either amplifies fear or bolsters courage.
Let’s be honest &#8211; our students don’t all start from the same place. Some battle fatigue from a long commute before the first bell. Others try to focus in a crowded living room, their minds half on textbooks, half on family worries.
Yet our assessments often act as if every child sits for the exam under the same quiet lamp, with the same peace of mind.
That Russian story, in the end, isn&#8217;t about grading &#8211; it’s about a teacher seeing a student, not a score. It reminds us that education, at its core, is a human relationship. A teacher’s reaction to failure can be a nudge forward or a door closing.
Many Malaysian teachers already understand this. In quiet, uncelebrated acts, they allow do-overs, fill margins with encouraging notes, and offer a chance to try again. This doesn’t lower the bar &#8211; it builds a ladder to reach it.
We speak passionately about student wellbeing and holistic education. But if these ideals vanish the moment the test paper is handed out, they remain just that: ideals. Compassion must be braver than that. It must follow our children right into the exam hall.
A zero should only ever measure an answer that was missing; it should never, ever measure a person’s worth. If what we truly want are resilient, creative thinkers, then our assessments must diagnose learning, not define souls.
After all, the true purpose of education is not to brand our children with red ink, but to hand them a key.
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K Tamil Maran is an FMT reader.
The views expressed are those of the writer and do not necessarily reflect those of FMT.

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