Essay from Mashhura Kamolova

Why do exams fail to measure real intelligence?

Nowadays, exams play a crucial role in determining students` academic success. The question of whether exams truly measure one`s knowledge remains a subject of ongoing debate. From school to university, students are constantly judged by their grades. Many people believe that the more learners get high mark, the more they are intelligent. If they get low marks, they are not smart enough. However, I strongly believe that exams do not really measure real intelligence for several reasons. They only show how well a person`s preparation is for a specific test in a limited time.

First of all, intelligence is much more than memorizing information. Exams usually focus on facts, formulas, dates, and definitions. Students spend hours trying to remember everything, sometimes without even understanding the topic deeply. After the exam, most of that information is forgotten. Is that real intelligence? I don’t think so. Real intelligence means understanding ideas, thinking critically, and being able to use knowledge in real-life situations, not just writing it on paper for two hours.

Another reason why exams are not a true measure of intelligence is stress. Many students feel extremely nervous during exams. Even if they studied a lot, anxiety can make them forget simple things. Some people are just not good at performing under pressure. Their hands shake, their mind goes blank, and they panic. Absolutely, these factors affect their exam results. That does not mean they are not intelligent. It just means the exam environment is not suitable for everyone. Intelligence should not depend on how calm you are in a stressful situation.

Moreover, people have different talents and abilities. Some students are creative, others are good at communication, leadership or solving practical problems. For example, a person may not get high grades in math, but he or she might be proficient in art or music. Another student may struggle with written exams but be very confident when speaking and presenting ideas. Unfortunately, traditional exams do not measure creativity, emotional intelligence or social skills. They mostly measure academic knowledge.

In real life, intelligence looks very different from exam performance. People work in teams, search for information, ask for advice, and think carefully before making decisions. During exams, students are expected to work alone, without any help, and finish everything within a strict time limit. This situation is not realistic. A successful businessperson or entrepreneur may not have been the best student in school, but they know how to solve problems, take risks, and think creatively. That is also a form of intelligence.

It is also important to mention that everyone has a different learning style. Some people learn better by doing practice, some through discussion, and others by watching videos or visual materials. However, exams usually follow one format for everyone, like multiple-choice questions or written answers. This system does not consider individual differences. It forces all students to fit into the same structure, even though intelligence is diverse and complex.

Of course, exams are not completely useless. They can help teachers check whether students understand basic concepts. They also teach responsibility and time management. But the problem starts when society treats exam results as the only indicator of intelligence. When someone gets a low grade, they may start thinking they are not smart, which can seriously affect their confidence and motivation. On the other hand, a student with high grades might think they are automatically more intelligent than others, which is not always true.

In my opinion, schools and universities should use more varied methods to evaluate students. Projects, presentations, group work, and creative assignments can show different types of abilities. This would give students more chances to express themselves and show their strengths. Intelligence cannot be reduced to a single number or letter grade. According to Howard Gardner`s theory of multiple intelligence, a person can be very strong in one area but only average in another which is completely normal. For this reason, most traditional exams seem quite limited, as they mainly focus on linguistic and logical-mathematical skills.

To conclude, memorization, stress management, and time pressure cannot fully define how smart a person is. Real intelligence includes creativity, emotional awareness, problem-solving skills, critical thinking and easy adaptation to different situations. While exams may test knowledge, they do not truly measure a person’s full potential or real intelligence. Therefore, instead of focusing only on grading learners, assessment is expected to support learning, recognize individual differences, not measure students` ability to memorize information.

My name is Mashhura Kamolova. I was born in Bukhara, Uzbekistan. I completed my secondary education in my hometown, where I developed a strong interest in learning foreign languages and improving my academic knowledge.

In 2025, I successfully got into the university with a score of 189 on the national entrance examination and was awarded a state grant based on my results. Currently, I am a first-year student at Uzbekistan State World Languages University. Studying at this university is a significant step in my academic and professional development.

My future goal is to become a qualified teacher in my field of specialization. I am motivated to contribute to the education system and help young learners gain knowledge and confidence in foreign languages. I believe that teaching is not only a profession but also a responsibility to shape future generations.

In my free time, I enjoy horse riding and drawing. These hobbies help me relax and express my creativity. I believe that personal interests are important for maintaining balance between academic life and personal growth.

I am determined to continue working hard in order to achieve my goals and become a competent specialist in my chosen field.

Poetry from Graciela Noemi Villaverde

I am no longer the same 

Gone are the days when I had you near, 

when plans were like fine spiderwebs; 

fancies carried away by the wind in the waiting, 

paper dreams that time has already stripped away. 

I left behind everything that didn’t weigh on my soul, 

the paths that led nowhere; 

my heart, once a calm garden, 

is now a sea searching for its wide channel. 

I live to write what silence holds,

 to carry my words to distant lands; 

for my children, who are light in my wanderings, 

for my grandchildren, seeds of new days. 

I am no longer the same one who believed in castles, 

who expected miracles with every sunrise; 

now my life is a half-open book, 

where only what the heart has learned matters.

GRACIELA NOEMI VILLAVERDE is a writer and poet from Concepción del Uruguay (Entre Rios) Argentina, based in Buenos Aires She graduated in letters and is the author of seven books of poetry, awarded several times worldwide. She works as the World Manager of Educational and Social Projects of the Hispanic World Union of Writers and is the UHE World Honorary President of the same institution’s Activa de la Sade, Argentine Society of Writers. She is the Commissioner of Honor in the executive cabinet in the Educational and Social Relations Division of the UNACCC South America – Argentina Chapter.

Poem from Anvarova Mohira Sanjarbek qizi

From “Being Human is Hard” by O’lmas Umarbekov — Gulchehra, from my perspective, regrets…

My first, pure love I gave to you,

My whole heart I offered as a gift, too.

In return, I had hoped for love from you,

Yet my unforgettable mistake—you became “you”!

All my attention was only on you,

My day passed with your letters in view.

If from afar I glimpsed you, my eyes would burn through,

Yet my unforgettable mistake—you became “you”!

You said you longed for my arrival, that you’d wait,

Without a word, silently, you walked away.

You hid trust completely from my vocabulary’s slate,

Yet my unforgettable mistake—you became “you”!

I heard later, you said many words,

“I didn’t love, I didn’t burn,” yet again.

You turned my whole heart into a play for your amusement,

Yet my unforgettable mistake—you became “you”!

You found your own Shirin and Layli,

Burning in their love, you became another story.

What could I have said? As always, fine…

Yet my unforgettable mistake—you became “you”!

I loved… In the end, I proved it true,

Without you, I preferred death over any rue.

I cut off even the memories that I knew,

Yet my unforgivable mistake—you became “you”!

— (Anvarova Mohira)

Anvarova Mohira Sanjarbek qizi was born on September 2, 2007. She lives in Yaypan city, O‘zbekiston district, Fergana region. She is currently pursuing a bachelor’s degree at the Faculty of Humanities and Language Education at Kokand State University. She is actively engaged in educational and humanitarian fields. Mohira actively participates in the university’s cultural and educational events. She holds a B-level certificate in her native language and a B2-level certificate in English. In addition, she is involved in creative activities and works on articles and theses.

Poetry from Axmedova Gulchiroyxon

I am Axmedova Gulchiroyxon, a second-year undergraduate student at Kokand State University, Faculty of Primary and Technological Education, specializing in Primary Education. I actively participate in numerous competitions and assessments.

Oh God, Take Away My Mother’s Pain

Oh God, take away my mother’s pain,

Her heart half-closed, her gaze in rain.

See how sorrow drives her to despair,

Longing for spring, tears fill the air.

Oh God, take away my mother’s pain,

I’ve yet to lead her on pilgrimage’s lane.

A heavy question weighs upon my soul,

Why each day I failed to make her whole.

Oh God, take away my mother’s pain,

Though I spoke my love, some days in vain.

Today my eyes at last open wide,

To cherish her, with nothing to hide.

Oh God, take away my mother’s pain,

Illness should not touch her radiant face again.

She says, “Waste no time, don’t let life fall,”

Yet I ignored her golden call.

Oh God, take away my mother’s pain,

Her trials and hardships she must sustain.

Her sweet words drip like gentle balm,

Her conversations bring the heart calm.

Oh God, take away my mother’s pain,

Let no tear fall from her eye again.

All her burdens, let me bear them all,

Keep her safe, let no harm befall.

Oh God, take away my mother’s pain,

My hands in prayer shall never wane.

It’s in Your power, O Lord above,

I beg You, answer my plea of love.

Oh God, take away my mother’s pain,

My gentle angel, pure heart’s domain.

Place the key of hope within my heart,

Her presence makes my whole life start.

Oh God, take away my mother’s pain,

Your healing shines as truth’s own reign.

As our people say with reverent call,

Heaven lies beneath a mother’s thrall.

Poetry from Mark Lipman

TAX THE RICH

Who says it has to be like this?

Tax the rich

With a debt ceiling falling in

Tax the rich

And a national economy bottoming out

Tax the rich

While the working class tightens its belt

Tax the rich

The yachting class is getting fat

Tax the rich

On subsidies for billionaires

Tax the rich

And oil companies

Tax the rich

Insurance companies rake it in

Tax the rich

While health care ceases to exist

Tax the rich

And education is being gutted

Tax the rich

While unions and immigrants are being blamed

Tax the rich

So that we can bailout the bankers

Tax the rich

With corporate welfare

Tax the rich

And global warfare

Tax the rich

Capitalization doesn’t work

Tax the rich

For 99% of this planet

Tax the rich

The system is imploding

Tax the rich

And the bombs, they keep exploding

Tax the rich

Tearing up our lives

Tax the rich

With the blood-thirsty shrapnel of their greed

Tax the rich

The measure of austerity is a grave

Tax the rich

No longer shall we be your slaves

Tax the rich

You can hear the drums beating

Tax the rich

It’s on everybody’s lips

Tax the rich

And it’s getting louder

Tax the rich

All together now

Tax the rich

And step forward into that brighter day.

Poetry from Jesus Rafael Marcano

The rose petals

rain and fall on the France…

Colour crimson reds!

When you wake up

you feel to the butterflies

like fluttering.

Leave memories

like several leaves

in the distant fall.

Jesús Rafael Marcano.

Haikus dedicated to the magical lands of France.

Jesús Rafael Marcano Guzmán, (Maturín, Venezuela, 1993)

Founder of Sakura Centro Cultural de Arte y Literatura Japonesa and the Jaykismo Movement. He is a member of the EIDOS International Artistic Movement (headquartered in France) and currently serves as President of the EIDOS International Artistic Movement, Venezuela-Asia chapter.

He stands out for his work as an author of bilingual works in Chinese and Spanish, establishing himself as an important promoter of Sinology and Asian literature in Ibero-America. He has published research on the influence of Chinese religion and philosophy on culture and language for the Association of Chinese Schools in Spain, one of which was translated into French and published in TingaNews Magazine (Burkina Faso, 2026).

He is a contributor to the cultural magazine China Bambú, Dragones y Tinta (Spain, 2025), the portal Japón desde Japón (2025), and a columnist for the Spanish newspaper Siglo XXI. His poetic work abroad includes the publication of haikus in English in the Greek magazine Homo Universalis (2026). In February 2026, the Greek magazine Polis Magazino published a series of his haikus in a bilingual Greek-English edition to commemorate World Greek Language Day, edited by Eva Petropoulou Lianou. This publication consolidates his work as a multilingual author and promoter of poetry and Asian literature in Ibero-America and Europe.

His most notable published works include Hanasaki (2021) and Haikus (2025) under the seal of Editorial Giraluna, among others.

Recognitions and Memberships:

· First place poetry prize at the first “Aventuras de papel” exhibition (Mar del Plata, 2024)

· Prof. Ciro Artemio Constantino Álvarez International Award by the Royal International Academy of Art and Literature (Mexico, 2024).

· Member of the Andrés Eloy Blanco Society of Poets.

· Member of the Latin American Poetry Route (Monagas State).

Poetry from Abigail George

The white gaze

“To create is to live twice.”

Albert Camus

“I used to think the goal was to be loved. Now I know it’s to be understood.”

Emma Thompson

We are kind to each other

The cooking utensil to the other 

cooking utensils in the drawer

The spoon to the other spoons, yes, everything 

must have its place, every trace 

of prey, each invisible doorway  

into the kitchen

What is courage, 

what is increase? It is only a

place to start

The garden is cool, 

the tree’s shade

My father’s voice

I murmur a response

The washing hangs on the line

My brother’s daughter strums 

a toy guitar, we have a 

butternut pizza for supper

We can’t get the boys out of the angry green sea,

nor can we get them out of the jacuzzi

The white gaze lies dormant

in the shade like our brown bodies

We put a plaster on her finger

the wound is bloodless now

I make iced matcha lattes for myself and my dad

I lick the white moustache off my upper lip

Overnight I have turned into a capitalist

My fingers into stars, my legs 

into a wave, the bead of the presenter’s 

tongue on the television into a fig

The current moves through me

This time it’s personal

It catches the light of the fire

inside my father, inside all of us

The smell of burning meat, drumsticks

The kitchen is time and memory

Legs are tanned, burned by the sun’s time and memory

The boys and my sister play a board game

My mother screams and screams at me

The room grows quiet

A pink geranium grows out of my mother’s throat

Something within me is crushed like a pill

Slowly the sun in my mother’s eyes

turns into a mocking face, a laugh

Its poison is killing me slowly. She is just a woman

and I am just a woman

The moment passes

The child starts to laugh too because my mother is laughing

I break, I break

A wave flows into me and I lose consciousness

It’s evening

The game continues

A woman walks by the house with her dog

The dog barks

There’s a white feather in my mouth

It tastes like snow

Going

“When we can’t think for ourselves, we can always quote.”

Ludwig Wittgenstein

I offer you cranberry bread.

I offer you this knife for the hard cheese.

I offer you this clock.

I offer you the dark.

I offer you this fruit.

I offer you this orange.

I offer you this as a blessing.

I offer you this sweetness.

I offer you this shroud.

I offer you this veil.

I offer you this truth.

I offer you this memory.

I offer you, Africa.

I offer you these gifts.

I offer you equality.

I offer you this ancient sea.

I offer you music.

I offer you this river.

I offer you this garden as meditation.

I offer you the history of this continent.

I offer you this as an alternative.

I offer this to you for our salvation.

I offer this to you because I love you.

I offer you this because today you are getting on a ship,

and sailing far away from me.

I offer you sleep, captor.

I offer you this forest that I dragged behind me

because you have the personality

of foolish paper and the medicine of the wildflower.

I offer you this frozen mist.

I am offering you this blue cat. Take it.

Please accept it gracefully.

Let it be your companion.

I offer the dissolution of the sun.

And now, now I come to peace.

Now I come to minister to you.

I bring you coffee and poetry books.

I will bring you a pen and an empty journal for your thoughts.

It was Christ who brought us this morning.

It is time. It is the hour of your departure.

I turn to embrace you, to say goodbye.

Waiting/Relapse

“Put down the pen someone else gave you.  No one drafted a life worth living on borrowed ink.”

Jack Kerouac

“Today I can’t stand myself, and I will force myself to write because you’re unhappy. So, I must mask the monster within and find the landing place. I must smile because I want to see you smile. I must count the days and remain quiet in your presence, because you are not at peace. This is what I tell my mind on bad days.”

I took a walk and found a poem.

It gave me good advice.

It told me to be kind to myself.

It told me to do the dishes,

to go for long walks.

That fresh air is good for me.

It told me to listen to my mother.

It told me to forgive my father.

That to fix my broken brain,

I had to love myself.

I live in the past.

I live inside this year of sadness.

You, the man, are no longer here.

I tell myself that I’m free.

I have no mother.

I have no father.

I am not a daughter anymore.

I have no sister.

I have no brother.

These days I keep to myself.

Birds inside my head.

Birds kept inside mental cages.

The cold sea is a great comfort.

Some nights this pain is endless.

Tonight, the garden is psychotic.

I have been put in isolation.

The door is locked from the outside.

I receive no visitors.

There are bars at the window.

Charles Bukowski’s ghost sits beside me.

He strokes my hair.

He makes me feel beautiful.

I took a sip of his beer.

It makes me feel warm inside, good.

I hear the women’s laughter.

They start throwing stones at me.

Even this pain is medicine.

Although it makes me feel mediocre.

Strong medicine like Chopin.

I finished the bottle.

I hid the green bottle away

under the sheets that felt like winter

I jumped out of the window.

The slow torture of night catches me.

Mrs Williams, the dead pastor’s wife,

told me to stop complaining. You’re alive

for a purpose: to dream, to have a child.

Live, she said. Find reasons to live.

I read a poem by Kobus Moolman.

I write to the Dutch English poet

Joop Bersee. Nothing makes the

darkness go away. My brother

locks me out of the house.

But first, his fist rains down on me.

I disappeared somewhere.

Once Rilke’s wife, always Rilke’s wife.

The cloud hurts.

The sun hurts.

The snail laughs at me.

You couldn’t even land a man, it says.

How to be great, I ask?

Be kind, Oprah says.

So, I am kind.

The world forgets all about me.

Just like my mother did.

On my birthday there was no cake

or presents. There were no red balloons.

I ate beans and rice in the kitchen

with my father. The stigma is refreshing.

The bones of madness is a gem, trivia.

I went on holiday to Provincial Hospital.

This trip taught me to understand others.

It taught me to understand myself more.

Nowadays when depressed I give myself flowers.

I keep my pain to myself.