MARCH 10 — It has been ten years since I first walked through the gates of Universiti Malaya as a trainee lecturer. There were pauses along the way. Years spent pursuing postgraduate degrees and years marked by self-doubt and quiet growth, but academia, I have learned, is remarkably consistent in its challenges. While I am no longer that trainee, each academic year adds not only experience but also distance.
The age gap between myself and my students widens steadily, and with it comes an ever-shifting language of slang, references, and attitudes. Time waits for no one, and sooner or later one learns that the only real choice is to adapt. Perhaps it is simply a matter of practising what we so often advise our students to do: listen, observe, and learn. Academia, after all, does not allow one to grow too comfortable for too long.
One challenge, however, has always unsettled me more than the rest, and I suspect many fellow academicians will recognise it immediately. It is the moment a student asks a question to which I do not know the answer. This I find problematic, though not always entirely disconcerting. Academics are often expected to project certainty, to appear as steady sources of knowledge and authority. Not knowing can feel like a personal failure.
At times, this awareness can resemble what is described as imposter syndrome, the quiet fear of being exposed as less capable than others assume. In academia, where achievement is visible and expectations are high, that feeling can surface more often than we admit. Perhaps this discomfort is not a sign of fraudulence, but a reminder of how much there still is to learn.
Recognising that I do not know may simply be an indication that I am beginning to understand the limits of my own understanding.
Perhaps this Ramadan is a fitting time to look back into history, to the night of Nuzul al-Quran, when the first revelation descended upon Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, in the Cave of Hira. The angel Jibril commanded, “Read.” The Prophet replied, with quiet honesty, “I am not one who reads.” This exchange occurred three times. He did not pretend to know what he did not. He did not attempt to mask his limitation. Only then were the opening verses of Surah Al-Alaq revealed.
Growing up, I heard this narration repeatedly, but its deeper significance never truly struck me until now. There is remarkable power in that simple response. The Prophet acknowledged his limitation openly and without embarrassment. The command to read was also a call to learn, to improve, and to transcend one’s current state.
As an academician, and as a lifelong student, perhaps the true lesson of Nuzul al-Quran is that knowledge begins with humility, curiosity, and sincerity. There is strength in knowing one’s limitations and honesty in admitting them.
More importantly, recognising what we do not know should never lead to stagnation, but instead to collective effort. We can take it a step further. Beyond simply saying “I do not know,” we can choose to find out and learn together. In doing so, we become equals in the pursuit of truth, and the age gap I once worried about may be bridged by the shared knowledge we gain along the way.
* Dr Amir Hazwan Abdul Rahim is a Lecturer and Forensic Odontologist at the Department of Oral and Maxillofacial Clinical Sciences, Faculty of Dentistry, Universiti Malaya, and can be reached at [email protected]
** This is the personal opinion of the writer or publication and does not necessarily represent the views of Malay Mail.
