The afternoon at the Islamic boarding school descended gently, carrying the scent of paper, ink, and dew on the courtyard. After Zuhur, an announcement on the bulletin board suddenly caught the attention of the students: "Registration for Arabic Calligraphy Extracurricular Activities is Now Open." The writing was decorated with simple vine-like ornaments, as if inviting anyone to come closer.
Zahra read the announcement while tilting her head. "Calligraphy, huh..." she muttered softly. She had been familiar with words, hadiths, and humor, but the art of writing beautiful Arabic letters? That was an area she had never seriously explored. Next to her, Nisa read along, her eyes sparkling calmly.
"This is perfect after yesterday's practical Arabic and hadith lessons," commented Nisa. "We've learned the meaning, now we'll learn the beauty of the form."
Lina followed, carrying several books. "I heard that the instructor is a boarding school alumnus who often wins provincial calligraphy competitions," she said, half in awe. "They say he's strict but very patient."
The name quickly spread: Ustadz Rafi. A senior student who was now studying in the city, but came every weekend specifically to teach calligraphy. The news spread quickly among the students like the wind, and Zahra was unconsciously swept up in the tide of curiosity.
"Are you signing up?" asked Aira, looking at Zahra with a searching gaze.
Zahra sighed dramatically. "My hands are usually used to make funny gestures, not beautiful strokes." But the small smile on the corner of her lips betrayed her nervousness. "But... maybe it's time for me to learn to laugh at myself while learning something new."
Finally, they agreed: Zahra, Nisa, Aira, Lina, and the twins Salsabila and Salsabi would sign up together. Their names were neatly written on the list of participants, mixed with several other students who had long admired the art of calligraphy.
That afternoon, the first extracurricular meeting began in the art room of the Islamic boarding school. The room was different from a regular classroom: the walls were covered with examples of calligraphy in various styles, several frames inscribed with verses from the Qur'an and hadiths, blackish-brown ink on the side, and a row of bamboo pens with slanted tips. In the corner, there was a shelf containing thick yellowish papers.
Zahra stepped inside and automatically lowered her voice. There was a kind of calm aura that forced her heart to be orderly. "Subhanallah... it's so beautiful," she whispered. She felt something different: it was as if the letters on the wall were not just shapes, but prayers frozen in lines.
Soon after, a young man with a thin beard and a gentle gaze entered the room, which was separated by a piece of cloth. It was Ustadz Rafi. He greeted them, his voice calm but authoritative.
"Welcome to the world of lines and dots," he said after everyone sat down. "Here, you will not only learn to write beautifully. You learn patience, precision, and respect for every letter that contains the words of Allah and the words of the Messenger."
Zahra swallowed hard. Those words immediately connected her mind to the hadith and Arabic lessons they had just completed. It was as if all the previous chapters in the Islamic boarding school were connected by a single thread: letters.
Ustadz Rafi lifted a bamboo pen. "This is not just a writing tool," he said. "The pen is a witness between intention and result. Your strokes will reflect what your hearts are like when you write."
"That's heavy, Ustadz," Zahra whispered to Nisa, but this time her joke was only soft, more like a way to calm herself down.
The first session began with an introduction to the tools:
- Bamboo pens and how to cut their tips.
- Thick black ink with a distinctive smell, making the room feel like a small workshop for manuscript copyists.
- Thick paper that should not be too rough or too smooth.
Each student was given a simple set. Zahra held the pen as if she were holding something fragile. "It's like holding a trust," she muttered, half joking, half afraid.
Ustadz Rafi asked his female assistant to walk slowly among them, observing how each student held the pen. "Don't tense your hands," she advised. "Let your wrists be flexible. Calligraphy requires a balance between control and looseness."
When she arrived at Zahra's table, Ustadz Rafi's assistant paused for a moment. "You're Zahra, right? The one who often helps with the sunnah discussion events?" asked Ustadz Rafi's assistant.
Zahra's cheeks immediately flushed. "Yes, Ustadzah. That is, if I'm not nervous."
"That means you are already used to stringing together words that are alive in people's ears," said Ustadz Rafi's assistant with a faint smile. "Now try to slowly learn to string together letters that are alive in people's eyes."
The words pierced her softly. Zahra nodded, this time without a joke in return. There was a slight feeling of emotion: as if someone had just shown her a new door in her life.
The exercise began with the basic strokes: thickening, thinning, lifting, and lowering the pen. The room was filled with the soft sound of bamboo scratching on paper. Salsabila sighed deeply several times because her lines were crooked. Salsabi busily tilted her head, hoping her letters would look better from another angle.
Zahra, on the other hand, found her lines breaking in the middle many times, as if her patience was also breaking.
"Why won't the lines stay straight?" she complained softly.
Nisa laughed softly. "Maybe because your heart still likes to wander."
"Cruel but true," replied Zahra, holding back a bitter smile.
But behind the humor, Zahra began to realize something. As she wrote the letters, her mind automatically returned to the verses and hadiths she had learned. Each curve of the letter 'mim' reminded her of the word 'rahmah'. Each stroke of the letter 'nun' reminded her of the word 'niyyah'. She felt as if she was rewriting the lessons of her life, only now in the form of lines.
Towards the end of the session, Ustadz Rafi's assistant gathered them to sit in a circle. In the middle of the circle, she spread out a large piece of paper with a simple but powerful calligraphic sentence written on it:
"اَلْعِلْمُ نُوْرٌ" – *Knowledge is light.*
"You may have heard this sentence many times," said Ustadz Rafi's assistant, looking at each of their tired but bright faces. "In this extracurricular activity, you are learning how that light takes shape. The knowledge you learn in class—hadith, Arabic, tafsir—all have a spirit. Calligraphy is a way of immortalizing that spirit in a form that can be seen and felt."
Zahra stared at the writing for a long time. The thick and thin strokes, the curves of the letters, felt like breath frozen on paper. For the first time, she felt that art was not an escape from knowledge, but another way to bow down to Him.
When the session ended, the sun was already setting, reflecting golden light onto the windows of the art room. Zahra carefully put away her tools. On her paper, there were still only practice lines and a few Arabic letters that were not yet perfect. But in her heart, it was as if a new letter had been clearly printed: determination.
In the hallway leading to the dormitory, Nisa walked beside her. "So, our humor writer? Still want to continue with calligraphy?"
Zahra sighed deeply, then smiled slightly. "I think... this is the first time I've felt forced to be patient with letters. All this time, I've been playing with words. Now, those words seem to be laughing at me."
"So, are you giving up?"
Zahra shook her head firmly. "No. If knowledge is light, I want to learn to write its small sparkles. Slowly. So that one day when I talk about sunnah, about hadith, people will not only hear it with their ears... but also see its traces on the walls, on paper, in their hearts."
Their footsteps merged with the hustle and bustle of the Islamic boarding school as dusk approached. Behind them, the art room slowly darkened, but on the table were left sheets of paper with the first strokes of the students: imperfect, but honest.
And without them realizing it, between those lines, a new chapter was being written—a chapter where letters, knowledge, and hearts began to meet in a circle called Arabic calligraphy.
---
The following week, the calligraphy room felt more "serious." The pens had been neatly trimmed, the ink bottles arranged, and on the blackboard, Ustadz Rafi wrote a large sentence:
"Calligraphy Practicum & Assessment Section"
Zahra, who had just entered, immediately furrowed her brow. "Wow, it's like a thesis exam," she whispered to Nisa.
Ustadz Rafi cleared his throat softly. "Before you go too far with your practice, you must know what exactly is being assessed in a calligraphy piece. It's not just 'beautiful' or 'not beautiful'. There are indicators, there are rubrics. So that you can measure yourselves, not just guess."
The students began to sit up straighter. Among them, there was a mixture of curiosity and anxiety. Zahra gripped her pen a little tighter, as if preparing to receive a verdict.
"First," said Ustadz Rafi as he drew straight and curved lines on the board, "we talk about the correctness of the letter forms (khath). This includes:
- Whether each letter is written according to the rules—the proportions are correct, the height and width are balanced.
- Whether the connections between letters are in accordance with the rules of the type of khat used, for example, Naskhi or Diwani.
"If the letters themselves are misshapen," he continued, "then no matter how beautiful the decorations are, the calligraphy is weak at its foundation."
Zahra swallowed hard. She remembered her lines, which were still slanted, and the letter 'ha', which often looked like a limping onion.
"So, the first indicator: Letter Accuracy," Ustadz Rafi wrote on the board, then added a small scale next to it:
- 4 = Very accurate
- 3 = Accurate
- 2 = Fair, still some errors in form
- 1 = Many errors in basic form
"This will be part of your practical assessment rubric," he explained. "And this rubric is not just for the competition, but for yourselves: a tool for reflection."
Nisa raised her hand. "So, if the letters are correct, then we move on to the next assessment?"
"That's right," replied Ustadz Rafi. "The second: Neatness & Consistency of Lines. Here we assess:
- Line thickness: whether your qalam produces consistent thick-thin gradations.
- Neatness of line ends: no 'fuzziness', no ink smudges.
- Stability of strokes: no shaking or breaking without aesthetic reason."
Salsabi sighed softly. "Like attitude grades: consistent or unstable."
The whole class chuckled, including Ustadz Rafi. "That's a good analogy. You will be assessed on the same scale, 1–4. This is the second indicator."
Then, Ustadz Rafi erased some of the writing and replaced it with new words: Composition & Layout.
"Third, this is what often makes calligraphy look 'wow' or 'ordinary'. Composition is the arrangement:
- Balance between empty and filled spaces.
- The flow of the letters: whether the reader's eyes can comfortably follow the flow.
- The placement of the main text and additional text, if any."
Aira nodded slowly. "So it's not just writing in the middle of the paper, right?"
"In fact, beauty often comes from the courage to use space creatively, while still respecting the text," explained Ustadz Rafi. "The scale is the same: 1–4."
Zahra began to take notes earnestly, this time without comment. In her head, she began to imagine how a short hadith could be "arranged" on paper, just as she used to arrange storylines or jokes when hosting events.
"Fourth," he continued, "Text & Intent Suitability. This may sound abstract, but it's important:
- Does the text you choose match the form and style of the calligraphy?
- Does the choice of words and verses seem random, or has their meaning been carefully considered?
- Does your work radiate respect for the words written?"
"This is also assessed?" asked Lina, a little surprised.
"Yes. Don't write the lafaz jalalah carelessly, while the decoration is more intentional than the letters. Here, sometimes the teacher will assess through a small discussion: you are asked to explain the reason for choosing the text."
Zahra immediately felt touched. "So... it's like intention in charity, right? Calligraphy is the same."
Ustadz Rafi nodded. "Exactly. Calligraphy is charity. Your pen can be a witness to your intentions."
Finally, he wrote on the board: Aesthetic Expression & Creativity.
"Fifth, now about 'artistic taste':
- The uniqueness of personal style, as long as it does not violate the rules.
- Visual strength: does the work 'speak' when viewed.
- The suitability of colors (if colored) to the mood of the text."
"This part should not be rushed," he added. "Creativity grows after the foundation is secure."
He then drew a simple table on the board—the rubric for their calligraphy practicum:
- Accuracy of letters (1–4)
- Neatness & consistency of lines (1–4)
- Composition & layout (1–4)
- Text & intent suitability (1–4)
- Aesthetic expression & creativity (1–4)
"The maximum total score is 20. You will get a score, then special notes for each indicator. So, don't be surprised if your score is high in creativity but low in letter accuracy—or vice versa. That's an indication of the areas that need improvement."
Zahra raised her hand, this time seriously. "Ustadz, if our scores are bad at first, does that mean we have no talent?"
Ustadz Rafi looked at her longer. "If the pen could be perfect with just one stroke, there would be no such thing as 'practice'. Scores are not a verdict on talent, Zahra. They are a map for practice."
The room fell silent. Those words felt like a gentle punch to each student's chest. Salsabila looked down, remembering her messy letters. Aira gripped her ruler tighter. Nisa closed her notebook for a moment, absorbing it.
"Starting from this meeting until the next three weeks," continued Ustadz Rafi, "you will undergo calligraphy practice. Each week, there will be one assignment:
- This week: practice writing the complete Hijaiyah alphabet in one style of calligraphy. You will be assessed on the accuracy of the letters and the neatness of the lines.
- Next week: compose short words and phrases, which will also be assessed on composition.
- Third week: the final assignment will be a short text (verse or hadith), which will be assessed using a complete rubric."
"So, your practice chapter now is no longer just a 'good feeling', but a clear indicator."
Zahra stared at the blank sheet in front of her. In her mind, she began to imagine writing a sentence from a hadith that had once changed her perspective: about intention, about smiling as charity, or about mercy. But now, she realized: writing it on paper meant taking responsibility for it in form.
When the exercise began, the atmosphere in the art room changed: it became quieter, but also more lively. Occasionally, there were long sighs, the soft sound of rulers being put down, and quiet complaints when the ink was too thick.
Amidst the tangled lines, Zahra suddenly smiled slightly. "It turns out," she whispered to herself, "this rubric is very similar to life."
- Accuracy of letters: like accuracy of attitude.
- Neatness of lines: like consistency in worship.
- Composition: like how to manage time and priorities.
- Suitability of text & intention: like the reason for doing something.
- Aesthetics & creativity: like how to color goodness.
She held back a small laugh. "If my life were judged by this rubric, I think I would still get a 2 in many aspects," she muttered.
However, instead of despairing, that feeling ignited her determination. With every line that was still awkward, Zahra felt she was given a new opportunity to improve—not only the letters on paper, but the letters that had long been written in the journey of her life.
Towards the end of the session, Ustadz Rafi's assistant went around, writing small notes in the corners of the students' papers: circles around incorrect letters, stars around good strokes, and a sentence or two of encouragement.
On Zahra's paper, she simply wrote:
"The form is still wrong in many places. But there is a strong 'feeling'. Keep your intentions pure, practice your hand."
Zahra stared at the note for a long time. It felt like receiving an honest report card, but one that didn't crush her hopes.
As she left the art room, dusk was falling over the boarding school. The rubrics and indicators that had sounded intimidating earlier now felt like a mirror that cleansed, not punished.
In her head, Zahra whispered softly, "If one day I am judged by the rubric on Allah's side... may the lines of my life not be too messy."
And her steps merged with those of her friends, carrying with them pens, sheets of paper filled with exercises, and a rubric that was quietly beginning to change the way they viewed art—and life.
---
The call to afternoon prayer had just finished echoing when Zahra hurried to the art room, breathing a little heavily. In her hand, the folder containing last week's practice sheets felt heavier than it should have. Today, Ustadz Rafi would return their first assignment—complete Hijaiyah letter practice—with a grade based on the rubric explained yesterday. For some reason, the word "rubric," which had previously sounded academic, now felt like something that could stir up emotions.
Upon entering the room, Zahra saw that the tables had been arranged, and in front of them, stacks of practice papers were waiting to be distributed. The students' faces were a mixture of emotions: some looked relaxed, some fidgeted with the ends of their pens, and others just stared blankly out the window. Nisa waved her small hand, signaling that the seat next to her was still empty.
"You look like you're about to be judged, not about to see your assignment grades," whispered Nisa softly.
"Of course. This is a mini version of a 'life report card'," replied Zahra, trying to joke, even though her voice sounded dry.
Soon, Ustadz Rafi entered with calm steps. After a brief greeting and prayer, he stood up and handed something to his assistant in front of the blackboard, who was holding a stack of papers. "Today, I will return your first assignment. Remember, this score is not a stamp of talent, but a training map. Read the notes carefully, not just the numbers in the corner."
One by one, names were called. The papers changed hands, accompanied by brief comments: "Nice letters but shaky lines... Decent composition, but many basic form errors... High neatness, but not bold enough in filling the space..."
When her name was called, Zahra's heart leapt. She stepped forward and accepted the paper with both hands. In the upper right corner, the numbers were written:
Letter accuracy: 2
Neatness & line consistency: 3
Total: 5 out of 8 for the first two indicators.
Not a bad score, but far from "proud" in her eyes. But what was more intriguing was the note below:
"Many letters are helped by neat lines, but they are not yet 'themselves'. Keep practicing. Let the letters mature, don't rush to polish them."
Zahra stared at the writing for a long time. "The letters haven't become themselves yet..." she muttered. "Am I practicing calligraphy or personality counseling?"
Nisa peeked. Her score was slightly higher. "I got a 3 for letter accuracy and a 3 for neatness. But the comment is almost the same: still stiff and too careful."
On the other side of the room, Salsabila looked gloomy. She only got a 1 for letter accuracy; many of her shapes were wrong. Salsabi gently put her arm around her shoulder. "It's okay, we'll practice together. The rubric is just a guide, not a wall."
After all the papers were distributed, Ustadz Rafi asked them to focus. "Now we move on to the next material: arranging words and short phrases. This touches on the indicators of composition and layout. Here, you don't just think about letters, but also the 'breath' between those letters."
He drew an imaginary box on the board, then wrote one word: "نور" - nur, light.
"Pay attention," he said. "You can write 'nur' in the middle, small, neat. The accuracy of the letters can be good. But the composition? Maybe just average. If you lengthen the letter 'waw' a little, balance the position of 'nun' and 'ra' against the edge of the paper, give it proportional white space—suddenly this word has a visual voice."
He then drew several different variations in the same box. The students were stunned. Something that was once just "writing" now looked like a design with character.
"Your second exercise," he continued, "is to write a single word or short phrase—choose something simple but meaningful. Examples: 'الصبر', 'الصدق', or 'نور'. The assessment criteria are:
- Accuracy of letters (still assessed, equal weight).
- Neatness & consistency of lines.
- Composition & layout: placement on paper, balance, and visual comfort."
Zahra raised her hand. "Ustadz, if we choose a word that we like in terms of meaning, will that affect the assessment?"
"In terms of numbers, not directly," replied Ustadz Rafi. "But in terms of spirit, yes. Usually, if you understand and like the word, your handwriting will be more 'alive'. And later, in the final assignment, the indicators of text suitability and intention will really be felt."
They began to choose words. At Zahra's table, there was a small debate with herself.
"If I choose 'الصبر'—patience—I'm afraid it will be like a prayer that will be tested immediately," she whispered.
"If you choose 'الصدق'—honesty—then you have to be prepared to be tested too," interrupted Nisa. "But aren't we tested every day anyway?"
Zahra finally took a deep breath and wrote slowly in the upper corner of the paper: "النية" – an-niyyah, intention.
"Why that?" asked Nisa softly.
"Because since the hadith lesson and this calligraphy section, I feel like I've been beaten up by that one word," replied Zahra. "Let me see how honest my intentions are when I write."
The exercise began. The atmosphere in the art room turned into a laboratory of silence. The qalam danced slowly, the ink occasionally too heavy, but she tried to control it. Occasionally, a soft murmur of istighfar was heard when the ink dripped in the wrong place.
Zahra opened the letter form guide, making sure the 'alif' wasn't too fat, the 'nun' wasn't too squat, and the 'ya' wasn't too long. But this time, she also thought about the distance between the words and the edge of the paper, the height, and the direction of the eye's flow.
"Composition is like the way you tell a story to other people's eyes," Ustadz Rafi's words echoed in her mind. "If it's too narrow, people feel cramped. If it's too loose, people lose their direction."
In the middle of the exercise, Ustadz Rafi's assistant walked around. He stopped for quite a while at Zahra's table.
"The words you chose... are heavy," he commented softly.
"As heavy as too much ink, Ustadzah," replied Zahra, trying to joke.
Ustadz Rafi's assistant smiled faintly. "Your lines are starting to be bold. But look here," he pointed to the connection between the letters 'nun' and 'ya'. "It's still hesitant. Like someone who intends to move forward, but whose eyes still often look back."
The comment struck her more deeply than she expected. Zahra nodded slowly. "So, besides my lines, my heart must also be straightened, right?"
"Good calligraphy always forces the writer to improve before their work is neat," replied Ustadz Rafi's assistant, then walked away.
Towards the end of the session, almost all of the students had one word that they wrote repeatedly with variations in composition. The walls of the art room were slowly filled with temporary practice papers: there were 'نور', 'صبر', 'صدق', 'رحمة', and other words that they chose themselves.
Ustadz Rafi stood in the middle of the room, inviting them to look at the wall together.
"Look," he said. "We can read this wall like we can read your hearts. Some of the letters are still messy, but the composition is bold—a sign of courage that needs guidance. Some of the letters are neat but placed too safely in the middle—afraid to try new ways. Some of the lines are smooth but too thin—need more confidence."
Zahra scanned them one by one with her gaze. Suddenly she realized that yesterday's rigid and formal practicum had now become a large mirror: not only for their work, but for the way they went through the process.
In her heart, she whispered, "If only life had such clear indicators. If you make a mistake, there are notes in the margins, not just regrets afterwards."
But perhaps, she thought later, life also has a rubric—only it is not written on paper. She remembered the hadith lesson about intention, patience, honesty, and mercy: all of which are like invisible indicators that will determine their true value before Allah.
When the session was almost over, Ustadz Rafi closed with a sentence that made the room seem to sigh.
"In this extracurricular activity, you are learning two things at once: arranging letters on paper and arranging yourselves in time. Don't be afraid of small scores at the beginning. Be afraid if you stop straightening the lines while your own lives are still winding."
Zahra looked at the word "النية" she had just written. Its shape was not yet perfect, its composition not yet special. But this time, she felt calmer.
If the practical section was a map, she was ready to walk that path slowly—with a pen in her right hand and unceasing prayers in her heart.
---
That afternoon, the sky above the Islamic boarding school was golden, as if holding its breath for something important. The art room had been prepared since noon: tables were covered with clean cloths, special calligraphy paper was neatly arranged, new pens were sharpened, and bottles of ink were lined up like a small army ready to be deployed to the battlefield. Today, the final project that had been haunting the students' minds since last week was finally beginning.
Zahra entered the room with slow steps. In her hand, the folder containing the sketch of the text "إِنَّمَا الأَعْمَالُ بِالنِّيَّاتِ" felt heavier than usual. She glanced briefly at the walls of the room, which were now covered with her friends' practice words and phrases. Each piece of paper seemed to speak: some were bold, some were hesitant, some were too safe.
"Ready?" Nisa gently nudged Zahra's shoulder from the side.
"Honestly? No," Zahra replied softly. "But if I wait until I'm ready, the line will never be drawn."
Before Nisa could answer, Ustadz Rafi was already standing in front of the class. His face was calm, but there was a contagious seriousness about him. After his assistant led a short greeting and prayer, he scanned the entire room with his gaze.
"Today," he said, "we are not just 'drawing letters'. You will write sentences containing verses or hadiths, something that has been alive in your lessons all this time. The paper you hold will carry traces of your intentions, sincerity, and humility."
He repeated the final project assessment criteria—accuracy of letters, neatness of lines, composition, suitability of text and intention, as well as aesthetic expression and creativity—then added something he had not mentioned before.
"And there is one thing that is not written in the criteria," he said softly, "and that is how much you 'dialogue' with the text you write. Only you and Allah know that."
Silence enveloped the room. Some students bowed their heads, some sighed deeply. Inside each of their hearts, it was as if a small door had been knocked on.
Ustadz Rafi's assistant then handed out special paper—thicker, slightly textured, with thin, almost invisible margins. "This is your main paper. There are no backups. If you make a big mistake and really need to redo it, we'll talk about it later. But ideally, you should prepare yourself as best as possible and be careful with every stroke of your pen."
Zahra swallowed hard. "Just one sheet?"
Nisa patted her hand gently. "It feels like one chance in a lifetime, doesn't it?"
"Exactly..." Zahra murmured.
Before giving the signal to start, Ustadz Rafi held them back for a moment. "Before writing, please sit quietly. Close your eyes for a moment. Read the istighfar, then intend: 'I write this not for praise, but to glorify Your words.' After that, you may begin."
The art room, which was usually filled with whispers, suddenly fell silent. Several heads bowed, some pairs of eyes closed. In that silence, Zahra whispered softly in her heart:
"O Allah, You know that the lines of my life are still messy. But allow me today to write this one sentence with a more sincere intention than before. If my letters are still wrong, do not let my intentions be crooked."
When she opened her eyes, the white paper no longer felt like just a medium, but a kind of trust. The pen in her hand trembled slightly—not because she was afraid of making a mistake, but because she realized she was starting something bigger than an extracurricular activity.
"Please begin," Ustadz Rafi's voice broke the silence.
The first strokes were heard: simultaneous, yet each carrying its own story. Black ink began to flow, picking up line after line. Zahra began with the letter "إِنَّمَا": a small alif with a hamzah above it, followed by a nun that had to be firm but graceful. She remembered each correction from her practice: not too thick, not too thin, not too slanted.
In the middle of the second letter, her hand hesitates. The line appears slightly broken. Her breath catches. "Don't panic," she reassures herself. "Pull back slowly. This isn't a speed contest."
In another row, Salsabila appears to be struggling with the text "الرَّاحِمُونَ يَرْحَمُهُمُ الرَّحْمٰنُ". Several times she lifted her pen, wiping the sweat from her palms on the edge of her headscarf. Salsabi, next to her, whispered, "Slowly, Bil. Remember, we're not just writing God's promise of mercy. We are being asked to reflect: how far have we come in becoming compassionate people?"
Salsabila nodded, her jaw tightening to hold back her emotions. The next letter she wrote, "راء," appeared more confident.
In the corner of the room, there were also students who chose verses about water as the source of life. Their compositions were in the form of gentle waves, as if the letters were truly flowing. There were also those who chose short prayers, arranging the words simply but cleanly.
Meanwhile, Ustadz Rafi's assistant walked around without saying much. Occasionally, he would stop behind a student, observing from a distance, then giving a small gesture with shes hand: tilt it a little more, don't press too hard, lift the pen at a certain point. She didn't want to break their concentration with too many words. Today, let the letters do the talking.
On Zahra's paper, the text slowly began to take shape: "إِنَّمَا الأَعْمَالُ بِالنِّيَّاتِ". After completing the last series of letters, she stared at it for a long time. There was still some stiffness, still a slight imbalance in some parts, but this time she did not want to ruin it right away.
To finish, she added a simple ornament: a smooth curved line underneath, like a slight smile that refrained from being excessive. She left the space above empty—like the sky waiting for deeds to be sent by intentions.
When the time was almost up, Ustadz Rafi asked everyone to stop writing, even if there were still parts they wanted to redo. "Enough. Leave a little dissatisfaction within yourselves. That is fuel for the next exercise," he said.
He then asked them to place their work on the front of their respective desks, then stand back a step or two. After that, Ustadz Rafi's assistant distributed small pieces of paper for reflection.
"Write honestly," she said, "two things:
1. Why did you choose that text?
2. How did you feel while working on it?"
Zahra looked down and wrote slowly:
"I chose this hadith because during the previous chapters on intention, hadith, and calligraphy, I felt like I was always being forced to reflect. It turns out that it is very easy to hide behind words, but it is more difficult to be honest with your own lines.
While working on it, I wanted to redo it several times because I felt it was not perfect. But I realized that life does not give us many chances to start over from scratch. So, I learned to accept the lines that had already been drawn, while promising to improve the next ones."
She paused for a moment, then added one last sentence: "If my work is judged to be lacking, I hope that what you see more is my effort to straighten my intentions, not just the letters."
The reflections were collected along with the calligraphy works. The room suddenly felt like a place of gentle weighing: not a verdict, but a surrender.
Before they dispersed, Ustadz Rafi stood up again in front of the class. On the table beside him, all the works were neatly arranged, lined up like small rows of letters ready to "pray" before the assessment.
"Children," his voice was softer than usual, "you have done something that not everyone has the opportunity to do: writing noble words with your own hands, while learning to organize your hearts. The grades will be released next week based on the rubric we have agreed upon. But starting today, there is another 'grade' that will not be announced on the board, only recorded between you and your Lord."
He spoke to the students in front of him, separated by a cloth partition. "This practice does not end here. Every time you write the name of Allah, a verse, a prayer, or even a single good word, this rubric will come alive again. You will continue to be tested: how accurate your letters are, how neat your lines are, how balanced your composition is, how sincere your intentions are, and how beautifully you benefit others."
Zahra felt her throat tighten. She looked down, holding back the warmth in the corners of her eyes. In her heart, she whispered,
"So, this isn't just an extracurricular activity. It's like a small hut within a hut: a place where letters teach humans to be more human."
As they left one by one, the art room slowly emptied. Only rows of calligraphy papers remained on the table, quills resting, and the lingering scent of ink floating in the air. Above all that, it was as if an unwritten lesson hung in the air: that behind every line, there was always a story of searching, intention, and hope for improvement.
And outside, the sky, which had been golden, was now turning dusky, as if closing one chapter of practice—to open a new chapter in the lives of the students who were now taking home not only knowledge, but also reflection.
---
The days following the announcement of the final project grades, the calligraphy club did not immediately disband. In fact, the art room felt more alive. The selected works to be displayed were taken to the boarding school's regular frame maker, while the others were returned to their owners as "visual report cards" that could be kept or posted in their respective rooms.
One afternoon, after classes were over, Zahra deliberately returned to the art room alone. The door was slightly open; from inside she could hear the sound of paper being turned over. It turned out that Ustadz Rafi's assistant was selecting a few more works, marking certain corners with a fine pencil.
"Assalamu'alaikum..." Zahra appeared in the doorway, half hesitant.
"Wa'alaikumussalam," replied Ustadz Rafi's assistant, turning shes head and smiling. "Come in, Zahra. This room belongs to everyone who wants to continue learning."
Zahra stepped inside, her eyes immediately drawn to a large frame that had just been temporarily mounted on the wall: a collection of several students' works arranged like a mosaic of letters. In the middle, she recognized a sentence that was very close to her heart: "إِنَّمَا الأَعْمَالُ بِالنِّيَّاتِ".
Noticing her gaze, Ustadz Rafi's assistant turned his head. "That's one of the series that will be displayed in the main corridor. So that everyone who passes by can get two things at once: beauty and a reminder."
Zahra smiled stiffly. "It feels like every time I see it, I'm reminded, 'Hey, you wrote this, how far have you gone in being honest with your intentions?
"That's good," said Ustadz Rafi's assistant softly. "It means your work is still alive. A truly alive work isn't just admired, but one that keeps inviting its creator to reflect."
They were silent for a moment. In that silence, Zahra took a small folder out of her bag. Inside were several new practice sheets: the same letters, the same sentences, but with different variations in lines and composition.
"Are you still practicing with that text?" asked Ustadz Rafi's assistant, a little surprised.
Zahra nodded. "At first, I just wanted my handwriting to improve. But over time, every time I write, I feel like I'm filling out another 'assessment sheet'. Not an extracurricular rubric, but a kind of... personal rubric. Like: how much intention do I have today? How much patience? How much sincerity?"
She laughed briefly, a little embarrassed. "Maybe it sounds exaggerated, right?"
"No," Ustadz Rafi's assistant replied softly. "That is precisely the point that many people miss: connecting what the hands do with what is in the heart."
Zahra then sat down on one of the chairs, looking at the practice sheets. Some of the letters were much more confident than in yesterday's final project. The lines were not too shaky, and the connections between letters were neater. However, there were still a few imperfections here and there—which, strangely enough, no longer made her want to tear up the paper.
"I used to think that grades were the end of everything," she said softly. "Once the numbers came out, it was over. It turns out that after the final project, it's like a 'new thing' has opened up."
Ustadz Rafi's assistant leaned on the table, looking at him intently. "That's how an evaluation should be. If you stop learning after being evaluated, then something is wrong—either in the way it is evaluated or in the way you accept the grade."
He then took a blank sheet of paper and wrote a simple word: "قلب" – heart. The letters were upright, clean, and felt "full."
"Zahra, did you know," she said, "in many studies about calligraphy programs in Islamic boarding schools, it is often mentioned that practicing writing letters, verses, and prayers not only improves hand skills, but also fosters interest, historical awareness, and a more refined inner attitude. However, all of that only happens if the teacher does not only focus on results, and the students do not only seek praise."
Zahra nodded slowly. "So, this extracurricular activity has quietly become a place for evaluating three things: the hands, the mind, and the heart."
"More or less," replied Ustadz Rafi's assistant.
Soon, there was a soft knock on the door. Nisa, Salsabila, and Salsabi peeked in. "Sorry, are we interrupting?"
"Come in," replied Ustadz Rafi's assistant. "We're talking about the fate of letters and hearts."
They joined them. Salsabila brought her work that had not been selected for display, but it was very meaningful to her: the curved writing "الرَّاحِمُونَ يَرْحَمُهُمُ الرَّحْمٰنُ".
"I want to ask you something, Ustadzah," she said, staring at her paper. "If this work is only average, but because of writing this I have become more careful in talking to friends and more patient, does that count as 'extra credit'?"
"It counts," replied Ustadz Rafi's assistant firmly. "But not on a paper report card. It's the report card that you will take home to the afterlife."
Salsabi chimed in, "I also feel that since I started practicing writing letters, I have become more careful when reading the Quran. I used to skip around, but now I read more slowly because I can picture the shape of the letters."
"That is also part of the fruits of practice," said Ustadz Rafi's assistant. "Programs like this are often evaluated in terms of objectives, material, methods, facilities, interest, and learning outcomes. But the most difficult to measure are the 'intangible learning outcomes': attention, sensitivity, and respect."
Zahra looked up. "Respect?"
"Yes," she replied. "Respect for letters, for sentences, for knowledge, for time, and for yourself. You learn that writing 'اسم الله' cannot be done carelessly. You learn that the paper used is not the same paper for meaningless scribbling. You learn that practice time should not be spent just joking around. It's all part of manners."
A soft silence crept in. The word "adab" echoed in their heads, connecting everything that had come before: practical Arabic lessons, discussions of hadith, analogies of intention, and now calligraphy. It turned out that everything led to one point: how to be a more self-aware servant.
"So, this lesson..." Zahra muttered, half to herself, "isn't just about art club. It's about how Allah gives us another way to reflect, through the letters we write."
Nisa nodded. "And through the assessment rubric, which seemed cold at first, but turned out to be food for thought."
Salsabila smiled slightly. "And through the frames in the hallway that make our hearts race every time we pass by."
They laughed softly together. The tense atmosphere slowly melted away.
Before they dispersed, Ustadz Hasan's assistant entered carrying several finished frames. "These are the future occupants of our new corridor," she said. "So that later, when other students pass by, they will not only see the colors and shapes, but also be reminded that behind all that is a long process: from trembling letters, sore hands, to small tears that may fall silently when feeling of failure."
She placed one of the frames on the table: inside it, Zahra's calligraphy of "إِنَّمَا الأَعْمَالُ بِالنِّيَّاتِ" looked different. The paper was covered with clear glass, and the wooden frame was simple yet warm. For some reason, in Zahra's eyes, all the technical flaws she had seen before now seemed to melt away, becoming part of the honesty of the process.
"Sometimes," said Ustadz Hasan's assistant softly, "what makes a work worthy of display is not because it is perfect, but because it is honest. Like our lives: they will never be completely neat, but hopefully honest enough for us to be accountable for."
Zahra held her breath. In that moment, she felt that the lessons she had been learning were slowly coming together: that this extracurricular activity was not a light epilogue after the heavy topics of hadith and intention, but a bridge that taught her that knowledge could be transformed into lines, colors, and space—and that it all came back to the same point: a heart that was learning to be straight.
When they left the art room, the boarding school corridor was still empty. On the wall, several nails had been hammered in, ready to welcome the frames of those letters. Zahra imagined the day when all the students would walk here, perhaps without knowing who the owner of each work was, but still gaining something: a piece of reflection, a line of questions, a glimmer of light.
In her heart, she said a short prayer,
"O Allah, just as You taught letters to humans who previously knew nothing, teach us to write life better. If our letters are crooked, straighten them. If the ink of our intentions begins to fade, refresh it. And if the paper of our lives is almost finished, do not let it end without meaning."
This lesson may soon be replaced by new lessons in the journey of the Islamic boarding school. But for Zahra and her friends, those calligraphic strokes have become silent notes that they will continue to carry—longer than the ink that clings to the paper.