Through the Lens - The Day I Spoke to a Leaf

Tomorrow is Tuesday, and I have science class. Yes, SCIENCE.

I couldn’t contain my excitement. The butterflies in my stomach had turned into birds, beating their wings wildly. For two weeks, we had only read about the unseen world of science, but tomorrow, we would finally see it. A real microscope, donated by UNICEF, was coming to our school—the first technological device we had ever owned. It felt like science fiction.

“Mom, can I wear my school uniform tonight?” I asked quietly, full of hope.

She sighed and said, “I will wake you up early, so don’t wear your uniform to bed.” She seemed a bit irritated—who wouldn’t be after being asked the same question fourteen times, perhaps nineteen, as she argued.

I had spent days imagining what it would feel like to see the tiny vascular system of a leaf. Still, waiting was unavoidable. What if someone breaks it? I worried about myself. Then I reassured myself just as quickly, No, no, don’t be ridiculous, Nilab. Mrs. Sadat would never allow that. Yet the fear lingered.

Tuesday, 5:30 a.m.

I woke up before the sun. The morning air was cold, but excitement carried me forward. I performed my morning prayer, asking the Lord to protect the device and allow me to see through the lens. I rushed out so fast that I didn’t hear my mother calling my name for her sweet halwa breakfast or my father laughing at my impatience. Somehow, I made it to our dusty school library. And there it was!

The microscope sat quietly on the table—gray, with a scratched base. I didn’t care. To me, it looked like a portal. For a moment, it felt as if the famous Professor Proton from a science fiction show had stepped into our classroom.

“How does this device make tiny veins appear so large?” I asked, unable to hide my excitement.

“Hold your horses, Nilab. You will see,” Mrs. Sadat replied with a knowing smile.

She placed a thin glass slide onto the stage and gently laid a small leaf on it. Her focus was so intense it felt like surgery.

“Go for it,” she said.

I pointed to myself.

“Me?”

“Yes, you,” Mrs. Sadat replied with a smile.

I couldn’t reach the table easily—my height was too short—so I raised myself onto my toes to be a bit taller. When I lowered my eye to the lens, the world disappeared.

A simple leaf transformed into a galaxy of minute bridges—veins branching like rivers, cells forming intricate, city-like patterns. I was afraid to blink, worried the labyrinth might vanish. But it didn’t.

I forgot the stale, metallic smell of the library. I didn’t hear my teacher asking me to let the next student look. I was completely hooked.

That small leaf, picked from the school garden, became more than a specimen. It became a mentor, guiding me along my path. That early spark created a road toward medical school—the path to becoming a doctor, someone who finds cures and brings hope.

Later, my school was taken away. The microscope was taken from my hands. The university and its classes were taken too.

Still, I will remember that moment forever, the moment I found my spark. It was the first time I truly saw the different patterns of life: delicate, fragile, yet astonishing.

The microscope is no longer in my hands; it lives in my soul, acting like a lantern—lighting my path and urging me to move forward.