DNA and Beyond: Between Science and Philosophy

Genetics & Epigenetics

DNA, translated into Arabic as “deoxyribonucleic acid,” is commonly referred to simply as the genetic material. Its full English name is Deoxyribonucleic Acid. It is the hereditary material found inside the cells of living organisms, carrying the genetic instructions responsible for building the body, regulating its functions, and determining inherited traits.

To simplify the idea: DNA can be imagined as a vast library of instructions, the code of life, or the biological blueprint of a living being. It is composed of a precise arrangement of four chemical units that resemble “letters” forming the language of genetics. These four units are called nitrogenous bases, the fundamental letters with which the “language of life” is written within DNA.

Where does the miracle lie? Not in the letters themselves, but in their arrangement. Just as rearranging letters creates different words, and changing words creates different meanings, rearranging the letters of DNA creates different forms of life.

For a long time, humanity lived captive to an idea that seemed both scientific and logical: that genes were the ultimate rulers of our lives, and that whatever was written within our cells constituted an unavoidable destiny. If someone inherited a disease, they surrendered to it. If they were born with a particular psychological or physical predisposition, they accepted it as though it were an inescapable decree.

But science itself—the very force that created this old certainty—has now returned to shake it at its roots.

The field of Epigenetics, or “what lies above genes,” emerged to tell us something astonishing: genes are not always destiny; they are possibility. DNA is not a closed text, but a living book whose pages may be opened or sealed according to how we live, think, eat, love, and suffer.

Scientists discovered that humans inherit not only genes, but also “the way those genes are activated.” Here begins the intellectual revolution.

A human cell contains thousands of genes, yet not all of them function at the same time. Some genes are activated, others silenced, and some remain dormant until specific conditions awaken them. Who decides this? This is where epigenetics enters the picture.

It is an extraordinarily complex system of chemical signals influenced by nutrition, psychological stress, love, fear, exercise, pollution, and even feelings of safety or oppression.

In other words, life itself intervenes in how genes are read.

Genes are like piano keys, while epigenetics is the pianist deciding which keys are played and which remain silent.

This discovery changes not only medicine, but also our entire understanding of the human being. Humans are no longer viewed as biological machines merely executing hereditary commands, but as living beings who participate—at least partially—in shaping their own biological destiny.

Studies have shown that two individuals carrying the same genetic predisposition for a disease may follow entirely different paths. One may become ill while the other remains healthy. Not because their genes differ, but because their psychological environment, lifestyle, and life experiences influence their gene expression.

Even deep emotional trauma—or profound love—can leave measurable biological traces. Some scientists even believe that the effects of severe experiences may sometimes pass across generations, not by altering genes themselves, but by altering how those genes function.

At this point, the human mind encounters a breathtaking philosophical question:

If life experiences can reshape gene expression, then to what extent is a human being a participant in the making of the self? Are we prisoners of what we were born with, or do we possess a hidden ability to reshape our inner future?

This does not mean, of course, that willpower alone can cure everything, nor that science has become a promoter of naïve fantasies. Genetics is real. Disease is real. The limits of the body are real.

But the new truth is that heredity is not always a final verdict; rather, it is the beginning of a dialogue between the individual, the self, and the surrounding environment.

Here, biology meets philosophy.

Complete surrender to what is “genetically predetermined” may itself be a form of intellectual and spiritual passivity, because the human being is not merely a chemical code, but a living entity interacting with the world, influencing it and being influenced by it.

We cannot change the genes we were born with, but we can sometimes change the way they function. And that difference is enormous. It is the difference between seeing oneself as a prisoner and seeing oneself as an open project capable of growth and transformation.

True science does not tell people: “Surrender to what you are.”
It tells them: “Understand yourself, then strive to become the best possible version of yourself.”

In quantum mechanics, the behavior of subatomic particles such as electrons sometimes appears wave-like and sometimes particle-like, depending on whether they are being observed.

From this emerged a philosophical idea: could the observer be part of shaping reality itself?

This question opened the door for philosophers and thinkers to explore profound issues concerning consciousness, perception, the nature of existence, and humanity’s role in “revealing” reality as we know it.

This is where the connection to epigenetics becomes intellectually fascinating—not because the two fields are scientifically identical, but because both challenge the same old assumption: the notion of the human being as a passive recipient of a fixed and final reality.

In classical genetics, humans were prisoners of their genes. Then epigenetics arrived to say: environment, experience, and life influence how genes function.

In classical physics, the universe was viewed as a rigid machine independent of humanity. Then quantum mechanics suggested that the observer is not entirely separate from the phenomenon being observed.

From here, one may build a deeply philosophical bridge:

Human beings are not merely spectators of the universe or of themselves, but participants—at varying degrees—in shaping the reality they experience.

Philosophy says: “Without humanity, the universe we know would not exist.”

This philosophical idea relates to the universe as it is experienced or perceived—something dependent on conscious awareness that observes and interprets it. The physical universe may indeed exist independently, but the meaning and perceived image of the universe only emerge through the presence of a conscious mind.

Perhaps the most beautiful conclusion to this reflection is that modern science—from genetics to quantum theory—has begun to weaken the image of the human being as a helpless creature entirely ruled by external forces, and instead reintroduces humanity as a living, interactive element within the network of existence.

Not the absolute master of the universe, nor its absolute slave.

But a participant in uncovering its possibilities, shaping part of its future, and transforming potential into reality.

And this may well be one of the deepest intellectual revolutions of our age.

 

When I reflected deeply on verses from the Qur’an and the sayings of sages throughout history—words that soothed my soul and shaped my values—I realized something profound: that the divine call to humanity, across all times and places, is one and the same. Wisdom resides within our hearts and minds, manifesting in every civilization in different forms, yet its essence remains one: the light of truth that illuminates the beauty of our souls, if only we open our eyes to it.

I will begin with themes and examples, and conclude with philosophy.

Let us begin with:

Human Freedom and Responsibility:
The Qur’an states: “And every human being—We have bound his fate to his neck.” Here lies the highest form of human dignity: freedom of choice coupled with responsibility. This meaning is echoed in the heart of Buddha’s teachings 2,500 years ago: “What we are today is the result of what we thought yesterday. Thought is the foundation of action, and action creates destiny.”
In China, Confucius taught his students: “If you do wrong, you will bear the burden of your actions; if you do good, reward will not fail you.”
And the Gospel is clear: “Each of us will give an account of ourselves to God.”
It is a freedom conditioned by awareness, responsibility, and mindfulness.

Second: Honoring Parents as the Cornerstone of Ethics:
The Qur’an commands: “And show kindness to parents.” Here, all teachings converge. In Buddhism, honoring parents is among the greatest acts of “good karma,” as Buddha says: “Be to your mother and father like a fruitful tree, giving them shade and fruit without expecting return.”
Confucius places filial piety at the root of all virtue: “The noble person begins with honoring his parents and ends with loving all people.”
And in the Gospel: “Honor your father and mother, so that your days may be long upon the earth.”
Thus, humanity has unanimously sanctified those who gave us life.

Third: Balance in Wealth and Giving:
The Qur’an calls for moderation: “Do not spend wastefully” and “Do not keep your hand chained to your neck nor extend it completely.” This is the middle path that Buddha elevated: “Excess in wealth is like excess in poverty—both cloud the soul.”
Confucius teaches: “Wealth without ethics is the ruin of the soul.”
In the Gospel, Paul declares: “The love of money is the root of all evil.”
And Akhenaten, pioneer of monotheism in ancient Egypt, prays to Aten: “Giving from a pure heart is your offering, O Giver of Light.”

Fourth: Humility and the Breaking of Arrogance:
The Qur’an says: “Do not walk upon the earth arrogantly—you will neither pierce the earth nor reach the mountains in height.”
The humility of prophets and sages is evident in their words. Buddha says: “The full grain bows its head, while the empty one raises it in pride.”
Confucius teaches: “The world does not fear the learned, but it fears the one who is humble despite knowledge.”
And the Gospel says: “Whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted.”

Fifth: Knowledge and Guarding Against Ignorance:
In the Qur’an: “Read, and your Lord is Most Generous—Who taught by the pen, taught humanity what it did not know.”
Buddha advises: “Do not believe simply because you were told—experience, reflect, let the light of reason guide you.”
Confucius warns: “Wisdom begins in knowing the limits of one’s ignorance.”
And the Gospel says: “You shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free.”

Sixth: Compassion for the Weak:
The Qur’an commands: “So do not oppress the orphan, nor repel the one who asks.”
In Buddhism: “Extend your hand to those who suffer, for in their salvation is yours.”
In Confucianism: “The noble heart trembles for others’ pain as it does for its own.”
And the Gospel says: “Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy.”

In this vast panorama, the teachings of heaven and earth converge. Names, languages, and civilizations differ, yet the call remains one: justice is mercy, wisdom is humility, truth is light. The journey is a return to that single source from which humanity was created. O human being, when we meet upon the essence of love, compassion, and humility, we become—together—children of one light, no matter how our paths and tongues differ.

In Conclusion: The Eternal Philosophy
At the end of this contemplative journey, we stand before an enduring philosophical truth—what thinkers have called the “Perennial Philosophy.” It is that timeless wisdom that transcends geography and history, uniting all streams of human thought in essence. It is not merely agreement in words, but unity in substance: the light of truth guiding humanity since the dawn of awareness, affirming that reason, spirit, and revelation can coexist in harmony.

Consider Plato’s words: “The unexamined life is not worth living.”
Socrates, in humility, said: “I know that I know nothing.” Wisdom begins in recognizing our ignorance.
Aristotle saw the human as a social being seeking happiness through virtue: “The whole is greater than the sum of its parts.”

Within the Arab-Islamic tradition, Ibn Rushd (Averroes) powerfully affirms this harmony: “Truth does not contradict truth; rather, it agrees with and supports it.” He declared that reason is not the enemy of religion, but its companion in the search for truth. Divine law calls us to reflect rationally upon existence. God did not grant us minds to leave them idle, nor revelations that contradict them. Instead, revelation completes what reason cannot reach, in a balance that elevates humanity.

In the modern era, this light appears in Mahatma Gandhi, who carried the banner of truth and nonviolence as a path to human unity. Gandhi said: “Truth is my God, and nonviolence is the path to it.” He affirmed that “nonviolence is impossible without humility,” and that “the unity of humanity must withstand the greatest pressures without breaking.” Compassion, humility, and truth are not merely personal virtues, but transformative forces capable of building bridges between nations and civilizations.

At the heart of this eternal philosophy, the human being is not merely material, but a soul carrying a spark of divine light.

In an age of speed and distraction, where voices clash and screens multiply, let us remember: we are all one—if only we knew. Freedom is bound by responsibility, humility crowns knowledge, compassion bridges hearts, and truth is a light that unites rather than divides.

In the end, we are not the children of one civilization or one religion—we are the children of one light. No matter how our paths and languages differ, when we meet upon love, compassion, humility, and truth, we become a bridge connecting past to future, earth to heaven.

Go forth into the world, young people, and be that light—in your actions, your thoughts, and your dreams of tomorrow.
The universe awaits you to complete the painting, and to bear witness to the unity of human wisdom.

A constitution is not merely a document written in a moment of consensus; it is tested in moments of disagreement. It is not a text used only when interests align, but a reference to be invoked when wills collide.

At its core, the constitution represents a higher contract between the state and society, defining boundaries that must not be crossed, rights that must not be postponed, and obligations that are not subject to fluctuations in capacity or changing circumstances. Constitutions are not written to suit governments; they are written to restrain them.

Throughout Egypt’s political history, a recurring pattern can be observed: whenever a major crisis occurs or the balance of power shifts, the constitution is reconsidered—or replaced—to align with the new reality.

But this practice, however pragmatic it may seem at the time, carries a deeper risk: turning the constitution from a governing authority into a subordinate tool.

The constitution exists to remain relatively stable in the face of change, serving as a fixed point against which governments are measured—not something to be reshaped whenever it proves difficult to implement.

If the text begins to adapt to capability, it loses its meaning. If it is amended every time we fail to uphold it, it loses its authority.

The foundational principle of the modern state is clear: the law binds everyone—especially those in power.

If a government is unable to meet these obligations, the solution is not to redefine the text, but to reassess its capacity to govern in light of that text.

From this perspective, any discussion of the state budget does not begin with numbers alone, but with the framework that governs them.

Is the state managed according to available resources only, or according to what the constitution mandates?

This question is not philosophical—it is deeply practical.

When examining Egypt’s draft state budget for fiscal year 2026/2027, as presented to Parliament by a Minister of Finance for whom I have great respect, the importance of this question becomes evident. On the surface, the budget reflects a degree of discipline in macroeconomic indicators:

A targeted deficit of around 4.9% of GDP, a notable primary surplus, and growth in revenues—particularly tax revenues. These indicators reflect a considerable effort in managing public finances.

However, evaluating the budget is not complete by looking at numbers alone, but also by assessing how well it reflects the full picture of the economy, and how committed it is to the constitutional framework that governs it.

In modern financial systems, budgeting is built on two core principles, as I understand from my non-specialist political readings: comprehensiveness and unity.

That is, the budget should include—as much as possible—all resources and expenditures, enabling a complete and integrated view, and enhancing economic decision-making.

From this perspective, it becomes necessary to distinguish between the accounting scope of the budget and its actual scope within the economy.

For example, economic estimates suggest that activities associated with entities, authorities, and funds not fully included within the general budget may represent between 20% and 30% of GDP, in addition to hundreds of billions of pounds circulating annually through special funds and accounts.

This space, regardless of its nature, raises a legitimate question about the completeness of the state’s financial picture.

The more activities exist outside the full framework of the budget, the harder it becomes to assess the true scale of public spending, the efficiency of resource allocation, or even to accurately estimate the deficit.

Thus, full transparency is no longer an administrative option—it is both an economic and constitutional necessity.

At this point, financial analysis intersects with constitutional commitment. The constitution does not merely set a general framework; it establishes explicit obligations within the budget, particularly regarding spending on health, education, and scientific research.

Therefore, the question is no longer just: Is the budget financially disciplined? It has become: Is it constitutionally disciplined?

This brings us back to the constitutional foundation of spending on human development, which, in my political and philosophical view, lies at the heart of governance.

The minimum levels of spending on health, education, and scientific research in the state budget are based on explicit constitutional provisions, which are binding rules—not merely advisory guidelines—for all state authorities.

1. Article (18) – The Right to Health
It states:
The state shall allocate a percentage of government spending to health of no less than 3% of Gross National Product, gradually increasing to meet global standards.

Implication:
Spending on health is not a financial option, but a constitutional obligation defined by a minimum percentage, measured against GNP—not total expenditures.

2. Article (19) – Pre-University Education
It states:
The state shall allocate no less than 4% of GNP to education, gradually increasing to meet global standards.

3. Article (21) – University Education
It states:
The state shall allocate no less than 2% of GNP to university education.

4. Article (23) – Scientific Research
It states:
The state shall allocate no less than 1% of GNP to scientific research, gradually increasing to meet global standards.

A brief legal reading:

• These provisions define binding minimum percentages, not flexible estimates.
• Measurement is based on Gross National Product, not total government expenditure—a crucial distinction.
• The phrase “gradually increasing” implies a requirement to move upward, not downward or to circumvent the obligation.
• Any accounting treatment (reclassification or merging of items) is not constitutionally valid unless it reflects actual, direct spending on the service—which is, in this case, a right.

The legal conclusion is that compliance with these articles is not a technical matter in budget preparation, but a constitutional legitimacy issue that touches the core relationship between the state and the citizen.

In light of these provisions, the budget is not merely a financial tool, but an instrument for implementing constitutional rights.

As for the role of Parliament and its committees, it is not limited to discussing these constitutional obligations when reviewing the budget for approval or rejection, but extends to holding the government accountable for how funds are spent, and for their seriousness and efficiency.

Parliament represents the people in ensuring that their rights are upheld. The Egyptian people deserve a government that respects its political and social contract with them—and a parliament that holds that government accountable for fulfilling the commitments it approved at the beginning of each legislative cycle.

Egypt deserves the best from all of us.

“The world is not rebalancing… it is fragmenting.”

We have grown accustomed to repeating the term “multipolar” as if history is gently correcting itself, as if power will finally be distributed after decades of dominance. But the truth I want to share is less comforting and far more complex. What we are witnessing is not a new balance emerging from conflict, but rather a structural fragmentation: power is spreading across many actors, while the ability to shape the global order remains strongly concentrated in the hands of a very few.

I would like to present four central reflections that have shaped my analysis:

First reflection: we like to believe that the world is moving toward balance. The idea of “multipolarity” carries a quiet promise of fairness: no one dominates, and every power has something to counterbalance it. But this comforting narrative does not describe what is actually happening. A true multipolar system requires powers that are roughly equal in technological capability, economic depth, military strength, cultural influence, and—above all—the ability to set and rewrite the rules of the international system.

Instead, we see dozens of influential states, but the number of true poles remains extremely limited—sometimes only one.

Power is spreading, but it is not equal. Conflicts are multiplying, yet no actor possesses the full legitimacy or capacity to resolve them or impose a lasting order.

We confuse surface movement—industrial expansion here, military assertion there, the rise of regional players—with structural change. We confuse appearance with capability, and presence with dominance.

This is a dangerous misunderstanding. States overestimate their own weight and underestimate others, building policies on inaccurate assumptions. Misperception turns into miscalculation, and miscalculation leads to poor decisions whose consequences may echo for decades.

Second reflection: Why does American dominance persist?

Not every form of hegemony is temporary. Some powers fade because their sources of strength are finite: exhausted land, depleted resources, defeated armies. The American model works differently. It is not built on a stockpile of power, but on a continuous, self-renewing system that constantly produces power.

Its universities redefine knowledge. Its companies transform that knowledge into products and platforms that reshape markets. Its capital markets absorb risk and turn innovation into wealth. That wealth, in turn, funds new knowledge. The cycle does not merely accumulate—it regenerates.

The gap between the United States and the rest of the world remains wide—perhaps wider than public discourse suggests. The United States still produces about a quarter of global economic output. American companies represent more than 70% of the market value of the world’s largest tech firms. In artificial intelligence and advanced computing, U.S. investment alone exceeds the combined spending of the rest of the world.

In the age of artificial intelligence, this advantage is decisive. AI does not merely add power—it multiplies all existing forms of power: scientific research, decision-making, economic systems, and global influence.

The result is not convergence, but divergence. The gap is not narrowing—it is widening. Lagging behind is no longer a fixed condition, but a continuous and cumulative relative decline.

What we are witnessing, then, is not a simple transition from one dominant power to several equal ones, but a different configuration of the global order, where power is unevenly distributed and competition unfolds across multiple domains.

Third reflection: incomplete global projects

China has achieved one of the greatest catch-up successes in modern history. In just a few decades, it moved from the margins to becoming the world’s second-largest economy, a global manufacturing hub with vast export networks, massive infrastructure, and an unparalleled domestic market. But global leadership requires more than scale. It demands the ability to generate ideas, not merely absorb and refine them; to set rules, not just operate within them.

China is approaching the summit—but approaching is not arriving.

Russia is a military power without economic or technological depth—capable of disrupting international crises, but not of leading the global system.

Europe possesses enormous economic and regulatory influence, but is constrained by fragmented strategic decision-making and the absence of unified political will.

India carries great promise, supported by sustained growth, yet still faces deep internal constraints related to inequality, infrastructure, and uneven development.

The global picture, then, is rich in partial powers, poor in complete poles, and even poorer in genuine strategic cooperation among them.

Fourth reflection: a new definition of power

Power is no longer what it was in previous centuries. It is no longer something stored in military arsenals or measured solely by territory or GDP. It has become a complex, living system—a dynamic interaction among four interconnected elements: knowledge, technology, the economy, and political decision-making, all grounded in available and latent human capabilities.

None of these elements functions in isolation. Knowledge without technology remains an idea. Technology without economic support remains an unfunded possibility. An economy without political direction becomes wealth without purpose. Political will without knowledge or economic foundation becomes little more than loud intent.

This leads us to a crucial distinction: between productive power and consumptive power.

Productive power creates its own tools, develops alternatives, builds relative independence, and generates the conditions for its own continuity. Consumptive power depends on what others produce. It may appear formidable for a time—especially if supported by wealth, geography, or external backing—but it remains fragile because its continuity lies beyond its control.

True power, then, is not possession. It is composition, management, and balance. It is the wisdom to know when to accelerate and when to restrain, when to expand and when to consolidate. The strongest actors are not necessarily those who possess the most, but those who can preserve what they have, expand it, and prevent it from becoming a source of strain, arrogance, or strategic blindness.

Beneath all these structural reflections lies the unavoidable question that returns in every era: how do we understand power, and how do we use it?

Power is neither inherently good nor inherently evil. It is a tool that reveals more than it grants, and exposes more than it conceals. History teaches us that nations do not fall only when they weaken, but also when they misunderstand their strength—when they confuse expansion with permanence, power with wisdom, and prestige with anxiety about the future.

On April 8, 1970, during the War of Attrition, Israeli aircraft turned the Bahr El-Baqar Primary School in Egypt’s Sharqia Governorate into a military target. The raid resulted in the killing of 46 children and the injury of more than 30 others, bringing the total number of child victims to around 80 dead and wounded. The children were sitting in their classrooms, dreaming of a better future, when the bombs rained down on them. There was no real military target inside the school, and to this day, Israel has not issued an official apology commensurate with the scale of the crime.

Today, exactly 56 years later, the tragic scene is repeated on February 28, 2026. In the city of Minab, in Iran’s Hormozgan Province, U.S.-made Tomahawk missiles (as part of a joint U.S.-Israeli operation) targeted the “Good Tree” primary school for girls. The students—mostly girls aged between 7 and 12—were inside their classrooms. The strike resulted in the deaths of between 165 and 180 people, most of them children, and dozens more were injured. There was no apology here either. Not from Washington, nor from Tel Aviv.

A never-ending chain… massacres of children narrate a single philosophy.

Bahr El-Baqar and Minab are but two حلقات (links) in a long chain of massacres in which schools and shelters have been turned into legitimate targets, without any meaningful apology or serious international accountability.

On April 18, 1996, during Operation “Grapes of Wrath,” Israeli artillery shelled a UNIFIL compound in Qana, southern Lebanon, where around 800 Lebanese civilians had taken refuge. The attack killed 106 people, nearly half of them children (52 children), despite the site being internationally protected and well known. A United Nations investigation stated that the attack was “unlikely to be a technical error,” yet Israel claimed it was a mistake and did not issue a formal apology acknowledging responsibility. Western reactions were limited to muted condemnations that quickly faded.

A decade later, on July 30, 2006, tragedy struck Qana again: Israeli aircraft bombed a residential building sheltering displaced people, killing at least 28 individuals (16 of them children), with early reports suggesting higher numbers. Images of children pulled from the rubble sparked temporary global outrage that led to a partial halt in strikes, but once again, no apology was issued, and the attack was justified by claims of “military targets” without conclusive independent evidence.

In Gaza, targeting schools has become a recurring pattern. In 2009, the bombing of the Al-Fakhoura school, run by UNRWA, killed more than 40 people, many of them children. Between 2023 and 2025, attacks on schools such as Al-Fakhoura, Tal al-Zaatar, and others resulted in hundreds of deaths—most of them children and women.

This pattern is not limited to “isolated incidents,” but reflects a double standard that undermines the moral credibility of the international system and turns children’s wounds into fuel for a collective memory that does not forget.

What connects Bahr El-Baqar and Minab, separated by 56 years and thousands of kilometers—and all that came before and between them?

The answer is simple and harsh: an unchanging philosophy. A philosophy that turns the school—symbol of education and the future—into a legitimate target for bombardment. A philosophy that sees children as “acceptable collateral damage,” or ignores their protection under international humanitarian law, which prohibits targeting civilians and educational institutions.

Bahr El-Baqar 1970: a wound that never healed

Egypt was in the midst of the War of Attrition, defending its sovereignty after the 1967 defeat. The school was a clear target despite the absence of any military activity within it. The victims were ordinary Egyptian children. Israel claimed there was a nearby target, but did not issue a formal apology acknowledging the crime. The Western world at the time took a passive stance: some muted condemnations, followed by silence. No sanctions were imposed, and no one was held accountable.

Minab 2026: repetition of tragedy with more advanced technology

In the context of a U.S.-Israeli military escalation against Iran, the strike came on the first day of the operation. Precision missiles hit the school directly during school hours. Yet the United States—which confirmed responsibility for missile launches in southern Iran—did not issue a public apology commensurate with the victims. Israel denied responsibility altogether despite the joint nature of the operation.

Hundreds of children were killed or injured, and not a single word of apology or remorse was heard. This is the most painful similarity.

Disregard for humanity is a continuing pattern. In both cases, schools were not military targets, but symbols of life and future. The victims were innocent children, and the perpetrator is the same: Israel, and the U.S.-Israeli alliance. The outcome is the same: a collective wound in human memory.

This philosophy reflects a strategic vision that sees “military power” as justification for everything—even the killing of children in their classrooms. It is a philosophy that empties humanity of meaning and turns wars into massacres that do not distinguish between combatant and civilian.

The American-Israeli actions and the international response evoke deep sorrow. The United States, which directly participated in the Minab strike, has shown no genuine will for independent investigation or accountability. The Western world—often claiming to defend human rights—has largely limited itself to muted statements or complete silence.

Does the killing of children become “acceptable” when the perpetrator is a strategic ally? This question forces itself forward, revealing a double standard that strips the West of its moral credibility.

The lessons and implications are many. On the anniversary of Bahr El-Baqar, and in the face of fresh blood in Minab, and what is happening in Lebanon and Gaza, we must realize that silence encourages the perpetrator. The wound does not fade from memory, but transforms into a global cry for justice.

The international community must:

• Form an independent investigation committee into the Minab massacre
• Pressure for official recognition and apology for Bahr El-Baqar
• Consider the protection of schools and children in all conflicts a non-negotiable red line

From Bahr El-Baqar to Minab, schools tell one story: children pay the price for a philosophy that does not respect humanity. If this pattern does not change, every school in the world could become a target tomorrow. Memory does not forget. History records. And the enduring question remains: when will the world stop treating children’s blood as “passing news”?

To understand, I read, gathered information, analyzed, and now I share what I’ve concluded.

Many believe that Iran is capable—if it chooses—of closing the Strait of Hormuz. This idea is frequently repeated in political and media analyses, as if it were purely a military matter that could be settled by a decision or direct naval action.

But the reality may be more complex—and more revealing about the nature of the modern world.

The Strait of Hormuz—one of the most critical energy arteries in the world—was not closed this time by warships, missiles, or a naval blockade. What happened was something entirely different: insurance companies stopped the movement.

Not through a direct political decision, but through a technical financial decision made by insurance and reinsurance companies that manage risk in global maritime shipping.

According to the information I gathered, around 107 large cargo ships typically pass through the Strait of Hormuz daily, carrying oil and gas that global economies depend on. These ships represent the lifelines of energy to Asia, Europe, and beyond.

But in recent days, the number dropped to around 19 ships.

A collapse in traffic of nearly 81%.

This didn’t happen because of a naval battle, but because of one decision: the withdrawal of insurance coverage.

To understand what happened, we must understand how the global shipping system works. About 90% of the world’s ships are insured through roughly a dozen maritime insurance institutions, which in turn rely on global reinsurance markets—most of which are centered in London.

When war risks rise in a region, reinsurance companies reassess the situation. If they determine that the risks have become too high, they may withdraw coverage.

And then something simple but decisive happens: without insurance, ships cannot sail.

No shipowner is willing to risk a vessel worth hundreds of millions of dollars without insurance protection.

Thus, the Strait of Hormuz was not closed by a military fleet—it was effectively shut down by calculations on a computer screen inside an insurance company.

But the more important question is not how shipping stopped, but who is actually affected.

The first to be impacted is Iran itself.

Most of Iran’s oil exports pass through the Strait of Hormuz. If shipping is disrupted, its ability to export oil drops sharply, cutting off one of its most vital sources of income—especially during times of tension and conflict.

In other words, the “oil weapon” often seen as leverage for Iran may turn into a burden on it first.

The second most exposed party is China.

China relies heavily on energy passing through this strait. Around 40% of its oil imports go through Hormuz, and about 90% of Iranian oil exports are directed to China. In addition, liquefied natural gas shipments from Qatar to China pass through the same route.

Therefore, any prolonged disruption in this vital corridor shakes one of the pillars of China’s energy security, which explains its quick calls for de-escalation.

The third affected party is the Gulf states themselves.

Saudi Arabia, the UAE, Qatar, Kuwait, and Iraq depend heavily on this maritime route to export oil and gas to the world. Around 20 million barrels of oil pass through the strait daily, and there are no real alternatives capable of handling this massive volume.

In the background of this scene, a less visible yet highly influential force emerges: the British financial system.

London has been a global hub for maritime insurance for centuries—from the famous Lloyd’s market to major reinsurance firms. This gives it indirect but powerful influence.

When insurance companies in London decide that risks are too high, global trade can freeze—without a single shot being fired.

Does anyone benefit from this situation?

In the short term, Russia may benefit. If Gulf oil exports slow down, global prices rise, making Russian oil more attractive—especially in Asia.

As for countries like India, which import around 85% of their oil needs, any disruption in the Strait of Hormuz means higher shipping costs and rising oil prices, putting pressure on inflation and the economy.

While India diversifies its sources between the Gulf, Russia, and others, prolonged instability in this vital route ultimately means everyone pays the price.

The bigger lesson is that geopolitics in today’s world is no longer driven solely by presidents, generals, or even aircraft carriers.

Often, the course of events is shaped by less visible but more powerful systems: insurance mechanisms, financial markets, and global energy networks.

Missiles may make headlines,

but risk models in insurance companies sometimes decide whether global trade moves… or stops.

It is a world no longer controlled by states alone, but also by the systems that manage risk, money, and energy.

And sometimes, a quiet financial decision in an office in London… is enough to change the movement of the world.

“I did not always win… but I always learned.”

What shapes a person in life is not what they gain, but what they lose. Success may add an achievement to our record, but it rarely adds wisdom to our awareness. It is the moments of failure—those small or great defeats we pass through in silence or bitterness—that open within us the great questions: Who are we? And what path were we truly meant to follow?

When we are at the heart of a painful experience, we feel as though the world has narrowed, and that a door leading to our future has been closed forever. But as time passes, it reveals that life is wiser than our plans, and that the path that closed was not the end of the journey, but often a hidden turn leading us to another road—one we might never have discovered had things gone as we wished.

With the passing of years, a person realizes a simple yet profound truth:
that some of what once felt like injustice was, in essence, a lesson, and that some of what we thought was defeat was actually the beginning of our true formation.

A person is not shaped only by what they achieve, but by what they learn from stumbling, and by what they discover about themselves when forced to rise after a fall they did not choose.

These words are not a story of success as much as they are a reflection on those moments that once seemed like loss, but later proved to be the hidden building blocks that shaped who I am.

Life, as I have learned over the years, cannot be understood from its first lines, nor judged from a single moment of pain or loss. Often, days conceal a wisdom we only see later—when we realize that what we thought was a fall was actually the beginning of another path… one we had not planned, but one far broader than we imagined.

I write these words to every young man and woman going through doubt or discouragement, to anyone who believes that losing a battle means the end of a dream. The truth is that life is not measured by a single moment of victory or defeat, but by the experience that accumulates within us, shaping a more mature and understanding self.

When I look back on my early years in medical school, I remember that my dream was clear and simple: to become a surgeon. I studied with passion and achieved excellence in all subjects. But during the oral exam in surgery, a professor deliberately failed me.

It was no secret. The intention was to lower my grade in order to make room for someone else.

It was a harsh moment for a young man who saw his future taking shape. I felt that a door had suddenly closed, and that a great dream had been taken away by a decision unrelated to effort or merit.

But life was writing another chapter I could not yet see.

After graduation, driven by disappointment—and perhaps the desire to start fresh—I decided to move to the United States. I passed the required exams and secured a residency position in surgery at Northwestern University in Chicago. The position was to begin after six months, and I did not want to waste that time, so I applied for a temporary residency in obstetrics and gynecology at Kasr Al-Ainy Hospital.

And there, the same scenario repeated itself.

I was excluded from the position.

At that moment, it was not just about a job—it was about dignity. I was not even particularly interested in the specialty, but I decided to defend my academic right. The issue escalated to the media and eventually reached the dean, who initially reprimanded me for what he saw as defiance. But when he reviewed the grades, he found my case justified. A decision was made to increase the number of positions, and I was accepted as a resident in obstetrics and gynecology.

I thought I would stay in that department for only a few months—until my travel date to the United States.

But life had another surprise.

During those months, I began to discover the depth of this human-centered field. I witnessed the moments of birth and the responsibility of a physician at the most delicate stages of human existence. Gradually, I found myself drawn to it, until I made a decision I had never planned: to stay.

From that decision began an entirely new journey.

The specialty I had entered by coincidence became the field to which I devoted my life. I earned the highest academic degrees, later traveled to the United States for a doctorate and worked at universities in Detroit and Chicago, then returned to Egypt to continue my professional and academic career.

When I look back at that moment in the surgery exam, I realize that the injustice I felt was not the end of the road—it was the turning point that led me to who I became.

This was not the only such experience in my life. I faced similar situations in politics as well, and in every case, I emerged stronger and more capable.

Life has taught me a lesson that repeats itself in many forms:

Not everything that appears to be bad is truly bad.
And not every closed door means the end of the road.

Sometimes what we consider a loss is the very path that leads us to our true selves. And sometimes the injustice we face is the spark that awakens a strength we never knew we had.

So I say to every young man and woman:

Do not drown in a moment of defeat. Do not let losing a single battle mean losing life itself.

Reflect on the experience, learn from it, and allow time to reveal what you could not see in the moment.

For life does not shape us through moments of success alone, but through moments of resilience after breaking.

And if each of us looks honestly at our life, we will discover that much of what we once thought was bad… was in fact the beginning of a good we never expected.