The Man Who Lit the Match

He wasn’t a friend.
Wasn’t a relative.
And definitely wasn’t a crush.

He was my chemistry teacher.

Ghanim AlGhanim.
A name that felt like it already belonged in a science textbook.
He walked the halls like he owned the building, but not in the loud, bossy way.
In the James Bond, saudi-scientist-who-wore-confidence-like-a-lab-coat kind of way.

He wasn’t the first person to teach me.
But he was the first person who saw me.

Really saw me.

I wasn’t top of the class. Probably hovered somewhere around top five.
But he noticed something ... a spark, a curiosity ... and he lit a match under it.

One day, he asked me to write a quiz.
Three questions. Just something light.

I thought it was a joke at first… but he said it seriously. Respectfully.
Like I’d earned the right.

The next week, I saw that quiz on the desks… and one of the questions was mine.
I’ll never forget that feeling.
It wasn’t pride.
It was this internal shift ... like, Wait... am I smart? Like, really smart?

For that entire year, I walked taller.
Because in that classroom, I wasn’t just Mish’al.
I was a prodigy in disguise.

He was one of the few Saudi teachers in the science department.
And that mattered.
Because it wasn’t some visiting expat or rotating lecturer.
It was one of our own... telling me with his eyes:
You’ve got it, kid. Whatever “it” is, it’s in there.

And then ... he was gone.

Senior year came and went, and he didn’t.

No goodbye.
No explanation.

He vanished like a favorite character that never got a finale.
And I guess... I never stopped wondering what happened to him.

I don’t even know if he’d remember me.
Part of me is terrified to find out.
What if I mattered to him as little as I mattered to most adults back then?

But if he did remember...
If he looked me in the eyes today and said, “You turned out alright, didn’t you?”
I think I’d fall apart.

Because in all the things I’ve done ... all the stages, the travels, the films, the schools I’ve led ... he’s still part of the blueprint.

Not a memory.
An imprint.

And now, as a principal…
When a kid walks into my office, and they’re fidgeting, hiding something, feeling too average to count…
I remember him.
I remember that even a tiny moment ... a quiz, a compliment, a second of being seen ... can change everything.

He made me believe in potential.
So now I try to return the favor… one student at a time.

I don’t know where he is.
I don’t even know if he’s still alive.

But I know this:

He wasn’t a fantasy.
He was real.
And he made me real ... in a way I hadn’t known was possible.

And if by some twist of the universe you’re reading this, Mr. AlGhanim…

You didn’t just teach me chemistry.

You taught me how to light fires in people.
And that lesson?
It never burned out.