Finding Treasure in Broken Promises

Finding Treasure in Broken Promises

In a world that forgot me, I uncovered hope—one silent victory at a time.

By: Hamza Yaqoob

The day I discovered my treasure, I was nine years old, standing barefoot on a cracked tile floor. It was raining so hard that I could taste the wet in my throat. My father had left again—another broken promise, another suitcase at the door. My mother’s eyes were distant, searching for something that wasn’t there. And my brother sat quietly, his small shoulders turned to shield himself from the wet cold.

I wanted to cry. But instead, I ran to the only corner of the house that felt safe: the tiny bookshelf, leaning precariously in the corner. Its wood was splintered, its paint chipped. On its second shelf, under a stack of tattered notebooks, I found it: an old, illustrated medical book—its cover peeling, pages yellowed. My heart caught in my chest.

I lifted it gently, like a fragile egg. Inside were diagrams of hearts, lungs, tiny cells—stuff I barely understood, but needed like air. My mother had given up hope for education years ago. I’d never met my father outside of his promises. But this book told me a story: there was a world beyond our home, and it lived on those pages.

That night, I read with candlelight flickering across the pages. My hands shook not from fear, but from excitement. Mitochondria, alveoli, synapses—words that were movies in my mind. I traced their shapes until the outlines blurred. Then I traced them again.

My brother came in and watched me after a while. He didn’t say anything. But his eyes—moist and wide—told me he saw something he didn’t have: hope. That night, we slept, the book wrapped in fabric between us, a soft promise of a better tomorrow.

A Spark in the Dust

I didn't know then, but that book would change the course of my life. For many, inspiration comes in grand gestures or from perfect role models. For me, it came from a forgotten book in a broken room.

School was never easy. I walked miles with soles worn thin, my uniform patched more times than I could count. Teachers barely noticed me. I wasn’t loud or brilliant. Just a quiet boy who stared too long at science charts on the wall. But when I held that book, I felt powerful. It gave me a secret. A mission. A path.

At night, when the power cut out and the streets turned silent, I would study under the flicker of a candle. When my mother wept in the other room, I learned the anatomy of the human heart. When my stomach groaned from hunger, I memorized parts of the brain. I studied not just to learn—but to survive.

Years passed. The book eventually fell apart, each page worn thin from love. But I had already internalized it. My dreams had latched onto something real. Every diagram, every sentence etched itself into me, deeper than any wound.

Teaching from the Shadows

When I became a medical student, I thought the hard part was over. I was wrong. Med school brought new kinds of challenges—academic, financial, emotional. But I had grit. And something else: I had started teaching.

I never planned to tutor others. But someone once asked for help with a biology chapter. One session turned into many. One student turned into five. Then ten. Eventually, I began teaching regularly—IGCSE, MDCAT, basic sciences. I was helping students from all over, while still barely surviving myself.

I would teach late into the night, then attend my own classes with half-closed eyes. I wasn’t just teaching from knowledge. I was teaching from hunger. From pain. From those candle-lit nights and fatherless evenings.

But teaching gave me purpose. Every student who succeeded became part of my own success. I started giving more than lectures. I gave pep talks. I gave empathy. I gave what I never had.

Scars Behind the Smile

People see the confident tutor now. The future doctor. The one who knows answers, who handles students with calm patience. But they don’t see what’s behind that screen.

They don’t see the nights I cry quietly, wondering if I’ll make rent. They don’t see the guilt of eating less so my siblings can have more. They don’t hear the roar of silence when my father calls after months and speaks like he never left.

They don’t see the heartbreak of seeing my mother’s hands shake when she counts coins for groceries. Or the loneliness of studying for finals while friends go out laughing. No, they don’t see any of it.

But I carry it. I carry it into every class, every line I write, every life I touch. I carry it because it made me. Because it matters.

My Real Treasure

That old book is long gone. But its memory lives in every student I help, in every life I reach. It was more than a textbook. It was a key—to survival, to purpose, to a future.

And now, I pass it on. Not the pages, but the passion. Not the diagrams, but the discipline. I teach students not just to pass exams, but to believe. I tell them that knowledge is a weapon—especially when the world gives you nothing else.

The boy who found treasure in a broken house is now building treasure in others.

To the One Still Searching

If you’re reading this and feel like the world forgot you—I understand. If you’ve known broken promises, empty plates, sleepless nights—you’re not alone.

But I promise you: your treasure exists. It might be hidden in a dusty book, a kind teacher, or your own determination. Don’t stop looking. Don’t stop believing. Because sometimes, the most precious treasure is not what you find. It’s who you become in the search.

Author’s Note:

I write not to impress, but to express. This is not just my story. It belongs to every underdog, every silent struggler, every student teaching from scars. If you found a piece of yourself here, carry it forward. Your treasure awaits.