In the last week of Ramadan, my attention was drawn to a new leaf on the climbing plant in my study room. It was a simple sight, yet rich in meaning; this plant, in its silent regularity, announces with every spring and at the end of every summer the beginning of new growth, as if it were a constant reminder that life never ceases to renew itself when the right conditions are met.
During that period, I was busy reviewing my collection of children’s stories, after months of sorting, revising, and selecting between texts suitable for publication and others that required further development. The process was not merely technical; at its core, it raised a question about the kind of spiritual and intellectual nourishment we offer our children: what imagination do we open up for them? What values do we plant in their early consciousness?
When the reading committee approved the publication of the collection, it felt like another moment of “leaf growth”—but this time in the realm of the human, not the plant.
However, this positive feeling did not last long. The following morning, while reading an article about the targeting of universities during the aggression against Iran, the scene appeared entirely different: here, the conditions for growth are not protected but targeted at their very roots. This was not surprising ; historically dominant powers—whether in their Zionist form or in their broader ideological and political extensions—have long viewed science as a domain of monopoly rather than participation. In their view, science must remain a tool of superiority, not a means of liberation.
What is striking, however, is that this perspective is now colliding with emerging civilizational experiences that have managed to link political will with investment in knowledge. In this context, I recalled my visit to the library of Ayatollah Mar‘ashi Najafi in Qom, where hundreds of thousands of rare books and manuscripts are preserved, including the works of great scholars such as Ibn Sina and Al-Razi. The value of this library lies not only in its size but in the way this heritage is protected : in fortified underground spaces, as if the message were clear—knowledge is safeguarded as strategic wealth, if not more.
This awareness of the value of science is not a mere cultural detail ; it is the foundation of any civilizational project. Nations that understand that knowledge is their true capital treat schools and universities as sovereign institutions. Otto von Bismarck expressed this idea clearly when he linked the future of the state to its schools, indicating that excellence is not forged only on battlefields but begins in classrooms.
From this perspective, the targeting of universities can only be understood as the targeting of the future itself. When the space of knowledge production is struck, the aim is to keep society in a state of permanent dependency, incapable of producing its own intellectual and scientific tools.
Here, the initial question returns, but in a deeper form: what are we planting in the child today ?
Children’s literature is not a cultural luxury ; it is the first step in shaping the human relationship with knowledge and with the world. A child raised on curiosity, on asking questions, and on imagining possibilities is the same young person who will later seek discovery rather than mere consumption.
In this sense, working on children’s stories becomes part of a long-term civilizational struggle—a struggle not fought only in laboratories and universities, but one that begins in early consciousness, where the first seeds of the relationship with knowledge are formed.
The plant that grows quietly in the corner of the room requires constant care to continue its growth. So does the human being: scientific and civilizational growth cannot occur unless there exists an environment that respects reason, values knowledge, and protects its institutions.
Let us take heed and learn: the building of the future does not begin where we end, but where we plant the first seed.
