Other people might see a scalpel and a camera as being polar opposites - they slice flesh, they capture light. They are the same to me, though. They demand exactitude. They reveal things that are concealed. And they have shaped my vision. I'm a scientist and a storyteller, and the two have never been separated. As a child, I was fascinated by the power of narrative—not just in film and literature, but in formal narrative in the natural world. Biology is the most powerful script out there: cells have conversations with one another in molecular language, evolution tells more story than fiction, and the body is a mystery to be solved. My interest is not discovery, but knowledge. In the lab, I examine the microenvironments of tumors, determining how inflammation perpetuates cancer. But I also learn about humans—through film, through philosophy, through observing the world with the same sense I observe under the microscope. What sparks my sense of awe is not how things work, but why they do. Medicine cures, but it does not comprehend. The body is a machine—diseased organs are extracted, faulty systems repaired. But the patient’s narrative is lost in the process. I am not going to stand idly by as a future surgeon. I am going to close the gap between science and story, using both data and anecdote to reshape the way we provide healthcare. One issue I long to tackle is the lack of personalized medicine in modern medicine. Treatments are too often addressed to symptoms rather than to individuals. In my bioinformatics work, I've seen how data can transform medicine—how algorithms can predict disease, how gene sequencing can individualize therapy. But data by themselves are nothing. They are just numbers without meaning. People aren't spreadsheets. They are stories, and medicine must learn to read them. I have a vision to cover two periods. First and foremost, as a surgeon, I will marry clinical practice and research. I envision a world where surgery is no longer removal but precision—where diagnostic technologies empowered by AI, targeted therapies, and minimal invasion transform patient treatment. My research background is already introducing me to these advances, and I am determined to carry them forward. Second, I will redefine how medicine is perceived. I will transform the practice of medicine and, through screenwriting, film, or public speeches, translate medicine's complexities into tales that teach, inspire, and spark change. Similar to how Atul Gawande uses words to demystify surgery, I will craft tales that bridge the gap between medicine and society. This is not a vague fantasy. I have already started. My independent research, my filmmaking, my work in the lab—each is a page in the greater tale that I am composing. This award is not just about funds. It is validation. It is the connection between vision and action. With it, I will be able to explore more deeply into bioinformatics, perfecting the tools that one day will revolutionize personalized medicine. I will be able to continue to research, contribute to advancing surgery, and make certain that my education is not just learning, but change. For at last, both camera and scalpel serve the same purpose. They do not just disclose. They transform. And I will change the world.

Everyone needs to be seen. I feared the opposite. I spent decades living under the radar—silent, not brooding, withdrawn as the poets dream, but a less apparent, creepier sort. I was seen, but not so much looked at. A Middle Eastern student among a sea of Americans, a foreigner in my parents' homelands, a face floating between three cultures without ever being part of one. Initially, I complied. I learned to shape myself into what other people needed me to be—saying the appropriate words, playing the appropriate roles, constantly altering my identity to fit the circumstances. But no matter how accurately I played the character, I was never the protagonist of my own existence. I was an extra to everyone else. And then I had a camera. It wasn't much—secondhand, aged model that cost me months in savings—but gazing through the lens for the first time altered something. Everything halted. The world was no longer pieced together, no longer demanding an act of self. It merely existed. Even more, however, I finally had control of what was presented. I started shooting all of it—strangers on the street, the quietness of my own face, fleeting moments that nobody else appeared to see. It was an obsession, but not only with making films. It was about seeing. About capturing evidence that the world, with all its contradictions, was just as it was. And so was I. This realization permeated everything that I did. I stopped waiting for approval and created my own presence. I carried it with me into research labs, where I created a niche for myself despite knowing nothing about bioinformatics at first. I carried it with me into my solo studies, my philosophical arguments, my writing, my films. All action became an act of defiance against the idea that I was merely a passive observer. Had I never struggled against this difficulty—the weight of invisibility—I would be awaiting permission to exist here even now. Shaping myself into what the world wished for instead of causing the world to see me for what I am. So if I had to give one piece of advice to someone who is fighting the same fight, it would be this: Be the witness you never had. When the world closes its eyes, keep yours open. When it turns a blind eye to you, make yourself seen. Because the strongest thing you can be is something no one can look away from. And I have no intention on being looked away from.

Faith is not absence of doubt; it is standing in spite of it. I learned this not in a moment of triumph but in a season of doubt when every reasonable course seemed flawed and mine own thoughts insufficient. It had been a gradual pressure—a pressure to succeed, to make good choices, to be in charge at every moment. But with every step I took toward certitude, it receded further. There is an assumption that hard work guarantees success, that intellectual sharpness can cut a path through obstacles. But life is not so susceptible to reason. I had always assumed that I would be able to analyze and rationalize a solution to a problem. It had served me well—until it didn't. When I faced a challenge at school that left me on the brink of doubting myself, I could not reason a way out. The usual methods—working harder and better, better planning, analyzing failure—were of no use. I began to question for the first time if resolve would be enough. It was in that place of helplessness that I looked outside of myself. Faith wasn't an easy refuge; it wasn't an easy solution. Surrender wasn't an easy thing; it wasn't quitting, but acknowledging that I wasn't in control of making things happen. I had to learn that effort doesn't always pay off right away, that struggle is not failure but refinement. The burden of perfection dropped when I came to understand that faith wasn't about sitting around and waiting for a fix but having faith in the process and still moving. Faith gave me vision when things were uncertain. It reframed my struggle—not as a roadblock but as a lesson in patience and resilience. It reminded me that I wasn't graded on immediate success but on my resilience in continuing on when I couldn't yet see the finish. My challenge didn't disappear overnight, yet I did. I no longer interpreted failure as a condemnation of me and more as a call to growth. With this shift in pace, I persisted not because I had faith in success but because I believed that effort and belief in something greater would propel me where I needed to be. And it did. I overcame my challenge—not through sheer force of willpower only, but by turning to faith when reason had no other resources to offer. Faith did not dispel struggle, yet made it meaningful. Neither is it an excuse nor a crutch for inaction. It is a strength that allows me to stand firm in doubt, to proceed when reason lags behind, and to have faith that in struggle I am being forged for something greater.