The person I'd like to talk about is Mr Haddad, who was the caretaker at my secondary school in Amman, in Jordan. He wasn't a teacher, but I think I learned more from him than from some of my teachers.
I got to know him because I used to help him in the school garden during breaks. I was a fairly anxious student, and I found the playground noisy, so the garden became my escape. He'd give me small jobs, like watering seedlings or pulling weeds, and we'd talk.
There's one conversation that shows his wisdom. When I was sixteen, I was desperate to get into medicine, mainly because my parents wanted it and my older cousin was a doctor. I told him I was terrified of not getting the grades. He didn't tell me to work harder or to relax. He just asked, "If nobody in your family cared, what would you study?" I didn't have an answer, and that bothered me for weeks. Eventually I realised that I loved biology but hated the idea of hospitals. I'm now doing a degree in agricultural science, and I'm far happier than I think I'd have been in medicine.
I think he's wise for a few reasons. He listens much more than he talks, so when he does speak, it matters. He asks questions instead of giving answers, which means you reach your own conclusions. And he's calm about things most people panic about. He'd lived through some very hard times, including losing his home when he was young, so he has a sense of what's really important. To me, wisdom isn't knowing lots of facts; it's knowing which questions to ask.