Free Shooting Kabul by N. H. Senzai Page B

trees. Fadi took his camera from his backpack and removed the lens cap. This was the first time in months that he’d had a chance to use it. He looked through the viewfinder and aimed it toward the golden hills in the distance. A sense of calm flowed throughhim as he went through the familiar motions of framing different shots.
    Fadi turned the ring on the lens and focused on a family of ducklings swimming on the glistening water. He framed the last little duckling in the viewfinder and clicked. He clicked again as a little boy was yanked from the edge of the lake by his distracted mother. The look on the kid’s face was priceless—outrage mixed with relief. Fadi looked toward the grass and caught the image of a dog running after a Frisbee. A tall ebony-skinned woman in a lime green jumpsuit ran by him, and he caught her tennis shoes in motion.
    â€œHi,” she called out, flashing a smile.
    Fadi blushed and pointed his camera somewhere else.
    Soon he was lost in capturing images of carefree children playing on the jungle gym or pumping their legs on the swings. There was no film in the camera, but that didn’t matter.
    After his father had given him the camera, he’d taught Fadi how to use it, sharing his own passion for photography. They used to go up into the hills in Kabul and take pictures of the city below them. Habib had had a small darkroom set up in their house on Shogund Street, and when he could get his hands on supplies, they would develop the rolls they had taken together. But as theTaliban had gained more power, they had banned photography, so that had ended their forays outside. When his father had brought home the news of the photography ban, his cheeks had flushed with anger. “These are not true Muslims,” he’d grumbled. “In Islam there is no compulsion in religion. One person does not have the right to dictate how another believes or lives.”
    Fadi sighed, wishing his father were with him, but these days Habib was too busy, or too tired, to waste time clicking away with a camera. His headache gone, Fadi went back to brainstorming about how to get enough money to fly back to Pakistan. I got into this mess. I need to figure out how to get out of it.

I T WAS THURSDAY, third period, and for the first time in a long while Fadi felt a sense of eager anticipation buzz through his body. As soon as the bell rang, he left Mr. Torres’s World History and Civilizations class and wove his way through the crowds to reach the large studio at the back of the school. He paused at the doorway—the smell of paint, plaster, and glue permeated the air. Bright paintings and drawings decorated the walls, and clay sculptures stood along the back of the room. Art supplies sat in organized piles on tall shelves—paint, colored pencils, construction paper, glue, and a myriad of other things he didn’t recognizebut couldn’t wait to inspect. Taking a deep sniff, Fadi entered, strolling past the tables placed in a circle in the center of the room. His fingers trailed along the paint-spattered surface as he looked for a spot that suited him.
    As he chose a seat facing the front, he noticed a familiar face at the door. The girl tossed her black hair over her shoulder and gave him a wave. It was Anh from the cafeteria. Fadi responded with a tentative nod and looked away. She’s just being nice because I returned her wallet . He sat down and turned his attention to a collection of black-and-white photographs tacked onto a corkboard. Cool .
    A tall black woman in a shimmering silver top stepped out from one of the supply closets. “Attention, class,” she called out. She strode to the middle of the room and motioned for everyone to take a seat. Her bracelets jingled as the kids stopped chitchatting and took their seats.
    She looks familiar, thought Fadi. The memory of where he’d seen her was there, on the tip of his mind, but someone sat down next to him and