Free One Half from the East by Nadia Hashimi Page A

Rahim invites me to play in the snow with them. I put on an extra shirt and a sweater to keep me warm under my coat. It’s so cold out that my nose starts to run and my eyes tear. My face is a wet mess, which makes me feel even colder. I’m still happy, though.
    I follow the boys into the street. There’s nearly a foot of snow on the ground and it’s still coming down. We are jogging down the street, but our feet get stuck in the snow and we have to make tall, high steps to get anywhere. My toes are starting to go numb when I feel a whack on my left shoulder. Abdullah is grinning.
    â€œHey!” I call out. Before I can say another word, I feel a thump against my chest. Ashraf teams up with Abdullah. Rahim moves closer to me to even things out. He’s already rolling a snowball in his hands and taking aim.
    â€œDon’t just stand there, Obayd,” he yells at me. “Fight back!”
    My snowballs are mostly fluff and land at Ashraf’s feet or fly over Abdullah’s shoulder instead of making any contact. Rahim is really good and makes enough hits that it almost seems like an even fight when it really isn’t.
    I watch the boys and learn a few tricks. Abdullah digs out snow closer to the ground so it’s already more packed. Ashraf and Rahim rub their bare hands on the snowball’s surface, which makes it ice over. Those are the snowballs that sting through the two shirts, the sweater, and the coat I’m wearing.
    The day after my first snowball fight, I count seven purple welts on my body. They are round and hurt when I press on them, but I feel pretty good about them. They’re like badges of honor.
    Two weeks into winter, Rahim doesn’t have to do all the work in our snow battles. My snowballs are deadly.
    On another day, we wander through town and find a group of older boys. They’ve started a fire in a big tin can using sticks, newspaper, and oil. Abdullah is with them and waves us over. They make room for us and we stand in a tight circle, warming our hands over the flames. I like the way the fire snaps and jumps. I also like being part of this circle, even if I am the shortest one here. With my coat and knit hat, I blend in even with the older boys.
    The boys have collected loose papers and leaflets tofeed the fire. I notice a page of cartoon drawings and English writing. There’s a word that catches my eye because I’ve been staring at those letters for the past two months. W - I - Z - A - R - D - S . Just like Rahim’s cap.
    Above the word is a cartoon drawing of an old man with a wrinkled face and a long beard. There are other cartoon drawings with words underneath them. It’s some kind of booklet used to teach English. Our school in Kabul used similar ones.
    Rahim’s standing right next to me so I elbow him. He’s talking to Abdullah when I interrupt.
    â€œWhat is it?” he asks.
    â€œLook at this.” I point to the picture and the word below it. “Like your hat. I thought you said it was the name of a basketball team?”
    Rahim looks at the page in my hand.
    â€œIt is . . .” he mutters. I can tell the picture doesn’t make any sense to him, either.
    â€œWhy would they name a basketball team after old men with beards? This guy looks like a great-grandfather.”
    Rahim has this look on his face that tells me whatever he’s about to say is probably not true—or at least not totally true.
    â€œBecause . . . they probably named the team after some old guy that used to play basketball when he was young. You know, like the way the Gardens of Babur are namedafter Babur.” Rahim points at the black-and-white drawing I’m holding. “This guy’s name must be Wizard.”
    One of the older boys overhears us. He sees the skeptical look on my face.
    â€œWhat are you two looking at?”
    â€œIt’s nothing,” Rahim says, and rubs his hands together over the fire. He shivers