Years ago, a girl named Roya lived in the city of Kabul. She worked as a skilled photographer who captured nature and all living creatures, everything except human beings. Her photos were vivid and full of life, leaving anyone who saw them in awe. As she improved her skills, her love for photography grew stronger. Because she focused mostly on animals and nature, her bond with both deepened day by day. Her photos didn’t impress only me; they earned praise from everyone.
One spring day, Roya decided to visit Bagh-e Babur (Babur Garden). The garden looked more beautiful than ever in that season. The moment she arrived, she lost herself in photography. She became so focused that she completely forgot about lunch. When the shadows stretched across the ground, she realized evening had arrived, but she kept shooting. She believed sunset made every picture more magical, and she was right. Among all the photos she took that day, the sunset images stood out as the most beautiful.
When she returned home, she said in surprise, “How did I get so lost in photography?” Then she smiled and added, “It doesn’t matter. At least I took wonderful pictures.”
That night, she felt proud and satisfied with her work. Late in the evening, she finally sat down to review her photos. One picture caught her eye more than all the others: a parrot sitting on a tree, attacking another parrot. The image unsettled her. She thought about it again and again until sleep left her eyes. “Can one parrot really attack or even eat another?” she whispered to herself. These thoughts followed her through the night, but no answer came. She returned to her work the next day, yet that strange parrot never left her mind.
One bright and dreamlike day, Roya received an invitation to the Red Rose Festival in Mazar-i-Sharif. She was chosen to photograph that year’s nature images, meant to show a green, joyful, and lively year, and to preserve lasting memories. Roya traveled to Mazar and began her work. During the festival, many people asked her to take their portraits, but she politely refused each time. She simply did not enjoy photographing people.
At last, a young woman approached her and said, “My dear, I’ve noticed something since you arrived. You don’t take photos of people. If you don’t mind, may I ask why?” Roya stayed silent for a moment, then replied, “I’m working right now. We’ll talk later.” She returned to her camera and captured her best images of the day.
After she finished and took a short break, she approached the young woman and asked, “What made you ask me that question?” The young woman answered, “Because you didn’t even take a photo of yourself or anyone else.”
Their conversation deepened after that, and they began to speak more openly. At last, Roya opened her heart and shared her story. “My sister,” she said, “there was a time when I was terribly poor. I photographed every living creature just to earn money.”
She paused, took a deep breath, and continued, “One day, hunger drained all my strength. I could hardly speak. I asked a man for a little money and promised to take several photos for him in return. I took his pictures, but he wasn’t satisfied. He wouldn’t even give me ten afghanis. I became so weak that I couldn’t stand. I sat down in a corner when I noticed a tree nearby. I rushed toward it and ate one unripe apple. But the owner stopped me from taking another, and I walked away in despair. A few steps later, I saw a hen building a nest near a tree. As I passed by, I noticed a few pieces of bread beside the nest. I ate them, but the hen didn’t react at all.”
Roya spoke of those days as if each moment had been captured in her memory like one of her photographs. She said, “After that day, I understood that nature always lives in peace with us. It is we humans who stay trapped in ignorance and carelessness. Then I realized that I was the only stranger in that city who had eaten the food meant for a helpless, voiceless bird.”
The guilt of taking that innocent hen’s bread weighed heavily on her heart. From that day on, Roya made a firm promise to herself. She never photographed humans again, and she refused to earn even a single bite of bread in that way. Instead, she devoted herself fully to nature and searched for other honest ways to survive.
You can read the Persian version of this Afghan woman’s story here:
