Strings - Capstone Amal Al Shamsi (1)

Hamza stood before the history class, in a room that was also not hip-couple material.
There was a map blown up behind him. He supposed his face cut off the projection of the
Atlantic, he stepped outside and squinted somewhere from Africa.
That afternoon was spent with lots of made-up capital names and Mr. Hamza trying to
constantly redirect the kids. “No, Lithuania is not an island, look again.” With every whine and
straying pair of eyes looking out the window, the man felt he was retreating further into himself.
What did it matter that the world had other cities? He might never fly beyond the East Coast,
nestling back into the center, where he once thought the world had shifted into place just for
him. He was as naive as the kids before him. Their mouths collecting spit, their frail elbows
unable to hold up their drowsy heads.
He made an effort to walk between each desk, flip to an interesting page, try to kickstart
his brain to look forward, just look forward. The bell rang. “Okay, be free,” he told them. Their
bones shed their stiff crusts and they bolted to the courtyard. The room exhaled in time with
Hamza. He sat on the table and moved one hand before the other over his face, it wiped away
with some sort of smile.
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