Love for photography

In a busy city where people were always rushing, there lived a quiet boy named Prio. He didn’t have an expensive camera like other students in his university. Instead, he used an old phone with a cracked screen and a small camera. But to Prio, that phone was enough. It was his way of telling stories.

Prio was a member of the Social Welfare Club. While others used big cameras to take photos, Prio took pictures of real life with his phone. He didn’t care about filters or editing. He just wanted to capture moments that felt real—like a peaceful boat ride during sunset, a sunset, nature , like a bird on a wire, or a little girl smiling while selling flowers.

One day, the Social Welfare Club and the Photography Club started a project together. They wanted students to take pictures of everyday people—street vendors, workers, and poor children. The best photos would be shown in a university exhibition. Prio signed up happily.

At the first meeting, students talked about camera settings and photo editing. They had big cameras with lenses and tripods. When they saw Prio with only a phone, some of them laughed.

“You’re going to use that?” one student asked.

Prio nodded and smiled. “It’s enough for me.”

Over the next few weeks, the students went out to take pictures. Most went in groups, looking for perfect places and perfect lighting. But Prio walked alone. He talked to people, listened to their stories, and clicked photos quietly. His pictures were simple but full of emotion.

He called his project “Wayfarer.” The name was perfect—his photos showed small moments with big meaning.

One photo showed as the sun sets on the horizon, strangers become silhouettes and silence turns into stories shared on the water. Each picture told a story.

Finally, it was time for the big exhibition. The university gallery was full of colorful, high-quality photos. Some had special lighting and effects. The students stood proudly next to their work. In the corner of the room, on a small wall, Prio’s photos were placed. They were not printed on fancy paper, and they had no titles. Just real moments.

The guest judge for the event was Yeasir Arafat, a famous photographer. He walked slowly through the gallery, looking at every photo. When he reached Prio’s corner, he stopped.

He looked at a photo of as the sun sets on the horizon, strangers. Then one of two traditional wooden boats. Arafat spent a long time in front of Prio’s wall.

Later, he walked up to the stage and held one of Prio’s photos in his hand.

“This picture,” Arafat said, “shows what photography is truly about. It doesn’t matter what kind of camera you use. What matters is what you see. This photo made me feel something. That’s what good photos do.”

Everyone was quiet. Then they clapped.

“Who took this photo?” Arafat asked.

Prio slowly raised his hand and walked to the front. He was holding his old phone.

Arafat smiled. “You have a gift, Prio. You see what others miss. Don’t stop taking pictures. The world needs your eyes.”

Prio smiled, not because he had won, but because someone had finally seen the world the way he saw it.

"That evening, as he walked home under the soft glow of the village lanterns, Prio didn’t just carry an old phone—he carried a window to the world. The scratches on the screen didn’t hide the beauty he captured; they made every photo feel more alive, more real. For the first time, his phone didn’t feel like a device. it felt like a voice."

(It is a true story by writer.)