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The Breadwinner


The Breadwinner Cover

ISBN13: 9780888994165
ISBN10: 0888994168
Condition: Standard
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Chapter One


I know this worn path better than I know myself. As I walk through the nut-colored haze, I can taste the salty bitterness of the parched ground meeting the air and then meeting my mouth. Since I was a child, Ive always tried to walk in front of everyone, so the dirt wouldnt hit my clothes. Theres nothing worse than the smell of earth on your clothing when you are lying on your mat and trying to sleep at night. It lingers, making its way into your dreams.

But still, the path brings me comfort. Its something I am familiar with. I dont know the new curves on my body the way I know the bends on the footpath.

I look down and am glad that I can hide myself under an oversized payron. Im jealous of my three-year-old sister, Afifa. She doesnt have to worry about becoming a woman. At least, not yet. I turn and see her behind me, jumping onto the footprints Ive made, carefree like I used to be.

“What are you doing, crazy girl?” my best friend, Zohra, asks my little Afifa.

“Im jumping so I dont drown!” she says with determination, sticking her tongue out to the side as she lands on another print.

“Drown in what? Were walking on dirt.” Zohra shakes her head.

“No, its a river!” Afifa responds. “And Fatos footprints are the rocks I need to jump on so I dont drown!”

“Okay, you dewanagak,” Zohra says, laughing. “Fatima, your sister has a lot of imagination. I dont think we were that colorful when we were her age.”

“I think we were,” I say. “At least I was. You were always so scared of everything, including your own shadow.” I cant help but laugh.

“What do you know?” Zohra pouts, just as I thought she would. The best part about teasing her is that she is horrible at pestering back. Shes my best friend for many reasons, and that is definitely one of them.

I keep chuckling, and eventually Zohra starts to giggle too. Shes never been able to stay mad at me, even when I deserve it.

Were nearly at the well when we both see the tree log. Its a log we pass almost daily, and every time, it brings back memories of what life used to be like, when all the kids from the village spent the days playing together. My mother says that its no longer proper for a girl of my shape to go out and play, that it will be seen as indecent. But even if she did let me play outside, I dont have anyone left to run in the fields with. Most of the girls around my age arent allowed to leave their homes, and the boys have begun helping their fathers in the fields and shops.

Zohra and I are still allowed to see each other, but even time with her isnt the same as it used to be. She doesnt want to run around anymore; she would rather sit and gossip about the village, sharing all the information she hears from her parents while braiding my hair.

For the first time in my life, I feel alone. Lonely. Even though my little brothers and sister are always around, it seems like I no longer belong in my family—at least not the new me—the bizarre, curvy, grown-up me. This feeling of nowhereness makes me empty inside in a way that I cant explain to anyone, not even Zohra. She seems to be embracing all the changes that I cant.

I wish I could be like that log. Its always been the same—able to fit the tiny backsides of a dozen or so children, squeezed tightly together. Wed sit there taking breaks from running around the village, sharing treats if we had them, munching the nuts and mulberries wed picked from the nearby woods.

“What are you smiling at?” Zohra breaks my train of thought.

“Nothing. I was just remembering how we used to play around that log,” I say as my smile fades. “It looks so sad without us there.”

“Youre the one who looks sad over a piece of wood,” Zohra says. “Besides, I dont think we could all fit on that thing anymore. If you havent noticed, our backsides have grown a bit.” She smirks. “I remember when Rashid found that thing in the woods while we were picking berries and we all had to roll it up here. I think my back still hasnt forgiven me!” Zohra dramatically puts one arm on her back and slouches like an old bibi, and in fact, she looks a lot like her own grandmother when she does it.

I remember that day so clearly, even though it was a lifetime ago. Rolling that chunk of timber, all of us together as a team. It was a grueling task, and we didnt think we could make it, but Samiullah, whose family owns the well and the fields beyond it, he knew we could. Every few feet of progress, one of us would want to stop. But Samiullah wouldnt let us. He kept encouraging us to keep pushing.

He was always the leader out of our little gang of village kids. Some families didnt allow their children to play with us because we were a mixed group—Pashtun children playing with Hazara children—but our parents didnt mind. We were connected through the land and through our fathers—Samiullahs Pashtun father is the landowner, and our Hazara fathers are the farmers.

After we moved the log to its current spot, we all sat on it, picking out on anothers splinters. We couldnt believe wed done it, just like Samiullah said we would.

“Did you hear that Samis back?” Zohra cuts off my thoughts of the past.

“What?” I dont think I heard the words correctly. Samiullah had left for religious studies—he was supposed to be gone for years. There was no way he was back.

“Yeah, I heard hes back from the madrassa, at least thats what my father told my mother and grandmother last night. He heard it from Kaka Ismail,” she adds, throwing her empty plastic jug up in the air before catching it again, sending Afifa into a fit of giggles.

“Samis father told your father?” I ask, still confused.

“Yeah, didnt your father tell you? Apparently he spoke to them when he came by to check on the fields.” This time she misses the jug after her toss. “He didnt last long did he?” She picks it up and slaps the dirt off the plastic.

“What do you mean?” I cant seem to process anything Zohra is saying right now. How is Samiullah back? Why havent I seen him yet? Why didnt I know hed returned? We used to be best friends, Sami and I. Could he be around here? We are near his house right now. He could be anywhere on these grounds.

“Most boys dont come back until theyre adults with their scraggly beards, telling us all what bad Muslims we are,” Zohra says rolling her eyes. “Thank God he left early. Apparently Rashid is still there. Kaka Ismail said hes coming home soon, too, but just to visit. Knowing Rashid, once he finishes at the madrassa, hell want to hang all of us for being infidels just because he can.”

“Dont say that.”

“What? We both know hes always been a little dewana.” Zohra shrugs her shoulders before crossing her eyes.

I cluck my tongue at her in disapproval while grabbing her jug. Samiullahs cousin has always been a bit rougher than the rest of their family, but hes not crazy. He was a part of our childhood. He was a part of what made us us.

As I walk down the path, My heads spins with Zohras news. Is Samiullah really home? When he left three years ago, I thought Id lost my friend forever. Could he really be back?

I look through the trees that guard their house from the well, and a stampede of questions race through my brain: Is he there? Can he see me right now? Is my dress clean? Why didnt I let Zohra braid my hair today? Why does it matter if I let Zohra braid my hair today?

But I know the answer to that last question. I know why it matters.

I always thought that by the time Samiullah came back, I wouldnt be allowed to see him anymore—that we would be at the age where a man and woman cant visit each other unless theyre related. I figured they would find him a wife and marry him as soon as he arrived home. And Id probably be married by then too. To someone else. My stomach stings at the thought.

Sami was always different from the rest of the boys. He saw me for who I was, not just as Alis little sister. And he took care of me . . . but I guess he took care of everyone.

As we fetch the water from the well, I realize Im conscious of my every movement, wondering if hes watching. Its so stupid. I know he hasnt missed me the way Ive missed him. But I cant resist stealing glances past the foliage at his familys home.

I drop the bucket back into the water. When I feel the weight filling the plastic tub, I begin pulling the rope. I follow one tug with another. When the bucket makes it to the edge of the well, I pull it up and pour it into our containers, only to drop the bucket down again, repeating the tedious process.

Afifa eventually gets bored of our silence, and her little arms cant help pull the water from the well, so she runs back home. Zohra and I continue to work quietly, which makes us more efficient. The sun is starting to set over the mountains, painting the sky a bright maroon color, like my favorite tangerines. Before long it will be nighttime, and Zohra still needs to make her way home. I pour the last bucketful of water into the second container, watching some splash over the edges of the plastic mouth, making its way to my dress and turning the red fabric into a blood-burgundy.

“You think he can see us?” Zohra asks the same question that Ive been wondering. Shes staring at the Ismailzai property like an owl as she chews on the mulberries she keeps pulling out of the pocket she sewed into her dress for that very purpose.

“What? Dont be ridiculous!” I say to her, twisting the lid on the last jug. “Why would he want to look our way? Hes probably busy with family.” I sneak another glance through the thin trees, though.

“How am I being ridiculous?” She picks up the first jug as we prepare for the short trek back, this time slower and more grueling with the filled containers weighing us down. “That boy has been in love with you since we were sitting on pots! You dont think he wants to see how your breasts have grown?” she says, laughing.

I feel like Ive been kicked in the gut and stripped of my clothes at the same time. In an instant, she has made me feel unclean. I suddenly hate Zohra for her words. Her openness about our changing bodies is embarrassing and disgusting. It doesnt seem to bother her that we are morphing into monsters. She even seems to like it.

“You are very uncivilized, you know. You have no manners at all!” I start walking faster. Sometimes I wonder if shes the same shy Zohra I grew up with, or if the girl I used to know has been replaced by the devil. I listen to her laughter. Definitely replaced by the devil. I slouch even more, trying to hide any indication of the swellings forming on my chest—the ones that are ruining my life by letting the world know that I am becoming a woman.

“Im just joking, Fato!” Zohra is still laughing like the cow that she is. “Im sorry! Besides, you should be happy. I wish I had them myself. Im still as flat as the chalkboard we use during our lessons with Bibi!”

I can hear her feet scrambling behind me, and then she stumbles. “Aaaakh!” she yells in pain. I turn and see her on the ground covered in the dirt. The jug is on the ground too, lying on its side and pouring out water. I quickly run and set the jug upright before tending to Zohra. For a split second, I contemplate leaving her there, but I know I would never do that.

“Are you okay?” I ask, looking for the spot she injured.

“Im fine,” she says holding her ankle. “I think I just twisted it. Maybe God was punishing me for talking about your breasts.” She grins.

“I hope you learned your lesson.” I cant help smiling back at her. I know she didnt mean to hurt me with her words. And I dont want to stay mad at her. Shes my only friend left. “Can you get up?”

“If you help me,” she says. I grab her elbow and pull her up. She takes a limping step. “It hurts a little, but Ill be fine. Do we have to get more water?”

“No, I got the jug upright before too much could spill out,” I answer, looking for the lid. I spot the blue plastic covering and start to screw it back on, this time very tightly. “Its okay, my mother will send us back tomorrow anyway. As long as she isnt the one who has to go to the well, shell use up any amount we bring her just so she can have us get her more. Over and over and over again! I sometimes think she only had children because she couldnt afford servants.” I grunt, expecting Zohra to snicker too, but she doesnt. Whatever. I blow the hair out of my face and pick up her jug. “Ill carry both. I dont want you injuring yourself again.”

I turn toward Zohra and suddenly notice a man standing nearby. Hes hovering in silence, staring at the both of us. My heart stops for a second, and I take a step back, unable to think clearly but trying to focus. Ive never seen this man before, which panics me. I immediately feel an icy chill racing through my body. We know everyone in this village—were not used to visitors, let alone strangers.

But there is something about his ice-green eyes, they feel familiar, even comforting. The chill begins to melt. There is only one pair of eyes that gives me this feeling of warmth. And thats when I realize this isnt a strange man. Its Samiullah. My breath catches in my throat.

I look at Zohra and realize shes figured it out before I have, as she goes back to slapping the dirt off her clothes. “Welcome back, Sami!”

“Salaam, Zohra Jaan,” he says. “Thank you.” His voice rumbles. The sound is deeper than I recall. But its not just his voice that has changed. He is almost as tall as his father now, and his skin on his face looks tighter and prickly, without the smooth, round cheeks I remember.

For the first time, I see the line of a jaw, chiseled like the men around the village. Except Samiullahs is different; its not worn out and tired-looking like the others, his bone structure is . . . beautiful. His perfectly arched eyebrows look darker and thicker, making his emerald eyes stand out even more. They hold the same sparkle I remember from years ago. But today it forces me to look away. I can feel my heart racing and my breath becoming heavier, and I dont know why. All I know is it gets worse when I try to look at him.

“When did you get back?” Zohra asks.

“On Saturday,” Samiullah responds. “How are you both doing?” I know hes directing that question to me as well, but Im afraid to speak. I feel nervous and out of breath, and I dont want them to know.

“Were fine, thank you for asking,” Zohra finally answers him. “We were just getting some water, and I tripped and fell while I was chasing Fatima back to her house. Its getting dark, and we were scared to make my father wait too long to take me back home with him.”

“Of course, I dont want to keep you. I just wanted to say salaam and see how you both were.” I can hear his voice as I continue to focus on the yellow container holding the water.

“Thank you,” Zohra says. “Its good to see you back home. Im sure you have brightened your familys eyes, especially your mothers.”

He nods. “Please send my regards to your fathers for me.”

“We will. Fatima?” Zohra picks up one of the jugs and seems to be walking fine now. I follow her lead and carry the other jug with my head down. I use my head scarf to shield me from Samiullah and focus on not tripping as I walk toward my house.

I dont know whats wrong with me. This is Sami, our Sami, my Sami. Why cant I look at him?

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Gaye, November 12, 2006 (view all comments by Gaye)
This book tells the story of a young girl's life in Afganistan. It is an excellent choice for young girls who are interested in learning about a lifestyle totally alien to them.
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Product Details

Ellis, Deborah
Groundwood Books
Abawi, Atia
Girls & Women
Children's 9-12 - Fiction - General
Social Situations - Violence
People & Places - Asia
Sex role
Women's rights
Situations / Friendship
Social Issues - Violence
Children s-General
Love & Romance
Edition Description:
First Trade Paper Edition
Series Volume:
Publication Date:
Electronic book text in proprietary or open standard format
Grade Level:
from 9
7.5 x 5 in 6 oz
Age Level:

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The Breadwinner Used Trade Paper
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$5.95 In Stock
Product details 170 pages Groundwood Books - English 9780888994165 Reviews:
"Synopsis" by , Young Parvana lives with her family in one room of a bombed-out apartment building in Kabul, Afghanistan. Because Parvana's father has a foreign education, he is arrested by the Taliban. Women cannot appear in public unless covered head to toe, go to school, or work outside the home, so the family becomes increasingly desperate until Parvana conceives a plan.
"Synopsis" by ,
"All girls [should read] The Breadwinner by Deborah Ellis." — Malala Yousafzai, New York Times

Eleven-year-old Parvana lives with her family in one room of a bombed-out apartment building in Kabul, Afghanistan's capital city. Parvana's father — a history teacher until his school was bombed and his health destroyed — works from a blanket on the ground in the marketplace, reading letters for people who cannot read or write. One day, he is arrested for the crime of having a foreign education, and the family is left without someone who can earn money or even shop for food.

As conditions for the family grow desperate, only one solution emerges. Forbidden to earn money as a girl, Parvana must transform herself into a boy, and become the breadwinner.

The Breadwinner is a novel about loyalty, survival, families and friendship under extraordinary circumstances. A map, glossary and author's note provide young readers with background and context. All royalties from the sale of this book will go to Women for Women, an organization that supports health and education projects in Afghanistan.

"Synopsis" by ,
The Breadwinner brings to life an issue that has recently exploded in the international media — the reality of life under the Taliban. Young Parvana lives with her family in one room of a bombed-out apartment building in Kabul, Afghanistan. Because he has a foreign education, her father is arrested by the Taliban, the religious group that controls the country. Since women cannot appear in public unless covered head to toe, or go to school, or work outside the home, the family becomes increasingly desperate until Parvana conceives a plan. She cuts her hair and disguises herself as a boy to earn money for her family. Parvanas determination to survive is the force that drives this novel set against the backdrop of an intolerable situation brought about by war and religious fanaticism. Deborah Ellis spent several months talking with women and girls in Afghan refugee camps in Pakistan and Russia. This suspenseful, timely novel is the result of those encounters. Royalties from the sale of The Breadwinner will go toward educating Afghan girls in Pakistani refugee camps. “...a potent portrait of life in contemporary Afghanistan, showing that powerful heroines can survive even in the most oppressive ... conditions.” — Booklist
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