The Breadwinner

by Deborah Ellis

  “She’s sleeping,” Nooria said.

  “How long has she been like this?”

  “Four days.”

  “Where’s your father?”

  “Arrested.”

  “Ah, I see.” She caught sight of Parvana holding the empty bucket. “Are you waiting for it to rain inside so your bucket will fill itself? Off you go!”

  Parvana went.

  She made seven trips. Mrs. Weera met her outside the apartment at the top of the steps and took the first two full buckets from her, emptied them inside and brought back the empty bucket. “We’re getting your mother cleaned up, and she doesn’t need another pair of eyes on her.”

  After that, Parvana carried the water inside to the water tank as usual. Mrs. Weera had gotten Mother up and washed. Mother didn’t seem to notice Parvana.

  She kept hauling water. Her arms were sore, and the blisters on her feet started to bleed again, but she didn’t think about that. She fetched water because her family needed it, because her father would have expected her to. Now that Mrs. Weera was there and her mother was up, things were going to get easier, and she would do her part.

  Out the door, down the steps, down the street to the tap, then back again, stopping now and then to rest and change carrying arms.

  After the seventh trip, Mrs. Weera stopped her.

  “You’ve filled the tank and the wash basin, and there’s a full bucket to spare. That’s enough for now.”

  Parvana was dizzy from doing all that exercise with no food and nothing to drink. She wanted some water right away.

  “What are you doing?” Nooria asked as Parvana filled a cup from the tank. “You know it has to be boiled first!”

  Unboiled water made you sick, but Parvana was so thirsty that she didn’t care. She wanted to drink, and raised the cup to her lips.

  Nooria snatched it from her hands. “You are the stupidest girl! All we need now is for you to get sick! How could anyone so stupid end up as my sister!”

  “That’s no way to keep up team spirit,” Mrs. Weera said. “Nooria, why don’t you get the little ones washed for dinner. Use cold water. We’ll let this first batch of boiled water be for drinking.”

  Parvana went out into the larger room and sat down. Mother was sitting up. She had put on clean clothes. Her hair was brushed and tied back. She looked more like Mother, although she still seemed very tired.

  It felt like an eternity before Mrs. Weera handed Parvana a cup of plain boiled water.

  “Be careful. It’s very hot.”

  As soon as she could, she drank the water, got another cupful, and drank that, too.

  Mrs. Weera and her granddaughter stayed the night. As Parvana drifted off to sleep, she heard her, Nooria and Mother talking quietly together. Mrs. Weera told them about Parvana’s brush with the Taliban.

  The last thing she heard before she fell asleep was Mrs. Weera saying, “I guess we’ll have to think of something else.”

  SIX

  They were going to turn her into a boy.

  “As a boy, you’ll be able to move in and out of the market, buy what we need, and no one will stop you,” Mother said.

  “It’s a perfect solution,” Mrs. Weera said.

  “You’ll be our cousin from Jalalabad,” Nooria said, “come to stay with us while our father is away.”

  Parvana stared at the three of them. It was as though they were speaking a foreign language, and she didn’t have a clue what they were saying.

  “If anybody asks about you, we’ll say that you have gone to stay with an aunt in Kunduz,” Mother said.

  “But no one will ask about you.”

  At these words, Parvana turned her head sharply to glare at her sister. If ever there was a time to say something mean, this was it, but she couldn’t think of anything. After all, what Nooria said was true. None of her friends had seen her since the Taliban closed the schools. Her relatives were scattered to different parts of the country, even to different countries. There was no one to ask about her.

  “You’ll wear Hossain’s clothes.” Mother’s voice caught, and for a moment it seemed as though she would cry, but she got control of herself again. “They will be a bit big for you, but we can make some adjustments if we have to.” She glanced over at Mrs. Weera. “Those clothes have been idle long enough. It’s time they were put to use.”

  Parvana guessed Mrs. Weera and her mother had been talking long and hard while she was asleep. She was glad of that. Her mother already looked better. But that didn’t mean she was ready to give in.

  “It won’t work,” she said. “I won’t look like a boy. I have long hair.”

  Nooria opened the cupboard door, took out the sewing kit and slowly opened it up. It looked to Parvana as if Nooria was having too much fun as she lifted out the scissors and snapped them open and shut a few times.

  “You’re not cutting my hair!” Parvana’s hands flew up to her head.

  “How else will you look like a boy?” Mother asked.

  “Cut Nooria’s hair! She’s the oldest! It’s her responsibility to look after me, not my responsibility to look after her!”

  “No one would believe me to be a boy,” Nooria said calmly, looking down at her body. Nooria being calm just made Parvana madder.

  “I’ll look like that soon,” Parvana said.

  “You wish.”

  “We’ll deal with that when the time comes,” Mother said quickly, heading off the fight she knew was coming. “Until then, we have no choice. Someone has to be able to go outside, and you are the one most likely to look like a boy.”

  Parvana thought about it. Her fingers reached up her back to see how long her hair had grown.

  “It has to be your decision,” Mrs. Weera said. “We can force you to cut off your hair, but you’re still the one who has to go outside and act the part. We know this is a big thing we’re asking, but I think you can do it. How about it?”

  Parvana realized Mrs. Weera was right. They could hold her down and cut off her hair, but for anything more, they needed her cooperation. In the end, it really was her decision.

  Somehow, knowing that made it easier to agree.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll do it.”

  “Well done,” said Mrs. Weera. “That’s the spirit.”

  Nooria snapped the scissors again. “I’ll cut your hair,” she said.

  “I’ll cut it,” Mother said, taking the scissors away. “Let’s do it now, Parvana. Thinking about it won’t make it any easier.”

  Parvana and her mother went into the washroom where the cement floor would make it easier to clean up the cut-off hair. Mother took Hossain’s clothes in with them.

  “Do you want to watch?” Mother asked, nodding toward the mirror.

  Parvana shook her head, then changed her mind. If this was the last she would see of her hair, then she wanted to see it for as long as she could.

  Mother worked quickly. First she cut off a huge chunk in a straight line at her neck. She held it up for Parvana to see.

  “I have a lovely piece of ribbon packed away,” she said. “We’ll tie this up with it, and you can keep it.”

  Parvana looked at the hair in her mother’s hand. While it was on her head, it had seemed important. It didn’t seem important any more.

  “No, thanks,” said Parvana. “Throw it away.”

  Her mother’s lips tightened. “If you’re going to sulk about it,” she said, and she tossed the hair down to the floor.

  As more and more hair fell away, Parvana began to feel like a different person. Her whole face showed. What was left of her hair was short and shaggy. It curled in a soft fringe around her ears. There were no long parts to fall into her eyes, to become tangled on a windy day, to take forever to dry when she got caught in the rain.

  Her forehead seemed bigger. Her eyes seemed bigger, too, maybe because she was opening them so wide to be able to see everything. Her ears seemed to stick out from her head.

  They look a lit
tle funny, Parvana thought, but a nice sort of funny.

  I have a nice face, she decided.

  Mother rubbed her hands brusquely over Parvana’s head to rub away any stray hairs.

  “Change your clothes,” she said. Then she left the washroom.

  All alone, Parvana’s hand crept up to the top of her head. Touching her hair gingerly at first, she soon rubbed the palm of her hand all over her head. Her new hair felt both bristly and soft. It tickled the skin on her hand.

  I like it, she thought, and she smiled.

  She took off her own clothes and put on her brother’s. Hossain’s shalwar kameez was pale green, both the loose shirt and the baggy trousers. The shirt hung down very low, and the trousers were too long, but by rolling them up at the waist, they were all right.

  There was a pocket sewn into the left side of the shirt, near the chest. It was just big enough to hold money and maybe a few candies, if she ever had candies again. There was another pocket on the front. It was nice to have pockets. Her girl clothes didn’t have any.

  “Parvana, haven’t you changed yet?”

  Parvana stopped looking at herself in the mirror and joined her family.

  The first face she saw was Maryam’s. Her little sister looked as if she couldn’t quite figure out who had walked into the room.

  “It’s me, Maryam,” Parvana said.

  “Parvana!” Maryam laughed as she recognized her.

  “Hossain,” her mother whispered.

  “You look less ugly as a boy than you do as a girl,” Nooria said quickly. If Mother started remembering Hossain, she’d just start crying again.

  “You look fine,” said Mrs. Weera.

  “Put this on.” Mother handed Parvana a cap. Parvana put it on her head. It was a white cap with beautiful embroidery all over it. Maybe she’d never wear her special red shalwar kameez again, but she had a new cap to take its place.

  “Here’s some money,” her mother said. “Buy what you were not able to buy yesterday.” She placed a pattu around Parvana’s shoulder. It was her father’s. “Hurry back.”

  Parvana tucked the money into her new pocket. She slipped her feet into her sandals, then reached for her chador.

  “You won’t be needing that,” Nooria said.

  Parvana had forgotten. Suddenly she was scared. Everyone would see her face! They would know she wasn’t a boy!

  She turned around to plead with her mother. “Don’t make me do this!”

  “You see?” Nooria said in her nastiest voice. “I told you she was too scared.”

  “It’s easy to call someone else scared when you’re safe inside your home all the time!” Parvana shot back. She spun around and went outside, slamming the door behind her.

  Out on the street, she kept waiting for people to point at her and call her a fake. No one did. No one paid any attention to her at all. The more she was ignored, the more confident she felt.

  When she had gone into the market with her father, she had kept silent and covered up her face as much as possible. She had tried her best to be invisible. Now, with her face open to the sunshine, she was invisible in another way. She was just one more boy on the street. She was nothing worth paying attention to.

  When she came to the shop that sold tea, rice and other groceries, she hesitated for a slight moment, then walked boldly through the door. I’m a boy, she kept saying to herself. It gave her courage.

  “What do you want?” the grocer asked.

  “Some...some tea,” Parvana stammered out.

  “How much? What kind?” The grocer was gruff, but it was ordinary bad-mood gruff, not gruff out of anger that there was a girl in his shop.

  Parvana pointed to the brand of tea they usually had at home. “Is that the cheapest?”

  “This one is the cheapest.” He showed her another one.

  “I’ll take the cheapest one. I also need five pounds of rice.”

  “Don’t tell me. You want the cheapest kind. Big spender.”

  Parvana left the shop with rice and tea, feeling very proud of herself. “I can do this!” she whispered.

  Onions were cheap at the vegetable stand. She bought a few.

  “Look what I got!” Parvana exclaimed, as she burst through the door of her home. “I did it! I did the shopping, and nobody bothered me.”

  “Parvana!” Maryam ran to her and gave her a hug. Parvana hugged her back as best she could with her arms full of groceries.

  Mother was back on the toshak, facing the wall, her back to the room. Ali sat beside her, patting her and saying, “Ma-ma-ma,” trying to get her attention.

  Nooria took the groceries from Parvana and handed her the water bucket.

  “As long as you’ve got your sandals on,” she said.

  “What’s wrong with Mother now?”

  “Shhh! Not so loud! Do you want her to hear you? She got upset after seeing you in Hossain’s clothes. Can you blame her? Also, Mrs. Weera went home, and that’s made her sad. Now, please go and get water.”

  “I got water yesterday!”

  “I had a lot of cleaning to do. Ali was almost out of diapers. Would you rather wash diapers than fetch the water?”

  Parvana fetched the water.

  “Keep those clothes on,” Nooria said when Parvana returned. “I’ve been thinking about this. If you’re going to be a boy outside, you should be a boy inside, too. What if someone comes by?”

  That made sense to Parvana. “What about Mother? Won’t it upset her to see me in Hossain’s clothes all the time?”

  “She’ll have to get used to it.”

  For the first time, Parvana noticed the tired lines on Nooria’s face. She looked much older than seventeen.

  “I’ll help you with supper,” she offered.

  “You? Help? All you’d do is get in my way.”

  Parvana fumed. It was impossible to be nice to Nooria!

  Mother got up for supper and made an effort to be cheerful. She complimented Parvana on her shopping success, but seemed to have a hard time looking at her.

  Later that night, when they were all stretched out for sleep, Ali fussed a little.

  “Go to sleep, Hossain,” Parvana heard her mother say. “Go to sleep, my son.”

  SEVEN

  The next morning, after breakfast, Parvana was back on the street.

  “Take your father’s writing things and his blanket, and go to the market,” Mother told her. “Maybe you can earn some money. You’ve been watching your father all this time. Just do what he did.”

  Parvana liked the idea. Yesterday’s shopping had gone well. If she could earn money, she might never have to do housework again. The boy disguise had worked once. Why shouldn’t it work again?

  As she walked to the marketplace, her head felt light without the weight of her hair or chador. She could feel the sun on her face, and a light breeze floating down from the mountain made the air fresh and fine.

  Her father’s shoulder bag was slung across her chest. It bumped against her legs. Inside were Father’s pens and writing paper, and a few items she would try to sell, including her fancy shalwar kameez. Under her arm, Parvana carried the blanket she would sit on.

  She chose the same spot where she had gone with her father. It was next to a wall. On the other side of the wall was a house. The wall hid most of it from view. There was a window above the wall, but it had been painted black, in obedience to the Taliban decree.

  “If we’re at the same place every day, people will get to know we are here, and they will remember us when they need something read or written,” Father used to say. Parvana liked that he said “we,” as if she was part of his business. The spot was close to home, too. There were busier places in the market, but they took longer to get to, and Parvana wasn’t sure she knew the way.

  “If anyone asks who you are, say you are Father’s nephew Kaseem,” Mother said. They had gone over and over the story until Parvana knew it cold. “Say Father is ill, and you have come to stay with the
family until he is well again.”

  It was safer to say Father was ill than to tell people he’d been arrested. No one wanted to look like an enemy of the government.

  “Will anyone hire me to read for them?” Parvana asked. “I’m only eleven.”

  “You still have more education than most people in Afghanistan,” Mother said. “However, if they don’t hire you, we’ll think of something else.”

  Parvana spread her blanket on the hard clay of the market, arranged her goods for sale to one side, as Father had done, and spread her pens and writing paper out in front of her. Then she sat down and waited for customers.

  The first hour went by with no one stopping. Men would walk by, look down at her and keep walking. She wished she had her chador to hide behind. She was certain that at any moment someone would stop, point at her and yell, “Girl!” The word would ring out through the market like a curse, and everyone would stop what they were doing. Staying put that first hour was one of the hardest things she had ever done.

  She was looking the other way when someone stopped. She felt the shadow before she saw it, as the man moved between her and the sun. Turning her head, she saw the dark turban that was the uniform of the Taliban. A rifle was slung across his chest as casually as her father’s shoulder bag had been slung across hers.

  Parvana began to tremble.

  “You are a letter reader?” he asked in Pashtu.

  Parvana tried to answer, but she couldn’t find her voice. Instead, she nodded.

  “Speak up, boy! A letter reader who has no voice is no good to me.”

  Parvana took a deep breath. “I am a letter reader,” she said in Pashtu, in a voice that she hoped was loud enough. “I can read and write in Dari and Pashtu.” If this was a customer, she hoped her Pashtu would be good enough.

  The Talib kept looking down at her. Then he put his hand inside his vest. Keeping his eyes on Parvana, he drew something out of his vest pocket.

  Parvana was about to squish her eyes shut and wait to be shot when she saw that the Talib had taken out a letter.

  He sat down beside her on the blanket.

  “Read this,” he said.

  Parvana took the envelope from him. The stamp was from Germany. She read the outside. “This is addressed to Fatima Azima.”