Afghanistan is immensely beautiful, a land of contradictions. For instance, the hero of Pashtun culture is the warrior-poet, with a rose in one hand and a sword (or AK-47) in the other. Pashtuns adhere to a moral code referred to as Pashtunwali, a set of rules from the times when the tribes of Afghanistan provided the rule of law. The traditions are sometimes inspiring, sometimes severe.
One such tradition describes a way to bring peace between two warring tribes. A dear, white-bearded man told me that a woman from one tribe must bake naan (fresh bread) in her clay oven and carry it to a woman from the other tribe. “When she places the naan into the hands of the other woman, fighting will stop,” I was told. “It is in honor of her bravery.”
Pashtunwali (and almost every other culture within Afghanistan) also includes strict rules about practical, generous, and self-sacrificial hospitality. The highest honor is to receive a guest—whether the individual is a friend or a stranger, a businessman or a homeless person. Guests are viewed as a gift from God and an opportunity to show God one’s respect for humanity by sharing one’s resources in order to provide comfort, safety, and refreshment to the guest. Once a visitor is accepted into a Pashtun house, tradition holds that the family must be willing to die before they allow any harm to come to the guest. In Afghanistan, this is not an idle promise.
Throughout The Eleventh Trade, it has been a privilege to showcase some of the many complex and remarkable cultural nuances of Sami’s homeland to my remarkable readers. A few stylistic choices were made for the sake of readability. First and foremost, the reader should know that the terms “God” and “Allah” could very well be used interchangeably throughout (or the specific Dari or Pashto words could have been used). In this novel, these terms refer to a deity of monotheistic creationism. The words should not be interpreted to have any political significance, although I urge readers to consider the similarities, differences, and common bonds to be found within the languages and cultures encountered in this work.
After my journey, I watched from afar as friend after friend fled Kabul for safer lands. I watched as the period of peace in 2011 slowly slid back into danger.
Then the Taliban attacked my sister.
After hours hiding in a small space, waiting to be found and either killed or rescued, my sister and her friends were saved by Afghan special forces (whom she would like me to thank very much!). But even though they survived, those involved in the attack were changed. And in my own small way, I was changed, too. That’s what trauma does to you—it draws a mark on the timeline of your life, and the mark stays. I continue to hope there is a way to look back without remaining broken.
A waiter in an Afghan restaurant in Washington, DC, sat down with my sister and made a diagram of the wedding chapter in this book. Together, they took the specifics from the attack my sister had survived and turned them into the scene you read. Attacks such as these are sadly not uncommon.
I read extensively about the migrant crisis during the years of Sami’s journey. The southern route into Iran is one of the most dangerous ways out of Afghanistan, where human smugglers frequently lead their clients to their deaths or to years of detention in horrible conditions. In Greece, some refugees were met by a priest who would give them scraps of carpet so they could kneel and pray. Babies were born in ports. As borders close on Afghan refugees, everything becomes more desperate.
Yet even in the darkness of war and upheaval, I have seen in Afghans a beautiful blend of hospitality, honor, and a deep longing for peace. This unyielding hope captured my heart, and I want to spend my life learning it.
Now in the US, I sit in the new homes of recently arrived Afghans, a cup of chai in my hands and a vibrant red rug beneath my bare feet. A teen tells me our run-down, old local library is “so beautiful.” A child teaches me to play zombie tag. Their mother’s eyes light up when I ask her about iftar plans during Ramadan.
As the world turns around us, tilting now and then toward a darker season, we hold that trembling flame of hope in our hands. And we live.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Without community, The Eleventh Trade would never have existed.
It all began with Janine Amos at Bath Spa University, who challenged me to write a synopsis for a story completely out of my comfort zone—a story I was never meant to turn into a manuscript.
Whoops?
All of the staff at BSU’s fabulous Writing for Young People program: Thank you for pushing and supporting me. Lucy Christopher, Julia Green, and C. J. Skuse in particular—you rock. To my wider class at the MA, particularly Irulan Horner, Jess Butterworth, and Carlyn Attmyn: Thank you for having my back, urging me on, and being a continual blessing. And to all the other folks who poured encouragement into me along the way: the homeschool co-ops (what up, Sonlight!) and my Berry College crew. Chris, Rick, Dr. Meek, Master Greenbaum, and so many others who challenged and mentored me: I’m your biggest fan. Also, of course, a tip of the hat to Dr. Paul at Christopher Newport University—the best of supervisors.
My workshop group: Rebecca Harris, Lindsay Schiro, Emily Morris, Anneka Freeman, and Sarah Driver … you’re the writing community I always craved but never knew existed. Annie, you Slytherin to my Hufflepuff, master motivator and travel adventurer—I know this probably still needs ~moar emotions~ but don’t we all? And my sparkly mermaid goddess of sea-churning, whale-spotting, tea-making fame, Sarah: Any time you want to try fermented shark again, I’ll be there to document it—upwind and from a safe distance.
An enormous shout-out to all the experts who made this story make sense: Kaitlyn and Ian (soccer choreography and Man United tips); Erika (middle school teacher extraordinaire); Scott Hetzel and Johnny Geoghegan (combat boot pros); C. and her Afghan coworkers (details on Greek and Afghan instruments); K. (Pashto and Kandahari dialect checks); Richard, Chickie, Adam, and Hannah (Boston specialists); Austin Martin (secondhand stores); Islamic Society of Boston Cultural Center (a wonderfully welcoming mosque); Homayoun Sakhi (Afghan Star and rebab master); the Afghan waiter who wrote out a diagram of the blast scene for my sister; and, of course, Lincoln and Taryn (I hope this fulfills my contract of debt to you; Lincoln—thanks again for the tickets!).
My Third Culture Kids class: You are all remarkable. I want to be you when I grow up.
A special thanks to the Elie Wiesel Foundation for Humanity. Professor Wiesel, when you took my hand after the ceremony, all the force of your love for the world—love that is not blind to its evil—passed into me with a silent commission. Without your kindness, I would never have had the courage to write this story. The world is better—and I am better—because of your courageous hope. May that be your legacy.
Amber and the Skylark Literary team: You took a chance on me, and I’ll never forget it. Thank you for always having more faith in me than I have in myself. Kate, Fliss, and all the others who have made this debut a remarkable journey: I couldn’t be more pleased to call Roaring Brook and Piccadilly Press my book homes.
Lima, Rasheed, Hamida, Mina, Nizrana—where would this be without you? I am forever humbled by your kindness in reading, your thoughtful feedback, and your unwavering encouragement. Yak roz didi dost, roze dega didi bradar. Tashakor.
To my crazy family: Mom (for being my cheerleader in everything), Dad (for logic checks and military input), Jason (for music expertise and general enthusiasm), Laura (for being my biggest critic and staunchest ally), and Philip (for nerd tips and computer advice). And especially Amy. Everything isn’t about you, you know. But this kinda is.
Finally, to the master of stories: Christ Jesus. You are kind, even (especially) when I can’t see it. Keep breaking my heart with your unbearable, incomprehensible, riotous joy.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alyssa Hollingsworth was born in small town Pensacola, Florida, but life as a roving military kid soon mellowed her (unintelligibly strong) Southern accent. Wanderlust is in her blood, and she’s always waiting for the wind to change. Stories remain her constant. You can
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
Text copyright © 2018 by Alyssa Hollingsworth
Published by Roaring Brook Press
Roaring Brook Press is a division of
Holtzbrinck Publishing Holdings Limited Partnership
175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010
mackids.com
All rights reserved
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018936543
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eISBN 978-1-250-15577-1
First hardcover edition, 2018
eBook edition, September 2018
The Eleventh Trade Page 18