i am malala: the story of the girl who stood up for education and...

IAMMALALATheGirlWhoStoodUpforEducationandwasShotbythe

TalibanMalalaYousafzai

withChristinaLamb

Weidenfeld&NicolsonLONDON

Toallthegirlswhohavefacedinjusticeandbeensilenced.Togetherwewillbe

heard.

Contents

CoverTitlePageDedicationPrologue:TheDaymyWorldChanged

PARTONE:BEFORETHETALIBAN

1 ADaughterIsBorn2 MyFathertheFalcon3 GrowingupinaSchool4 TheVillage

5WhyIDon’tWearEarringsandPashtunsDon’tSayThankYou

6 ChildrenoftheRubbishMountain

7 TheMuftiWhoTriedtoCloseOurSchool

8 TheAutumnoftheEarthquake

PARTTWO:THEVALLEYOFDEATH

9 RadioMullah

10 Toffees,TennisBallsandtheBuddhasofSwat

11 TheCleverClass12 TheBloodySquare13 TheDiaryofGulMakai14 AFunnyKindofPeace

15 LeavingtheValley

PARTTHREE:THREEBULLETS,THREEGIRLS

16 TheValleyofSorrows17 PrayingtoBeTall18 TheWomanandtheSea19 APrivateTalibanisation20 WhoisMalala?

PARTFOUR:BETWEENLIFEANDDEATH

21 ‘God,Ientrusthertoyou’

22 JourneyintotheUnknown

PARTFIVE:ASECONDLIFE

23 ‘TheGirlShotintheHead,Birmingham’

24‘Theyhavesnatchedhersmile’

Epilogue:OneChild,OneTeacher,OneBook,OnePen...

GlossaryAcknowledgementsImportantEventsinPakistanandSwat

ANoteontheMalalaFundPictureSectionAdditionalCreditsandThanks

Copyright

Prologue:TheDaymyWorldChanged

ICOMEFROMacountrywhichwas created at midnight.When I almost died it wasjustaftermidday.

One year ago I left myhome for school and neverreturned. I was shot by aTalibanbulletandwasflownout of Pakistan unconscious.SomepeoplesayIwillneverreturn home but I believefirmlyinmyheartthatIwill.To be torn from the countrythatyouloveisnotsomethingtowishonanyone.Now,everymorningwhen

Iopenmyeyes,I longtosee

my old room full of mythings,myclothesalloverthefloorandmyschoolprizesontheshelves.InsteadIaminacountry which is five hoursbehindmybelovedhomelandPakistanandmyhomein theSwatValley.Butmycountryis centuries behind this one.Herethereisanyconvenienceyou can imagine. Waterrunning from every tap, hotorcoldasyouwish; lightsat

theflickofaswitch,dayandnight, no need for oil lamps;ovens to cook on that don’tneed anyone to go and fetchgascylindersfromthebazaar.Hereeverythingissomodernonecanevenfindfoodreadycookedinpackets.When I stand in front of

my window and look out, Isee tall buildings, long roadsfull of vehicles moving inorderly lines, neat green

hedges and lawns, and tidypavementstowalkon.Iclosemy eyes and for amoment Iam back in my valley – thehighsnow-toppedmountains,greenwavingfieldsandfreshblue rivers – and my heartsmiles when it looks at thepeople of Swat. My mindtransports me back to myschool and there I amreunitedwithmy friends andteachers. I meet my best

friend Moniba and we sittogether, talking and jokingasifIhadneverleft.Then I remember I am in

Birmingham,England.The day when everythingchanged was Tuesday, 9October 2012. It wasn’t thebestofdaystostartwithasitwas the middle of schoolexams, though as a bookishgirl I didn’t mind them asmuch as some of my

classmates.Thatmorningwearrivedin

thenarrowmudlaneoffHajiBaba Road in our usualprocessionofbrightlypaintedrickshaws, sputtering dieselfumes, each one crammedwith five or six girls. Sincethe time of the Taliban ourschool has had no sign andtheornamentedbrassdoor ina white wall across from thewoodcutter’s yard gives no

hintofwhatliesbeyond.For us girls that doorway

waslikeamagicalentrancetoourownspecialworld.Asweskipped through, we cast offour head-scarves like windspuffingawayclouds tomakeway for the sun then ranhelter-skelterupthesteps.Atthe top of the steps was anopen courtyardwith doors toall the classrooms. Wedumpedourbackpacksinour

rooms then gathered formorning assembly under thesky, our backs to themountains as we stood toattention. One girlcommanded, ‘Assaan bash! ’or ‘Stand at ease!’ and weclicked our heels andresponded, ‘Allah.’ Then shesaid, ‘Hoo she yar!’ or‘Attention!’ and we clickedourheelsagain.‘Allah.’Theschoolwasfoundedby

my father before Iwas born,and on the wall above usKHUSHALSCHOOLwaspaintedproudly in red and whiteletters.Wewenttoschoolsixmornings a week and as afifteen-year-oldinYear9myclasses were spent chantingchemical equations orstudying Urdu grammar;writing stories in Englishwith morals like ‘Hastemakes waste’ or drawing

diagramsofbloodcirculation– most of my classmateswanted to be doctors. It’shard to imagine that anyonewould see that as a threat.Yet, outside the door to theschool laynotonly thenoiseandcrazinessofMingora,themain city of Swat, but alsothose like the Taliban whothink girls should not go toschool.That morning had begun

likeanyother, thougha littlelater than usual. Itwas examtimesoschoolstartedatnineinstead of eight, which wasgoodasIdon’tlikegettingupand can sleep through thecrows of the cocks and theprayer calls of the muezzin.First my father would try torouse me. ‘Time to get up,Janimun,’hewouldsay.Thismeans ‘soulmate’ in Persian,andhealwayscalledme that

atthestartoftheday.‘Afewmore minutes, Aba, please,’I’d beg, then burrow deeperunder the quilt. Then mymotherwould come. ‘Pisho,’she would call. This means‘cat’andishernameforme.At this point I’d realise thetime and shout, ‘Bhabi, I’mlate!’ In our culture, everyman is your ‘brother’ andevery woman your ‘sister’.That’s howwe think of each

other. When my father firstbroughthiswifetoschool,alltheteachersreferredtoheras‘mybrother’swife’orBhabi.That’s how it stayed fromthenon.WeallcallherBhabinow.I slept in the long roomat

thefrontofourhouse,andtheonly furniturewas a bed andacabinetwhichIhadboughtwithsomeofthemoneyIhadbeen given as an award for

campaigningforpeaceinourvalley and the right for girlsto go to school. On someshelves were all the gold-coloured plastic cups andtrophies I had won forcoming first in my class.Only twice had I not cometop – both timeswhen Iwasbeaten by my class rivalMalka e-Noor. I wasdetermined it would nothappenagain.

The school was not farfrommyhomeand I used towalk, but since the start oflast year I had been goingwithothergirlsinarickshawand coming home by bus. Itwas a journey of just fiveminutes along the stinkystream, past the giantbillboard for Dr Humayun’sHair Transplant Institutewhere we joked that one ofour bald male teachers must

havegonewhenhe suddenlystarted to sprout hair. I likedthebusbecauseIdidn’tgetassweatyaswhenIwalked,andI could chat withmy friendsand gossip with Usman Ali,the driver, who we calledBhai Jan, or ‘Brother’. Hemade us all laugh with hiscrazystories.Ihadstartedtakingthebus

because my mother wasscared ofmewalking onmy

own. We had been gettingthreatsallyear.Somewereinthe newspapers, some werenotes or messages passed onby people. My mother wasworried about me, but theTalibanhadnevercomeforagirl and I was moreconcerned they would targetmy father as he was alwaysspeaking out against them.His close friend and fellowcampaigner Zahid Khan had

been shot in the face inAugustonhiswaytoprayersand I knew everyone wastellingmyfather, ‘Takecare,you’llbenext.’Our street could not be

reached by car, so cominghomeIwouldgetoff thebuson the road below by thestream and go through abarred iron gate and up aflight of steps. I thought ifanyone attackedme it would

be on those steps. Like myfather I’ve always been adaydreamer, and sometimesin lessons my mind woulddrift and I’d imagine that onthe way home a terroristmightjumpoutandshootmeon those steps. I wonderedwhat I would do.Maybe I’dtake off my shoes and hithim,butthenI’dthinkifIdidthat there would be nodifference betweenme and a

terrorist.Itwouldbebettertoplead, ‘OK, shoot me, butfirst listen to me. What youare doing is wrong. I’m notagainst you personally, I justwant every girl to go toschool.’I wasn’t scared but I had

started making sure the gatewas locked at night andasking God what happenswhenyoudie. I toldmybestfriend Moniba everything.

We’dlivedonthesamestreetwhenwewerelittleandbeenfriends since primary schooland we shared everything,Justin Bieber songs andTwilight movies, the bestface-lightening creams. Herdream was to be a fashiondesigner although she knewherfamilywouldneveragreetoit,soshetoldeveryoneshewanted to be a doctor. It’shardforgirlsinoursocietyto

be anything other thanteachersordoctorsiftheycanworkatall.Iwasdifferent–Inever hid my desire when Ichangedfromwantingtobeadoctor to wanting to be aninventor or a politician.Moniba always knew ifsomethingwaswrong.‘Don’tworry,’ I told her. ‘TheTaliban have never come forasmallgirl.’When our bus was called,

we ran down the steps. Theother girls all covered theirheads before emerging fromthedoorandclimbingupintothe back. The bus wasactuallywhatwecalladyna,a white Toyota TownAcetruck with three parallelbenches,onealongeithersideandoneinthemiddle.Itwascramped with twenty girlsand three teachers. I wassitting on the left between

Moniba and a girl from theyear below called ShaziaRamzan, holding our examfolders to our chests and ourschoolbagsunderourfeet.After that it is all a bit

hazy. I remember that insidethe dyna it was hot andsticky. The cooler dayswerelate coming and only thefaraway mountains of theHinduKushhadafrostingofsnow.Thebackwherewesat

had no windows, just thickplastic sheeting at the sideswhich flapped and was tooyellowed and dusty to seethrough. All we could seewasalittlestampofopenskyoutof thebackandglimpsesofthesun,atthattimeofdaya yellow orb floating in thedust that streamed overeverything.I remember that the bus

turnedrightoffthemainroad

at the army checkpoint asalways and rounded thecorner past the desertedcricket ground. I don’trememberanymore.In my dreams about the

shootingmy father is also inthe bus and he is shot withme, and then there are meneverywhere and I amsearchingformyfather.In reality what happened

waswesuddenlystopped.On

ourleftwasthetombofSherMohammad Khan, thefinance minister of the firstruler of Swat, all overgrownwith grass, and on our rightthe snack factory. We musthave been less than 200metresfromthecheckpoint.We couldn’t see in front,

but a young bearded man inlight-coloured clothes hadstepped into the road andwavedthevandown.

‘IsthistheKhushalSchoolbus?’ he asked our driver.UsmanBhai Jan thought thiswas a stupid question as thenamewaspaintedontheside.‘Yes,’hesaid.‘I need information about

somechildren,’saidtheman.‘You should go to the

office,’saidUsmanBhaiJan.As he was speaking

another young man in whiteapproached the back of the

van. ‘Look, it’s one of thosejournalists coming to ask foran interview,’ said Moniba.Since I’d started speaking atevents with my father tocampaignforgirls’educationand against those like theTalibanwhowant to hide usaway, journalists often came,even foreigners, though notlikethisintheroad.The man was wearing a

peaked cap and had a

handkerchief over his noseand mouth as if he had flu.He looked like a collegestudent. Then he swunghimself onto the tailboard atthe back and leaned in rightoverus.‘Who is Malala?’ he

demanded.No one said anything, but

several of the girls looked atme. I was the only girl withmyfacenotcovered.

That’swhenhe liftedupablackpistol. I later learned itwas a Colt 45. Some of thegirls screamed. Moniba tellsmeIsqueezedherhand.My friends say he fired

threeshots,oneafteranother.Thefirstwentthroughmylefteye socket andoutundermyleft shoulder. I slumpedforward onto Moniba, bloodcoming frommy left ear, sothe other two bullets hit the

girls next to me. One bulletwent into Shazia’s left hand.The third went through herleft shoulder and into theupper right arm of KainatRiaz.My friends later told me

the gunman’s hand wasshakingashefired.By the timewe got to the

hospital my long hair andMoniba’s lap were full ofblood.

Who isMalala? I amMalalaandthisismystory.

PARTONE

BeforetheTaliban

SoreysoreypagolorasheyDabenangaiawazderamashamayena

RatherIreceiveyourbullet-riddledbodywithhonour

Thannewsofyourcowardiceonthebattlefield

(TraditionalPashtocouplet)

1

ADaughterIsBorn

WHENIWASborn,peopleinour village commiseratedwith my mother and nobodycongratulated my father. I

arrived at dawn as the laststarblinkedout.WePashtunsseethisasanauspicioussign.My father didn’t have anymoney for thehospitalor fora midwife so a neighbourhelped at my birth. Myparents’ first child wasstillborn but I popped outkickingandscreaming. Iwasa girl in a land where riflesare fired in celebration of ason, while daughters are

hiddenawaybehindacurtain,their role in life simply topreparefoodandgivebirthtochildren.For most Pashtuns it’s a

gloomydaywhenadaughteris born. My father’s cousinJehan Sher Khan Yousafzaiwasoneofthefewwhocameto celebrate my birth andevengaveahandsomegiftofmoney.Yet, he broughtwithhimavast family treeofour

clan,theDalokhelYousafzai,goingrightbacktomygreat-great-grandfather andshowing only the male line.My father, Ziauddin, isdifferent from most Pashtunmen.Hetookthetree,drewaline like a lollipop from hisname and at the end of it hewrote, ‘Malala’. His cousinlaughed in astonishment.Myfatherdidn’tcare.Hesayshelooked into my eyes after I

wasbornandfellinlove.Hetold people, ‘I know there issomethingdifferentaboutthischild.’Heevenaskedfriendsto throw dried fruits, sweetsand coins into my cradle,somethingweusuallyonlydoforboys.I was named afterMalalai

of Maiwand, the greatestheroine of Afghanistan.Pashtuns are a proud peopleof many tribes split between

Pakistan and Afghanistan.We live as we have forcenturies by a code calledPashtunwali, which obligesus to give hospitality to allguestsand inwhich themostimportant value is nang orhonour. The worst thing thatcan happen to a Pashtun islossof face.Shame isaveryterrible thing for a Pashtunman. We have a saying,‘Without honour, the world

counts fornothing.’Wefightand feudamongourselves somuch that our word forcousin–tarbur–isthesameas our word for enemy. Butwe always come togetheragainst outsiders who try toconquer our lands. AllPashtun children grow upwiththestoryofhowMalalaiinspired the Afghan army todefeat the British in 1880 inone of the biggest battles of

the Second Anglo-AfghanWar.Malalai was the daughter

of a shepherd inMaiwand, asmall town on the dustyplains west of Kandahar.When she was a teenager,both her father and the manshe was supposed to marrywere among thousands ofAfghans fighting against theBritish occupation of theircountry. Malalai went to the

battlefield with other womenfrom the village to tend thewounded and take themwater. She saw their menwere losing, and when theflag-bearer fell she lifted herwhite veil up high andmarched onto the battlefieldinfrontofthetroops.‘Younglove!’sheshouted.

‘Ifyoudonotfallinthebattleof Maiwand then, by God,someone is saving you as a

symbolofshame.’Malalai was killed under

fire, but her words andbravery inspired the men toturn the battle around. Theydestroyed an entire brigade,oneoftheworstdefeatsinthehistory of the British army.The Afghans were so proudthatthelastAfghankingbuiltaMaiwandvictorymonumentinthecentreofKabul.Inhighschool I read some Sherlock

Holmes and laughed to seethat this was the same battlewhere Dr Watson waswounded before becomingpartner to thegreatdetective.InMalalaiwe Pashtuns haveour very own Joan of Arc.Many girls’ schools inAfghanistan are named afterher.Butmygrandfather,whowas a religious scholar andvillage cleric, didn’t like myfather giving me that name.

‘It’sa sadname,’hesaid. ‘Itmeansgrief-stricken.’When I was a baby my

fatherusedtosingmeasongwritten by the famous poetRahmat Shah Sayel ofPeshawar. The last verseends,

OMalalaiofMaiwand,RiseoncemoretomakePashtunsunderstandthesongofhonour,Yourpoeticwordsturnworldsaround,Ibegyou,riseagain

Myfather told thestoryofMalalai to anyonewho cametoourhouse. I lovedhearingthe story and the songs myfather sang to me, and thewaymy name floated on thewindwhenpeoplecalledit.We lived in the mostbeautiful place in all theworld. My valley, the SwatValley, is a heavenlykingdom of mountains,gushing waterfalls and

crystal-clear lakes. WELCOMETOPARADISE,itsaysonasignas you enter the valley. Inolden times Swat was calledUddyana, which means‘garden’. We have fields ofwild flowers, orchards ofdeliciousfruit,emeraldminesandriversfulloftrout.Peopleoften call Swat theSwitzerlandof theEast –weeven had Pakistan’s first skiresort. The rich people of

Pakistan came on holiday toenjoy our clean air andsceneryandourSufifestivalsofmusicanddancing.Andsodid many foreigners, all ofwhom we called angrezan –‘English’ – wherever theycame from. Even the QueenofEngland came, and stayedin theWhite Palace thatwasbuiltfromthesamemarbleasthe Taj Mahal by our king,thefirstwaliofSwat.

We have a special historytoo.TodaySwatispartoftheprovince of KhyberPakhtunkhwa, or KPK, asmany Pakistanis call it, butSwatusedtobeseparatefromtherestofPakistan.Wewereonce a princely state, one ofthree with the neighbouringlands of Chitral and Dir. Incolonialtimesourkingsowedallegiance to the British butruled their own land. When

the British gave Indiaindependence in 1947 anddivided it, we went with thenewly created Pakistan butstayed autonomous.Weusedthe Pakistani rupee, but thegovernmentofPakistancouldonly intervene on foreignpolicy.Thewaliadministeredjustice, kept the peacebetween warring tribes andcollectedushur–ataxoftenper cent of income – with

which he built roads,hospitalsandschools.We were only a hundred

miles from Pakistan’s capitalIslamabad as the crow fliesbut it felt as if it was inanother country.The journeytook at least five hours byroadovertheMalakandPass,a vast bowl of mountainswherelongagoourancestorsled by a preacher calledMullah Saidullah (known by

theBritishas theMadFakir)battled British forces amongthe craggy peaks. AmongthemwasWinstonChurchill,who wrote a book about it,and we still call one of thepeaksChurchill’sPicketeventhough he was not verycomplimentary about ourpeople.Attheendofthepassis a green-domed shrinewhere people throw coins togive thanks for their safe

arrival.NooneIknewhadbeento

Islamabad. Before thetroubles came, most people,like my mother, had neverbeenoutsideSwat.We lived in Mingora, the

biggest towninthevalley, infact the only city. It used tobe a small place but manypeople had moved in fromsurrounding villages, makingit dirty and crowded. It has

hotels,colleges,agolfcourseand a famous bazaar forbuying our traditionalembroidery, gemstones andanything you can think of.The Marghazar stream loopsthroughit,milkybrownfromthe plastic bags and rubbishthrown into it. It is not clearlike the streams in the hillyareas or like the wide RiverSwatjustoutsidetown,wherepeople fished for trout and

whichwevisitedonholidays.Our house was in Gulkada,which means ‘place offlowers’, but it used to becalled Butkara, or ‘place ofthe Buddhist statues’. Nearour home was a fieldscattered with mysteriousruins – statues of lions ontheir haunches, brokencolumns, headless figuresand, oddest of all, hundredsofstoneumbrellas.

Islamcametoourvalleyinthe eleventh century whenSultan Mahmud of Ghazniinvaded from Afghanistanand became our ruler, but inancient times Swat was aBuddhist kingdom. TheBuddhistshadarrivedhereinthe second century and theirkings ruled the valley formorethan500years.Chineseexplorers wrote stories ofhow there were 1,400

Buddhist monasteries alongthe banks of theRiver Swat,and the magical sound oftemple bells would ring outacrossthevalley.Thetemplesare long gone, but almostanywhere you go in Swat,amid all the primroses andother wild flowers, you findtheir remains. We wouldoften picnic among rockcarvings of a smiling fatBuddha sitting cross-legged

on a lotus flower. There aremany stories that LordBuddha himself came herebecause it is a place of suchpeace, and someofhis ashesare said to be buried in thevalleyinagiantstupa.Our Butkara ruins were a

magical place to play hideand seek.Once some foreignarchaeologists arrived to dosomework there and told usthatintimesgonebyitwasa

place of pilgrimage, full ofbeautifultemplesdomedwithgold where Buddhist kingslayburied.Myfatherwroteapoem, ‘The Relics ofButkara’, which summed upperfectly how temple andmosque could exist side byside:‘Whenthevoiceoftruthrises from theminarets,/ TheBuddha smiles,/ And thebroken chain of historyreconnects.’

Welived in the shadowofthe Hindu Kush mountains,where themenwent to shootibex and golden cockerels.Ourhousewasonestoreyandproper concrete. On the leftwere steps up to a flat roofbigenoughforuschildren toplay cricket on. It was ourplayground. At dusk myfather and his friends oftengathered to sit and drink teathere.SometimesIsatonthe

roof too,watching thesmokerisefromthecookingfiresallaround and listening to thenightlyracketofthecrickets.Our valley is full of fruit

trees on which grow thesweetest figs andpomegranates and peaches,and in our garden we hadgrapes, guavas andpersimmons. There was aplum tree in our front yardwhich gave the most

delicious fruit. Itwas alwaysa race between us and thebirdstogettothem.Thebirdsloved that tree. Even thewoodpeckers.For as long as I can

remember my mother hastalkedtobirds.Atthebackofthe house was a verandawhere the women gathered.Weknewwhat itwas like tobe hungry so my motheralwayscookedextraandgave

foodtopoorfamilies.Iftherewas any left she fed it to thebirds. In Pashto we love tosing tapey, two-line poems,and as she scattered the riceshe would sing one: ‘Don’tkilldovesinthegarden./Youkill one and theotherswon’tcome.’I liked to sit on the roof

andwatch themountainsanddream.Thehighestmountainof all is the pyramid-shaped

Mount Elum. To us it’s asacredmountain and so highthat it always wears anecklace of fleecy clouds.Even in summer it’s frostedwith snow. At school welearned that in 327 BC, evenbefore theBuddhistscame toSwat, Alexander the Greatswept into the valley withthousands of elephants andsoldiers on his way fromAfghanistantotheIndus.The

Swati people fled up themountain, believing theywould be protected by theirgods because it was so high.But Alexander was adetermined and patientleader. He built a woodenramp from which hiscatapults and arrows couldreachthetopofthemountain.Then he climbed up so hecouldcatchholdofthestarofJupiter as a symbol of his

power.FromtherooftopIwatched

the mountains change withthe seasons. In the autumnchill winds would come. Inthe winter everything waswhite snow, long icicleshanging from the roof likedaggers, which we loved tosnap off. We raced around,building snowmen and snowbears and trying to catchsnowflakes.Springwaswhen

Swat was at its greenest.Eucalyptusblossomblewintothehouse,coatingeverythingwhite, and the wind carriedthe pungent smell of the ricefields.Iwasborninsummer,which was perhaps why itwas my favourite time ofyear,eventhoughinMingorasummerwashotanddryandthe stream stank wherepeopledumpedtheirgarbage.When Iwasbornwewere

very poor. My father and afriend had founded their firstschool and we lived in ashabby shack of two roomsopposite the school. I sleptwithmymotherandfatherinone room and the other wasfor guests. We had nobathroomor kitchen, andmymothercookedonawoodfireonthegroundandwashedourclothesatatapintheschool.Ourhomewasalwaysfullof

people visiting from thevillage. Hospitality is animportant part of Pashtunculture.TwoyearsafterIwasborn

my brother Khushal arrived.Likemehewasbornathomeas we still could not affordthe hospital, and he wasnamed Khushal like myfather’s school, after thePashtun hero Khushal KhanKhattak, a warrior who was

also a poet. My mother hadbeen waiting for a son andcould not hide her joy whenhe was born. To me heseemed very thin and small,likea reed thatcouldsnap inthe wind, but he was theappleofhereye,herladla.Itseemed to me that his everywish was her command. Hewanted tea all the time, ourtraditional tea with milk andsugar and cardamom, but

evenmymother tired of thisandeventuallymadesomesobitterthathelostthetasteforit. She wanted to buy a newcradle for him –when Iwasborn my father couldn’taffordonesotheyusedanoldwooden one from theneighbours which wasalreadythirdorfourthhand–but my father refused.‘Malalaswunginthatcradle,’he said. ‘So can he.’ Then,

nearly five years later,anotherboywasborn–Atal,bright-eyed and inquisitivelikeasquirrel.Afterthat,saidmyfather,wewerecomplete.Three children is a smallfamily by Swati standards,where most people havesevenoreight.I played mostly with

Khushal because he was justtwo years younger than me,butwefoughtallthetime.He

would go crying to mymotherandIwouldgotomyfather.‘What’swrong,Jani?’hewouldask.LikehimIwasborn double-jointed and canbendmyfingersrightbackonthemselves. And my anklesclick when I walk, whichmakesadultssquirm.My mother is very

beautiful and my fatheradored her as if she were afragile china vase, never

laying a hand on her, unlikemany of ourmen. Her nameTor Pekai means ‘raventresses’ even though her hairis chestnut brown. Mygrandfather,JanserKhan,hadbeen listening to RadioAfghanistan just before shewasbornandheardthename.Iwished I had herwhite-lilyskin, fine features and greeneyes, but instead hadinherited the sallow

complexion, wide nose andbrown eyes of my father. Inour culture we all havenicknames – aside fromPisho,whichmymother hadcalledmesinceIwasababy,someofmycousinscalledmeLachi, which is Pashto for‘cardamom’. Black-skinnedpeople are often calledwhiteand short people tall. Wehave a funny sense ofhumour. My father was

known in the family asKhaista dada, which meansbeautiful.When I was around four

years old I asked my father,‘Aba, what colour are you?’He replied, ‘I don’t know, abitwhite,abitblack.’‘It’s like when one mixes

milkwithtea,’Isaid.He laughed a lot, but as a

boy he had been so self-conscious about being dark-

skinned that he went to thefields to get buffalo milk tospreadonhisface,thinkingitwould make him lighter. Itwas only when he met mymother that he becamecomfortable in his own skin.Being loved by such abeautiful girl gave himconfidence.In our society marriages

are usually arranged byfamilies,buttheirswasalove

match. I could listenendlessly to the storyofhowthey met. They came fromneighbouring villages in aremote valley in the upperSwat called Shangla andwould see each other whenmyfatherwent tohisuncle’shouse to study, which wasnext door to that of mymother’saunt.Theyglimpsedenoughofeachothertoknowthey liked one another, but

for us it is taboo to expresssuch things. Instead he sentherpoemsshecouldnotread.‘I admired his mind,’ she

says.‘And me, her beauty,’ he

laughs.There was one big

problem. My twograndfathers did not get on.So when my fatherannounced his desire to askfor the hand of my mother,

TorPekai,itwasclearneitherside would welcome themarriage.Hisownfathersaiditwasuptohimandagreedtosendabarberasamessenger,which is the traditional waywe Pashtuns do this. MalikJanser Khan refused theproposal, but my father is astubborn man and persuadedmy grandfather to send thebarber again. Janser Khan’shujra was a gathering place

forpeopletotalkpolitics,andmyfatherwasoftenthere,sothey had got to know eachother.Hemadehimwaitninemonthsbutfinallyagreed.My mother comes from a

family of strong women aswell as influential men. Hergrandmother – my great-grandmother – was widowedwhen her children wereyoung, and her eldest sonJanser Khan was locked up

because of a tribal feudwithanother family when he wasonly nine. To get himreleased she walked fortymilesaloneovermountainstoappealtoapowerfulcousin.Ithink my mother would dothe same for us. Though shecannot read or write, myfather shares everythingwithher,tellingherabouthisday,the good and the bad. Sheteaseshimalotandgiveshim

advice about who she thinksisagenuinefriendandwhoisnot,andmyfathersayssheisalways right. Most Pashtunmenneverdothis,assharingproblemswithwomenisseenas weak. ‘He even asks hiswife!’theysayasaninsult.Isee my parents happy andlaughing a lot. Peoplewouldseeusandsayweareasweetfamily.My mother is very pious

and prays five times a day,though not in the mosque asthat is only for themen. Shedisapproves of dancingbecause she says Godwouldnot like it, but she loves todecorate herself with prettythings, embroidered clothesand golden necklaces andbangles.IthinkIamabitofadisappointmenttoherasIamso like my father and don’tbother with clothes and

jewels. I get bored going tothebazaarbutIlovetodancebehind closeddoorswithmyschoolfriends.Growing up, we children

spent most of our time withour mother. My father wasout a lot ashewasbusy,notjustwith his school, but alsowith literary societies andjirgas, as well as trying tosave the environment, tryingtosaveourvalley.My father

came from a backwardvillage yet through educationand force of personality hemadeagoodlivingforusandanameforhimself.People liked to hear him

talk,andIlovedtheeveningswhen guests visited. Wewouldsitontheflooraroundalongplasticsheetwhichmymotherlaidwithfood,andeatwith our right hand as is ourcustom, balling together rice

andmeat.Asdarknessfellwesat by the light of oil lamps,batting away the flies as oursilhouettes made dancingshadows on thewalls. In thesummer months there wouldoften be thunder andlightningcrashingoutsideandI would crawl closer to myfather’sknee.I would listen rapt as he

told stories ofwarring tribes,Pashtun leaders and saints,

often through poems that heread in a melodious voice,crying sometimes as he read.LikemostpeopleinSwatweare from theYousafzai tribe.We Yousafzai (which somepeople spell Yusufzai orYousufzai) are originallyfromKandaharandareoneofthe biggest Pashtun tribes,spread across Pakistan andAfghanistan.Our ancestors came to

Swat in the sixteenthcenturyfrom Kabul, where they hadhelped a Timurid emperorwin back his throne after hisown tribe removed him. Theemperor rewarded themwithimportant positions in thecourt and army, but hisfriends and relatives warnedhim that the Yousafzai werebecoming so powerful theywouldoverthrowhim.Soonenightheinvitedall thechiefs

to a banquet and set hismenon them while they wereeating. Around 600 chiefswere massacred. Only twoescaped, and they fled toPeshawar along with theirtribesmen. After some timetheywenttovisitsometribesin Swat to win their supportso they could return toAfghanistan. But they weresocaptivatedbythebeautyofSwat they instead decided to

stay there and forced theothertribesout.The Yousafzai divided up

all the land among the malemembersofthetribe.Itwasapeculiar system called weshunderwhicheveryfiveortenyears all the families wouldswapvillagesandredistributethe land of the new villageamong the men so thateveryone had the chance toworkongoodaswell asbad

land. It was thought thiswould then keep rival clansfrom fighting. Villages wereruled by khans, and thecommon people, craftsmenand labourers, were theirtenants.Theyhadtopaythemrent in kind, usually a shareoftheircrop.Theyalsohadtohelp thekhans formamilitiaby providing an armed manfor every small plot of land.Each khan kept hundreds of

armedmenbothforfeudsandtoraidandlootothervillages.As the Yousafzai in Swat

had no ruler, there wereconstant feuds between thekhans and even within theirown families. Our men allhaverifles,thoughthesedaysthey don’t walk around withthem like they do in otherPashtun areas, andmy great-grandfather used to tellstoriesofgunbattleswhenhe

wasaboy.Intheearlypartofthe last century they becameworried about being takenover by the British, who bythen controlled most of thesurroundinglands.Theywerealso tired of the endlessbloodshed.Sotheydecidedtotryandfindanimpartialmanto rule the whole area andresolvetheirdisputes.After a couple of rulers

who did not work out, in

1917 the chiefs settled on aman called Miangul AbdulWadood as their king. Weknow him affectionately asBadshah Sahib, and thoughhe was completely illiterate,hemanagedtobringpeacetothe valley. Taking a rifleaway from a Pashtun is liketaking away his life, so hecould not disarm the tribes.Instead he built forts onmountains all across Swat

andcreatedanarmy.Hewasrecognised by the British astheheadofstate in1926andinstalledaswali,whichisourword for ruler.He setup thefirst telephone system andbuilt the first primary schooland ended the wesh systembecause the constant movingbetween villages meant noonecouldselllandorhadanyincentive to build betterhousesorplantfruittrees.

In1949,twoyearsafterthecreation of Pakistan, heabdicated in favour of hiseldersonMiangulAbdulHaqJehanzeb. My father alwayssays, ‘While Badshah Sahibbrought peace, his sonbroughtprosperity.’Wethinkof Jehanzeb’s reign as agolden period in our history.He had studied in a Britishschool in Peshawar, andperhaps because his own

father was illiterate he waspassionate about schools andbuilt many, as well ashospitals and roads. In the1950s he ended the systemwhere people paid taxes tothe khans. But there was nofreedomofexpression,andifanyone criticised the wali,they could be expelled fromthe valley. In 1969, the yearmy fatherwas born, thewaligave up power and we

became part of Pakistan’sNorth-West FrontierProvince, which a few yearsago changed its name toKhyberPakhtunkhwa.So I was born a proud

daughter of Pakistan, thoughlike all Swatis I thought ofmyselffirstasSwatiandthenPashtun,beforePakistani.Near us on our street therewas a family with a girl myage called Safina and two

boys similar in age to mybrothers,BabarandBasit.Weallplayedcricketonthestreetor rooftops together, but Iknewaswegotolderthegirlswould be expected to stayinside. We’d be expected tocook and serve our brothersand fathers. While boys andmen could roam freely abouttown,mymotherandIcouldnot go out without a malerelative to accompany us,

even if itwasa five-year-oldboy!Thiswasthetradition.I had decided very early I

would not be like that. Myfather always said, ‘Malalawill be free as a bird.’ Idreamed of going to the topof Mount Elum likeAlexander theGreat to touchJupiter and even beyond thevalley.But, as Iwatchedmybrothers running across theroof, flying their kites and

skilfully flicking the stringsback and forth to cut eachother’s down, I wonderedhow free a daughter couldeverbe.

2

MyFathertheFalcon

I ALWAYS KNEW my fatherhad trouble with words.Sometimes they would getstuckandhewouldrepeatthe

same syllable over and overlike a record caught in agroove as we all waited forthe next syllable to suddenlypopout.Hesaid it felt likeawallcamedowninhisthroat.M’s, p’s and k’s were allenemies lying in wait. Iteased him that one of thereasonshecalledmeJaniwasbecause he found it easier tosay than Malala. A stutterwasaterriblethingforaman

who so loved words andpoetry. On each side of thefamily he had an uncle withthesameaffliction.Butitwasalmost certainly made worseby his father, whose ownvoice was a soaringinstrument that could makewordsthunderanddance.‘Spititout,son!’he’droar

whenevermyfathergotstuckin the middle of a sentence.My grandfather’s name was

Rohul Amin, which means‘honestspirit’andistheholyname of the Angel Gabriel.Hewassoproudofthenamethat he would introducehimself to people with afamous verse in which hisname appears. He was animpatient man at the best oftimes and would fly into arageoverthesmallestthing–like a hen going astray or acup getting broken. His face

would redden and he wouldthrowkettlesandpotsaround.I never knew mygrandmother, but my fathersayssheusedtojokewithmygrandfather, ‘ByGod, just asyou greet us only with afrown, when I die may Godgive you a wife who neversmiles.’My grandmother was so

worried about my father’sstutter thatwhen hewas still

ayoungboy she tookhim toseeaholyman.Itwasalongjourney by bus, then anhour’s walk up the hill towhere he lived. Her nephewFazliHakimhad tocarrymyfather on his shoulders. TheholymanwascalledLewanoPir,SaintoftheMad,becausehewassaidtobeabletocalmlunatics. When they weretaken in to see the pir, heinstructed my father to open

hismouth and then spat intoit. Then he took some gur,dark molasses made fromsugar cane, and rolled itaround hismouth tomoistenitwithspit.He then tookoutthe lump and presented it tomy grandmother to give tomy father, a little each day.Thetreatmentdidnotcurethestutter.Actually somepeoplethoughtitgotworse.Sowhenmy father was thirteen and

told my grandfather he wasentering a public speakingcompetition he was stunned.‘Howcanyou?’RohulAminasked, laughing. ‘You takeone or two minutes to utterjustonesentence.’‘Don’t worry,’ replied my

father. ‘Youwrite the speechandIwilllearnit.’My grandfather was

famous for his speeches. Hetaught theology in the

government high school inthe village of Shahpur. Hewasalsoanimamatthelocalmosque. He was amesmerising speaker. Hissermons at Friday prayerswere so popular that peoplewould come down from themountains by donkey or onfoottohearhim.My father comes from a

large family. He had onemuch older brother, Saeed

Ramzan who I call UncleKhan dada, and five sisters.TheirvillageofBarkanawasveryprimitiveand they livedcrammed together in a one-storeyramshacklehousewitha mud roof which leakedwheneveritrainedorsnowed.As inmost families, thegirlsstayedathomewhiletheboyswent to school. ‘They werejust waiting to be married,’saysmyfather.

School wasn’t the onlythingmyauntsmissedouton.In the morning when myfather was given cream ormilk, his sisters were giventea with no milk. If therewere eggs, they would onlybe for the boys. When achicken was slaughtered fordinner,thegirlswouldgetthewingsandtheneckwhile theluscious breast meat wasenjoyed by my father, his

brother and my grandfather.‘Fromearlyon I could feel Iwas different from mysisters,’myfathersays.Therewaslittletodoinmy

father’s village. It was toonarrow even for a cricketpitchandonlyonefamilyhada television. On Fridays thebrotherswouldcreepintothemosqueandwatchinwonderas my grandfather stood inthepulpitandpreachedtothe

congregation for an hour orso, waiting for the momentwhen his voice would riseand practically shake therafters.Mygrandfatherhadstudied

in India, where he had seengreat speakers and leadersincluding Mohammad AliJinnah (the founder ofPakistan), Jawaharlal Nehru,Mahatma Gandhi and KhanAbdul Ghaffar Khan, our

great Pashtun leader whocampaigned forindependence. Baba, as Icalled him, had evenwitnessed the moment offreedom from the Britishcolonialistsatmidnighton14August 1947. He had an oldradio set my uncle still has,onwhichhelovedtolistentothe news. His sermons wereoften illustrated by worldevents or historical

happenings aswell as storiesfrom the Quran and theHadith, the sayings of theProphet.Healsolikedtotalkabout politics. Swat becamepart of Pakistan in 1969, theyear my father was born.Many Swatis were unhappyaboutthis,complainingaboutthe Pakistani justice system,which they said was muchslowerandlesseffectivethantheir old tribal ways. My

grandfatherwouldrailagainstthe class system, thecontinuing power of thekhans and the gap betweenthehavesandhave-nots.My country may not be

very old but unfortunately italready has a history ofmilitarycoups, andwhenmyfather was eight a generalcalled Zia ul-Haq seizedpower. There are still manypictures of him around. He

was a scary man with darkpanda shadows around hiseyes, large teeth that seemedto stand to attention and hairpomadedflatonhishead.Hearrested our elected primeminister,ZulfikarAliBhutto,andhadhimtriedfor treasonthen hanged from a scaffoldin Rawalpindi jail. Eventoday people talk of MrBhutto as a man of greatcharisma. They say he was

the first Pakistani leader tostand up for the commonpeople, though he himselfwas a feudal lord with vastestates of mango fields. Hisexecutionshockedeverybodyand made Pakistan look badall around the world. TheAmericanscutoffaid.To try to get people at

hometosupporthim,GeneralZia launched a campaign ofIslamisation to make us a

proper Muslim country withthe army as the defenders ofour country’s ideological aswell as geographicalfrontiers. He told our peopleit was their duty to obey hisgovernment because it waspursuing Islamic principles.Zia even wanted to dictatehowwe should pray, and setupsalatorprayercommitteesin every district, even in ourremotevillage,andappointed

100,000 prayer inspectors.Before then mullahs hadalmost been figures of fun –my father said at weddingparties they would just hangaround in a corner and leaveearly – but under Zia theybecame influential and werecalled to Islamabad forguidance on sermons. Evenmygrandfatherwent.UnderZia’sregimelifefor

women in Pakistan became

muchmore restricted. Jinnahsaid, ‘No struggle can eversucceed without womenparticipatingsidebysidewithmen.Therearetwopowersinthe world; one is the swordand the other is the pen.There is a third powerstronger than both, that ofwomen.’ But General Ziabrought in Islamic lawswhich reduced a woman’sevidenceincourttocountfor

only half that of a man’s.Soonourprisonswerefullofcases like that of a thirteen-year-old girl who was rapedandbecomepregnantandwasthen sent to prison foradulterybecauseshecouldn’tproduce four male witnessesto prove it was a crime. Awoman couldn’t even open abankaccountwithoutaman’spermission. As a nation wehave always been good at

hockey, but Zia made ourfemale hockey players wearbaggy trousers instead ofshorts, and stopped womenplaying some sportsaltogether.Many of our madrasas or

religiousschoolswereopenedatthattime,andinallschoolsreligiousstudies,whatwecalldeeniyat, was replaced byIslamiyat, or Islamic studies,which children in Pakistan

still have to do today. Ourhistory textbooks wererewrittentodescribePakistanasa‘fortressofIslam’,whichmade it seem as if we hadexisted far longer than since1947, and denouncedHindusand Jews. Anyone readingthemmightthinkwewonthethree wars we have foughtand lost against our greatenemyIndia.Everything changed when

my father was ten. Just afterChristmas 1979 the Russiansinvaded our neighbourAfghanistan. Millions ofAfghans fled across theborder and General Zia gavethem refuge. Vast camps ofwhite tents sprang upmostlyaround Peshawar, some ofwhich are still there today.Our biggest intelligenceservice belongs to themilitaryandiscalledtheISI.

It started a massiveprogramme to train Afghanrefugees recruited from thecamps as resistance fightersor mujahideen. ThoughAfghans are renownedfighters, Colonel Imam, theofficer heading theprogramme, complained thattrying to organise them was‘likeweighingfrogs’.The Russian invasion

transformed Zia from an

international pariah to thegreat defender of freedom intheColdWar.TheAmericansbecame friends with us onceagain,asinthosedaysRussiawas their main enemy. Nextdoor to us the Shah of Iranhad been overthrown in arevolution a few monthsearlier so the CIA had losttheirmainbaseintheregion.Pakistan took its place.Billionsofdollarsflowedinto

our exchequer from theUnited States and otherWesterncountries, aswell asweapons tohelp the ISI trainthe Afghans to fight thecommunist Red Army.General Zia was invited tomeet President RonaldReagan at the White Houseand PrimeMinisterMargaretThatcher at 10 DowningStreet. They lavished praiseonhim.

Prime Minister ZulfikarBhutto had appointed Zia ashis army chief because hethought he was not veryintelligentandwouldnotbeathreat. He called him his‘monkey’.ButZiaturnedoutto be a very wily man. Hemade Afghanistan a rallyingpoint not only for the West,which wanted to stop thespread of communism fromtheSovietUnion,butalsofor

Muslims from Sudan toTajikistan, who saw it as afellow Islamic country underattack from infidels. Moneypoured in from all over theArab world, particularlySaudiArabia,whichmatchedwhatever the US sent, andvolunteer fighters too,including a SaudimillionairecalledOsamabinLaden.We Pashtuns are split

between Pakistan and

Afghanistan and don’t reallyrecognise the border that theBritish drew more than 100years ago. So our bloodboiled over the Sovietinvasion for both religiousand nationalist reasons. Theclericsof themosqueswouldoften talk about the Sovietoccupation ofAfghanistan intheir sermons, condemningthe Russians as infidels andurging people to join the

jihad,sayingitwastheirdutyasgoodMuslims.Itwasasifunder Zia jihad had becomethesixthpillarofourreligionontopofthefivewegrowupto learn – the belief in oneGod, namaz or prayers fivetimes a day, giving zakat oralms, roza – fasting fromdawn till sunset during themonthofRamadan–andhaj,the pilgrimage to Mecca,which every able-bodied

Muslim should do once intheir lifetime.My father saysthat in our part of the worldthis idea of jihad was verymuchencouragedbytheCIA.Childrenintherefugeecampswere even given schooltextbooks produced by anAmerican university whichtaught basic arithmeticthrough fighting. They hadexamples like, ‘If out of 10Russian infidels, 5 are killed

by one Muslim, 5 would beleft’ or ‘15 bullets – 10bullets=5bullets’.Some boys from my

father’s district went off tofight in Afghanistan. Myfather remembers that oneday a maulana called SufiMohammad came to thevillageandaskedyoungmento join him to fight theRussians in the name ofIslam.Manydid,andtheyset

off, armed with old rifles orjustaxesandbazookas.Littledid we know that years laterthe same maulana’sorganisation would becometheSwatTaliban.Atthattimemy father was only twelveyears old and too young tofight.ButtheRussiansendedup stuck in Afghanistan fortenyears,throughmostofthe1980s,andwhenhebecameateenagermyfatherdecidedhe

too wanted to be a jihadi.Though later he became lessregular in his prayers, inthose days he used to leavehomeatdawneverymorningto walk to a mosque inanother village, where hestudied the Quran with aseniortalib.Atthattimetalibsimply meant ‘religiousstudent’. Together theystudiedall the thirtychaptersof the Quran, not just

recitation but alsointerpretation, something fewboysdo.Thetalib talkedofjihadin

such glorious terms that myfather was captivated. Hewould endlessly point out tomy father that life on earthwasshortandthattherewerefew opportunities for youngmen in the village. Ourfamily owned little land, andmyfatherdidnotwanttoend

upgoingsouthtoworkinthecoal mines like many of hisclassmates. That was toughand dangerouswork, and thecoffins of those killed inaccidents would come backseveraltimesayear.Thebestthat most village boys couldhope for was to go to SaudiArabiaorDubaiandwork inconstruction. So heavenwithits seventy-two virginssounded attractive. Every

nightmyfatherwouldpraytoGod, ‘O Allah, please makewar between Muslims andinfidels so I can die in yourserviceandbeamartyr.’For a while his Muslim

identity seemed moreimportant than anything elsein his life. He began to signhimself ‘Ziauddin Panchpiri’(the Panchpiri are a religioussect) and sprouted the firstsigns of a beard. It was, he

says,akindofbrainwashing.He believes he might evenhave thought of becoming asuicide bomber had therebeen such a thing in thosedays. But from an early agehe had been a questioningkind of boy who rarely tookanything at face value, eventhough our education atgovernment schools meantlearning by rote and pupilswere not supposed to

questionteachers.It was around the time he

was praying to go to heavenas a martyr that he met mymother’s brother, FaizMohammad, and startedmixing with her family andgoing to her father’s hujra.They were very involved inlocal politics, belonged tosecularnationalistpartiesandwere against involvement inthewar.Afamouspoemwas

written at that time byRahmatShahSayel,thesamePeshawarpoetwhowrotethepoemaboutmynamesake.Hedescribed what washappening in Afghanistan asa ‘war between twoelephants’ – the US and theSoviet Union – not our war,and said that we Pashtunswere ‘like the grass crushedby the hooves of two fiercebeasts’.My fatheroftenused

to recite the poem to mewhen I was a child but Ididn’t know then what itmeant.My father was very

impressed by FaizMohammad and thought hetalked a lot of sense,particularly about wanting toend the feudal and capitalistsystemsinourcountry,wherethe same big families hadcontrolled things for years

whilethepoorgotpoorer.Hefound himself torn betweenthe two extremes, secularismandsocialismononesideandmilitant Islamon the other. Iguess he ended upsomewhereinthemiddle.My father was in awe of

my grandfather and told mewonderful stories about him,but he also told me that hewas a man who could notmeetthehighstandardsheset

for others. Baba was such apopular and passionatespeaker that he could havebeen a great leader if he hadbeen more diplomatic andless consumed by rivalrieswith cousins and others whowere better off. In Pashtunsociety it is very hard tostomachacousinbeingmorepopular, wealthier or moreinfluential than you are. Mygrandfatherhadacousinwho

also joined his school as ateacher.Whenhegot the jobhe gave his age as muchyoungerthanmygrandfather.Our people don’t know theirexact dates of birth – mymother,forexample,doesnotknowwhenshewasborn.Wetend to remember years byevents, like an earthquake.Butmygrandfatherknewthathiscousinwasactuallymucholder than him. He was so

angry that he made the day-long bus journey toMingorato see the Swat minister ofeducation. ‘Sahib,’ he toldhim, ‘I have a cousinwho isten years older than me andyou have certified him tenyears younger.’ So theministersaid, ‘OK,Maulana,what shall I write down foryou?Wouldyou like tohavebeen born in the year of theearthquake of Quetta?’ My

grandfather agreed, so hisnew date of birth became1935, making him muchyoungerthanhiscousin.This family rivalry meant

that my father was bullied alotbyhiscousins.Theyknewhe was insecure about hislooks because at school theteachers always favoured thehandsome boys for their fairskin.His cousinswould stopmy father on his way home

from school and tease himabout being short and dark-skinned. In our society youhavetotakerevengeforsuchslights, but my father wasmuch smaller than hiscousins.Healsofelthecouldnever

do enough to please mygrandfather. Baba hadbeautifulhandwritingandmyfather would spend hourspainstakingly drawing letters

butBaba never once praisedhim.My grandmother kept his

spirits up – he was herfavourite and she believedgreat things lay in store forhim.She loved him somuchthatshewouldsliphimextrameat and the cream off themilkwhile shewentwithout.Butitwasn’teasytostudyastherewasnoelectricityinthevillageinthosedays.Heused

toreadbythe lightof theoillamp in the hujra, and oneeveninghewent tosleepandthe oil lamp fell over.Fortunately my grandmotherfound him before a firestarted. It was mygrandmother’s faith in myfather that gave him thecouragetofindhisownproudpath he could travel along.Thisisthepaththathewouldlatershowme.

Yetshetoogotangrywithhim once. Holy men from aspiritual place called DeraiSaydan used to travel thevillagesinthosedaysbeggingfor flour. One day while hisparents were out some ofthem came to the house.Myfather broke the seal on thewoodenstorageboxofmaizeand filled their bowls.Whenmy grandparents came homethey were furious and beat

him.Pashtuns are famously

frugal (though generouswithguests), and Baba wasparticularly careful withmoney.Ifanyofhischildrenaccidentally spilt their foodhewould fly into a rage.Hewas an extremely disciplinedmanandcouldnotunderstandwhy theywere not the same.As a teacher he was eligiblefor a discount on his sons’

school fees for sports andjoiningtheBoyScouts.Itwassuch a small discount thatmost teachers didnot bother,but he forced my father toapply for the rebate. Ofcourse my father detesteddoing this. As he waitedoutside the headmaster’soffice, he broke out into asweat, and once inside hisstutter was worse than ever.‘Itfeltasifmyhonourwasat

stakeforfiverupees,’hetoldme. My grandfather neverbought him new books.Insteadhewouldtellhisbeststudents to keep their oldbooksformyfatherattheendoftheyearandthenhewouldbe sent to their homes to getthem. He felt ashamed buthad no choice if he didn’twant to end up illiterate. Allhisbookswereinscribedwithother boys’ names, never his

own.‘It’snotthatpassingbooks

onisabadpractice,’hesays.‘It’s just I so wanted a newbook, unmarked by anotherstudent and bought with myfather’smoney.’My father’s dislike of

Baba’s frugality has madehim a very generous manboth materially and in spirit.Hebecamedeterminedtoendthetraditionalrivalrybetween

him and his cousins. Whenhisheadmaster’swife fell ill,my father donated blood tohelp save her. The man wasastonishedandapologisedforhaving tormentedhim.Whenmy father tells me stories ofhischildhood,healwayssaysthat though Baba was adifficultmanhegavehimthemost importantgift– thegiftof education. He sent myfathertothegovernmenthigh

school to learn English andreceive a modern educationratherthantoamadrasa,eventhough as an imam peoplecriticised him for this. Babaalsogavehimadeep loveoflearning and knowledge aswell as a keen awareness ofpeople’s rights, which myfatherhaspassedontome.Inmy grandfather’s Fridayaddresseshewouldtalkaboutthe poor and the landowners

andhowtrueIslamisagainstfeudalism. He also spokePersianandArabicandcareddeeplyforwords.HereadthegreatpoemsofSaadi,AllamaIqbal andRumi tomy fatherwith such passion and fire itwasasifhewasteachingthewholemosque.My father longed to be

eloquent with a voice thatboomedoutwithnostammer,and he knewmy grandfather

desperatelywantedhimtobeadoctor,butthoughhewasavery bright student and agifted poet, he was poor atmathsandscienceandfelthewasadisappointment.That’swhy he decided he wouldmake his father proud byentering the district’s annualpublic speaking competition.Everyone thought he wasmad.Histeachersandfriendstried todissuadehimandhis

father was reluctant to writethe speech for him. Buteventually Baba gave him afine speech,whichmy fatherpractised and practised. Hecommitted every word tomemorywhilewalkinginthehills, reciting it to the skiesand birds as there was noprivacyintheirhome.Therewas notmuch to do

in the area where they livedsowhenthedayarrivedthere

was a huge gathering. Otherboys, some known as goodspeakers,gavetheirspeeches.Finally my father was calledforward. ‘I stood at thelectern,’ he told me, ‘handsshaking and knees knocking,so short I could barely seeover the top and so terrifiedthe faces were a blur. Mypalmswere sweatingandmymouth was as dry as paper.’He tried desperately not to

think about the treacherousconsonants lying ahead ofhim, just waiting to trip himupandstickinhisthroat,butwhen he spoke, the wordscame out fluently likebeautiful butterflies takingflight.Hisvoicedidnotboomlike his father’s, but hispassionshonethroughandashe went on he gainedconfidence.At the end of the speech

there were cheers andapplause. Best of all, as hewentuptocollectthecupforfirst prize, he saw his fatherclapping and enjoying beingpatted on the back by thosestandingaroundhim.‘Itwas,’he says, ‘the first thing I’ddonethatmadehimsmile.’After that my father

entered every competition inthe district. My grandfatherwrote his speeches and he

almost always came first,gainingareputationlocallyasan impressive speaker. Myfather had turned hisweakness into strength. Forthe first time Baba startedpraising him in front ofothers.He’dboast, ‘Ziauddinis a shaheen’ – a falcon –becausethisisacreaturethatflies high above other birds.‘Write your name as“ZiauddinShaheen”,’he told

him. For a while my fatherdid thisbut stoppedwhenherealisedthatalthoughafalconflies high it is a cruel bird.Insteadhe justcalledhimselfZiauddinYousafzai, our clanname.

3

GrowingupinaSchool

MYMOTHERSTARTEDschoolwhenshewassixandstoppedthe same term. She was

unusual in the village as shehadafatherandbrotherswhoencouraged her to go toschool.Shewas theonlygirlinaclassofboys.Shecarriedherbagofbooksproudlyintoschool and claims she wasbrighter than the boys. Butevery day she would leavebehind her girl cousinsplaying at home and sheenvied them. There seemedno point in going to school

just to end up cooking,cleaning and bringing upchildren,soonedayshesoldher books for nine annas,spent the money on boiledsweets and never went back.Her father said nothing. Shesayshedidn’tevennotice,ashe would set off early everymorning after a breakfast ofcornbread and cream, hisGermanpistolstrappedunderhis arm, and spend his days

busy with local politics orresolving feuds. Besides hehad seven other children tothinkabout.It was only when she met

myfather thatshefeltregret.Herewasamanwhohadreadso many books, who wroteherpoemsshecouldnotread,and whose ambition was tohave his own school. As hiswife, shewanted tohelphimachieve that. For as long as

my father could remember ithadbeenhisdreamtoopenaschool, but with no familycontacts or money it wasextremely hard for him torealisethisdream.Hethoughtthere was nothing moreimportant than knowledge.He remembered howmystifiedhehadbeenby theriverinhisvillage,wonderingwhere the water came fromandwent to, until he learned

about the water cycle fromtheraintothesea.Hisownvillageschoolhad

been just a small building.Many of his classes weretaught under a tree on thebare ground. There were notoiletsand thepupilswent tothefieldstoanswerthecallofnature. Yet he says he wasactually lucky. His sisters –my aunts – did not go toschoolatall,justlikemillions

of girls in my country.Education had been a greatgiftforhim.Hebelievedthatlackofeducationwastherootof all Pakistan’s problems.Ignorance allowedpoliticiansto fool people and badadministrators to be re-elected. He believedschoolingshouldbeavailablefor all, rich and poor, boysandgirls.Theschoolthatmyfatherdreamedofwouldhave

desks and a library,computers, bright posters onthe walls and, mostimportant,washrooms.My grandfather had a

different dream for hisyoungestson–he longedforhim to be a doctor – and asone of just two sons, heexpectedhimtocontributetothe household budget. Myfather’s elder brother SaeedRamzanhadworkedforyears

asateacheratalocalschool.He and his family livedwithmy grandfather, andwheneverhesavedupenoughof his salary, they built asmall concrete hujra at theside of the house for guests.He brought logs back fromthe mountains for firewood,and after teaching he wouldwork in the fields where ourfamily had a few buffaloes.He also helped Baba with

heavy tasks like clearingsnowfromtheroof.When my father was

offered a place for his ALevels at Jehanzeb College,which is the best furthereducation institution inSwat,mygrandfatherrefusedtopayfor his living expenses. Hisown education in Delhi hadbeenfree–hehadlivedlikeatalib in the mosques, andlocalpeoplehadprovidedthe

students with food andclothes. Tuition at Jehanzebwasfreebutmyfatherneededmoney to live on. Pakistandoesn’t have student loansand he had never even setfoot in a bank. The collegewas inSaiduSharif, the twintownofMingora,andhehadnofamilytherewithwhomhecould stay. There was noothercollege inShangla, andif he didn’t go to college, he

wouldneverbeable tomoveout of the village and realisehisdream.My fatherwas at hiswits’

endandweptwithfrustration.His belovedmother had diedjustbeforehegraduatedfromschool. He knew if she hadbeen alive, she would havebeen on his side.He pleadedwithhisfatherbuttonoavail.His only hope was hisbrother-in-law in Karachi.

My grandfather suggestedthat hemight takemy fatherin so he could go to collegethere.Thecouplewouldsoonbe arriving in the village asthey were coming to offercondolences after mygrandmother’sdeath.My father prayed they

would agree, but mygrandfather asked them assoon as they arrived,exhausted after the three-day

bus journey, and his son-in-law refused outright. Mygrandfatherwassofurioushewould not speak to them fortheir entire stay. My fatherfelthehadlosthischanceandwouldenduplikehisbrotherteaching in a local school.The school where UncleKhandada taughtwas in themountain village of Sewoor,about an hour and a half ’sclimb from their house. It

didn’t even have its ownbuilding. They used the bighall in the mosque, wherethey taught more than ahundred children rangingfromfivetofifteenyearsold.ThepeopleinSewoorwere

Gujars, Kohistanis andMians. We regard Mians asnoble or landed people, butGujars and Kohistanis arewhat we call hilly people,peasants who look after

buffaloes. Their children areusually dirty and they arelooked down upon byPashtuns, even if they arepoor themselves. ‘They aredirty, black and stupid,’people would say. ‘Let thembe illiterate.’ It is often saidthat teachers don’t like to bepostedtosuchremoteschoolsand generally make a dealwith their colleagues so thatonlyoneofthemhastogoto

work each day. If the schoolhastwoteachers,eachgoesinfor three days and signs theother in. If it has threeteachers,eachgoesinforjusttwodays.Oncethere,alltheydo is keep the children quietwith a long stick as theycannotimagineeducationwillbeanyusetothem.Myunclewasmoredutiful.

He liked thehillypeopleandrespectedtheirtoughlives.So

he went to the school mostdays and actually tried toteach the children. After myfather had graduated fromschool he had nothing to dosohevolunteered tohelphisbrother. There his luckchanged.Anotherofmyauntshad married a man in thatvillageandtheyhadarelativevisiting called Nasir Pacha,who saw my father at work.Nasir Pacha had spent years

in Saudi Arabia working inconstruction, making moneyto send back to his family.My father told him he hadjust finished school and hadwon a college place atJehanzeb.Hedidnotmentionhecouldnot afford to take itas he did not want toembarrasshisfather.‘Why don’t you come and

live with us?’ asked NasirPacha.

‘Oof, I was so happy, byGod,’ says my father. PachaandhiswifeJajaibecamehissecond family. Their homewasinSpalBandi,abeautifulmountain village on the wayto theWhite Palace, andmyfather describes it as aromantic and inspirationalplace.Hewent there by bus,and it seemed so big to himcomparedtohishomevillagethat he thought he’d arrived

in a city.As a guest, hewastreated exceptionally well.Jajai replacedhis latemotherasthemostimportantwomanin my father’s life. When avillager complained to herthathewasflirtingwithagirlliving across the road, shedefendedhim.‘Ziauddinisascleanasaneggwithnohair,’she said. ‘Look instead toyourowndaughter.’It was in Spal Bandi that

my father came acrosswomen who had greatfreedomandwerenothiddenaway as in his own village.The women of Spal Bandihadabeautifulspotontopofthemountainwhereonlytheycould congregate to chatabout their everyday lives. Itwas unusual for women tohave a special place to meetoutsidethehome.Itwasalsothere that my father met his

mentor Akbar Khan, whoalthough he had not gone tocollegehimselflentmyfathermoney so he could. Likemymother,AkbarKhanmaynothave had much of a formaleducation,buthehadanotherkind of wisdom. My fatheroftenspokeofthekindnessofAkbarKhanandNasirPachato illustrate that if you helpsomeone in need you mightalsoreceiveunexpectedaid.

My father arrived at collegeat an important moment inPakistan’s history. Thatsummer, while he waswalkinginthemountains,ourdictator General Zia waskilled in a mysterious planecrash, which many peoplesaid was caused by a bombhiddeninacrateofmangoes.Duringmy father’s first termat college national electionswere held, which were won

by Benazir Bhutto, daughteroftheprimeministerwhohadbeen executed when myfatherwasaboy.Benazirwasour first female primeminister and the first in theIslamicworld.Suddenlytherewas a lot of optimism aboutthefuture.Student organisations

whichhadbeenbannedunderZia became very active. Myfatherquicklygotinvolvedin

student politics and becameknown as a talented speakerand debater. He was madegeneral secretary of thePakhtoonStudentsFederation(PSF), which wanted equalrightsforPashtuns.Themostimportant jobs in the army,bureaucracy and governmentare all taken by Punjabisbecause they come from thebiggest and most powerfulprovince.

The other main studentorganisation was IslamiJamaat-e-Talaba, the studentwing of the religious partyJamaat-e-Islami, which waspowerfulinmanyuniversitiesin Pakistan. They providedfree textbooks and grants tostudents but held deeplyintolerant views and theirfavourite pastime was topatrol universities andsabotagemusicconcerts.The

party had been close toGeneral Zia and done badlyintheelections.Thepresidentof the students’ group inJehanzeb College was Ihsanul-Haq Haqqani. Though heand my father were greatrivals, they admired eachother and later becamefriends. Haqqani says he issure my father would havebeenpresidentofthePSFandbecomeapolitician ifhehad

beenfromarichkhanfamily.Studentpoliticswasallaboutdebating and charisma, butpartypoliticsrequiredmoney.One of their most heated

debates in that first yearwasover a novel. The book wascalledThe Satanic Verses bySalmanRushdie,anditwasaparody of the Prophet’s lifeset in Bombay. Muslimswidely considered itblasphemousand it provoked

so much outrage that itseemed people were talkingof little else. The odd thingwasnoonehadevennoticedthepublicationofthebooktostartwith–itwasn’tactuallyonsaleinPakistan–butthenaseriesofarticlesappearedinUrdunewspapersbyamullahclose to our intelligenceservice, berating the book asoffensive to the Prophet andsayingitwasthedutyofgood

Muslims to protest. Soonmullahs all over Pakistanwere denouncing the book,calling for it to be banned,and angry demonstrationswere held. The most violenttookplaceinIslamabadon12February 1989, whenAmerican flags were setalight in front of theAmerican Centre – eventhough Rushdie and hispublishers were British.

Police fired into the crowd,and five people were killed.The anger wasn’t just inPakistan. Two days laterAyatollah Khomeini, thesupremeleaderofIran,issueda fatwa calling forRushdie’sassassination.My father’s college held a

heated debate in a packedroom. Many students arguedthat the book should bebanned and burned and the

fatwa upheld.My father alsosaw the book as offensive toIslambutbelievesstronglyinfreedom of speech. ‘First,let’s read the book and thenwhy not respond with ourownbook,’he suggested.Heended by asking in athundering voice mygrandfatherwould have beenproud of, ‘Is Islam such aweak religion that it cannottolerate a book written

againstit?NotmyIslam!’For the first few years aftergraduatingfromJehanzebmyfather worked as an Englishteacher in a well-knownprivatecollege.Butthesalarywas low, just 1,600 rupees amonth (around £12), andmygrandfather complained hewas not contributing to thehousehold. It was also notenough for him to save forthe wedding he hoped for to

hisbelovedTorPekai.One of my father’s

colleagues at the school washisfriendMohammadNaeemKhan.He andmy father hadstudied for their bachelorsand masters degrees inEnglish together and wereboth passionate abouteducation. They were alsoboth frustrated as the schoolwas very strict andunimaginative. Neither the

studentsnortheteachersweresupposed to have their ownopinions, and the owners’controlwassotighttheyevenfrowned upon friendshipbetween teachers. My fatherlonged for the freedom thatwouldcomewithrunninghisown school. He wanted toencourage independentthoughtandhatedthewaytheschool he was at rewardedobedience above open-

mindednessandcreativity.SowhenNaeemlosthisjobaftera dispute with the collegeadministration, they decidedtostarttheirownschool.Their original plan was to

open a school inmy father’svillage of Shahpur, wherethere was a desperate need:‘Likea shop inacommunitywheretherearenoshops,’hesaid. But when they wentthere to look for a building,

there were bannerseverywhere advertising aschool opening – someonehadbeatenthemtoit.Sotheydecided tosetupanEnglish-language school in Mingora,thinking that since Swat wasa tourist destination therewould be a demand forlearninginEnglish.As my father was still

teaching, Naeem wanderedthe streets looking for

somewhere to rent. One dayhecalledmy fatherexcitedlyto say he’d found the idealplace.Itwasthegroundfloorof a two-storey building in awell-off area calledLandikaswith a walled courtyardwhere students could gather.Theprevioustenantshadalsorun a school – the RamadaSchool.Theownerhadcalledit that because he had oncebeen to Turkey and seen a

Ramada Hotel! But theschool had gone bankrupt,which perhaps should havemade them think twice.Alsothebuildingwasonthebanksofariverwherepeoplethrewtheirrubbishanditsmeltfoulinhotweather.My father went to see the

building afterwork. It was aperfectnightwithstarsandafull moon just above thetrees, which he took to be a

sign. ‘I felt so happy,’ herecalls. ‘My dream wascomingtrue.’Naeem and my father

invested their entire savingsof 60,000 rupees. Theyborrowed30,000rupeesmoretorepaintthebuilding,rentedashackacrosstheroadtoliveinandwentfromdoortodoortrying to find students.UnfortunatelythedemandforEnglish tuition turned out to

be low, and there wereunexpected drains on theirincome. My father’sinvolvement in politicaldiscussions continued aftercollege.Everydayhis fellowactivistscametotheshackorthe school for lunch. ‘Wecan’t afford all thisentertaining!’ Naeem wouldcomplain. It was alsobecoming clear that whilethey were best friends, they

found it hard to work asbusinesspartners.Ontopofthat, therewasa

stream of guests fromShangla now that my fatherhad a place for them to stay.We Pashtuns cannot turnaway relatives or friends,however inconvenient. Wedon’t respect privacy andthere is no such thing asmakinganappointmenttoseesomeone.Visitorscanturnup

whenever they wish and canstay as long as they want. Itwasanightmareforsomeonetrying to start a business anditdroveNaeemtodistraction.He joked tomy father that ifeitherofthemhadrelativestostay, they should pay a fine.My father kept trying topersuadeNaeem’sfriendsandfamily tostaysohecouldbefinedtoo!After threemonthsNaeem

had had enough. ‘We aresupposed to be collectingmoney in enrolment fees.Instead the only peopleknocking on our doors arebeggars! This is a Herculeantask,’ he added. ‘I can’t takeanymore!’Bythistimethetwoformer

friends were hardly speakingto each other and had to callinlocalelderstomediate.Myfather was desperate not to

give up the school so agreedtopayNaeemareturnonhisshare of the investment. Hehadno ideahow.Fortunatelyanother old college friendcalled Hidayatullah steppedin and agreed to put up themoney and take Naeem’splace.Thenewpartnersagainwent from door to door,tellingpeopletheyhadstarteda new kind of school. Myfather is so charismatic that

Hidayatullah says he is thekindofpersonwho,ifinvitedto your house, will makefriendswithyourfriends.Butwhile people were happy totalk tohim, theypreferred tosend their children toestablishedschools.TheynamedittheKhushal

School after one of myfather’sgreatheroes,KhushalKhan Khattak, the warriorpoetfromAkorajustsouthof

Swat, who tried to unify allPashtun tribes against theMoghuls in the seventeenthcentury. Near the entrancetheypaintedamotto:WEARECOMMITTEDTOBUILDFORYOUTHECALLOFTHENEWERA.Myfather also designed a shieldwith a famous quote fromKhattak inPashto: ‘I girtmyswordinthenameofAfghanhonour.’Myfatherwantedusto be inspired by our great

hero, but in a manner fit forour times – with pens, notswords. Just as Khattak hadwanted the Pashtuns to uniteagainst a foreign enemy, sowe needed to unite againstignorance.Unfortunately not many

people were convinced.Whentheschoolopenedtheyhad just three students. Evenso my father insisted onstarting the day in style by

singing the national anthem.Then his nephew Aziz, whohad come to help, raised thePakistanflag.With so fewstudents, they

had littlemoney to equip theschool and soon ran out ofcredit.Neithermancouldgetany money from theirfamilies, and Hidayatullahwas not pleased to discoverthat my father was still indebt to lots of people from

college, so theywere alwaysreceiving letters demandingmoney.There was worse in store

when my father went toregister the school. Afterbeingmadetowaitforhours,he was finally ushered intotheofficeofasuperintendentof schools, who sat behindtowering piles of filessurrounded by hangers-ondrinking tea. ‘What kind of

school is this?’ asked theofficial, laughing at hisapplication. ‘How manyteachersdoyouhave?Three!Yourteachersarenottrained.Everyone thinks they canopenaschooljustlikethat!’The other people in the

office laughed along,ridiculinghim.Myfatherwasangry. It was clear thesuperintendent wantedmoney.Pashtunscannotstand

anyone belittling them, norwas he about to pay a bribeforsomethinghewasentitledto. He and Hidayatullahhardly hadmoney to pay forfood, let alone bribes. Thegoingrateforregistrationwasabout 13,000 rupees,more ifthey thought you were rich.Andschoolswereexpectedtotreat officials regularly to agood lunch of chicken ortrout from the river. The

education officer would callto arrange an inspection thengive a detailed order for hislunch. My father used togrumble,‘We’reaschoolnotapoultryfarm.’Sowhentheofficialangled

for a bribe,my father turnedon him with all the force ofhis years of debating. ‘Whyare you asking all thesequestions?’ he demanded.‘AmIinanofficeoramIina

policestationoracourt?AmI a criminal?’ He decided tochallenge the officials toprotect other school ownersfrom such bullying andcorruption. He knew that todothisheneededsomepowerof his own, so he joined anorganisation called the SwatAssociation of PrivateSchools.Itwassmallinthosedays, just fifteen members,and my father quickly

becamevicepresident.The other principals took

payingbribesforgranted,butmy father argued that if allthe schools joined togetherthey could resist. ‘Running aschoolisnotacrime,’hetoldthem. ‘Why should you bepaying bribes? You are notrunning brothels; you areeducating children!Government officials are notyour bosses,’ he reminded

them;‘theyareyourservants.They are taking salaries andhave to serve you. You arethe ones educating theirchildren.’He soon became president

of the organisation andexpanded it until it included400 principals. Suddenly theschool owners were in aposition of power. But myfather has always been aromantic rather than a

businessman and in themeantime he andHidayatullah were in suchdesperatestraits that theyranout of credit with the localshopkeeper and could notevenbuyteaorsugar.Totryand boost their income theyran a tuck shop at school,goingoffinthemorningsandbuying snacks to sell to thechildren. My father wouldbuymaizeandstayuplateat

night making and baggingpopcorn.‘I would get very

depressed and sometimescollapse seeing the problemsall around us,’ saidHidayatullah, ‘but whenZiauddin is in a crisis hebecomesstrongandhisspiritshigh.’Myfatherinsistedthatthey

needed to thinkbig.OnedayHidayatullahcamebackfrom

trying to enrol pupils to findmyfathersittingintheofficetalkingaboutadvertisingwiththe local head of PakistanTV.As soon as themanhadgone,Hidayatullah burst intolaughter. ‘Ziauddin,wedon’teven have a TV,’ he pointedout.‘Ifweadvertisewewon’tbe able to watch it.’ Butmyfather is an optimistic manand never deterred bypracticalities.

One day my father toldHidayatullah he was goingback to his village for a fewdays.Hewasactuallygettingmarried,buthedidn’ttellanyof his friends in Mingora ashe could not afford toentertainthem.Ourweddingsgo on for several days offeasting. In fact, as mymother often reminds myfather,hewasnotpresentforthe actual ceremony.Hewas

only there for the last day,when familymembersheldaQuranandashawlover theirheads and held a mirror forthem to look into. For manycouplesinarrangedmarriagesthis is the first time they seeeach other’s faces. A smallboy was brought to sit ontheir laps to encourage thebirthofason.It is our tradition for the

bride to receive furniture or

perhaps a fridge from herfamily and some gold fromthe groom’s family. Mygrandfather would not buyenoughgoldsomyfatherhadtoborrowmoremoneytobuybangles. After the weddingmymothermovedinwithmygrandfather and my uncle.My father returned to thevillage every two or threeweeks to see her. The planwas to get his school going

then, once it was successful,send for his wife. But Babakept complaining about thedrainonhisincomeandmademy mother’s life miserable.Shehada littlemoneyofherown so theyused it tohire avan and she moved toMingora. They had no ideahowtheywouldmanage.‘Wejust knew my father didn’twant us there,’ said myfather. ‘At that time I was

unhappywithmy family,butlaterIwasgratefulasitmadememoreindependent.’He had however neglected

to tell his partner.Hidayatullah was horrifiedwhen my father returned toMingorawith awife. ‘We’renot inaposition to supportafamily,’ he told my father.‘Wherewillshelive?’‘It’s OK,’ replied my

father. ‘She will cook and

washforus.’Mymother was excited to

be inMingora.Toher itwasa modern town. When sheandherfriendshaddiscussedtheirdreamsasyounggirlsbythe river, most had just saidthey wanted to marry andhave children and cook fortheir husbands. When it wasmymother’s turn she said, ‘Iwanttoliveinthecityandbeable to send out for kebabs

andnaaninsteadofcookingitmyself.’However,lifewasn’tquitewhat sheexpected.Theshack had just two rooms,one where Hidayatullah andmyfathersleptandonewhichwasasmalloffice.Therewasno kitchen, no plumbing.When my mother arrived,Hidayatullah had to moveintotheofficeandsleeponahardwoodenchair.My father consulted my

motheroneverything.‘Pekai,helpmeresolvemyconfusionon this’, he would say. Sheeven helped whitewash theschool walls, holding up thelanterns so they could paintwhen the light went off inpowercuts.‘Ziauddin was a family

manandtheywereunusuallyclose,’ said Hidayatullah.‘While most of us can’t livewith our wives, he couldn’t

bewithouthis.’Within a few months my

mother was expecting. Theirfirst child,born in1995,wasa girl and stillborn. ‘I thinktherewassomeproblemwithhygieneinthatmuddyplace,’says my father. ‘I assumedwomen could give birthwithout going to hospital, asmymotherandmysistershadin the village. My mothergave birth to ten children in

thisway.’The school continued to

lose money. Months wouldpass and they could not paythe teachers’ wages or theschool rent. The goldsmithkept coming and demandinghis money for my mother’swedding bangles. My fatherwouldmakehimgoodteaandofferhimbiscuitsinthehopethatwouldkeephimsatisfied.Hidayatullah laughed. ‘You

think he will be happy withtea?Hewantshismoney.’The situation became so

direthatmyfatherwasforcedto sell the gold bangles. Inourcultureweddingjewelleryisabondbetweenthecouple.Often women sell theirjewellery to help set up theirhusbands in business or topay their fares to go abroad.My mother had alreadyofferedherbanglestopayfor

my father’s nephew to go tocollege,whichmy fatherhadrashly promised to fund –fortunately, my father’scousin Jehan Sher Khan hadstepped in – and she did notrealise thebangleswereonlypartlypaid for.Shewas thenfuriouswhenshelearnedthatmy father didnot get a goodpriceforthem.Just when it seemed

matters could not get worse,

the area was hit by flashfloods.Therewasadaywhenit didnot stop raining and inthelateafternoontherewasawarning of flooding.Everyone had to leave thedistrict.Mymotherwasawayand Hidayatullah needed myfather to help him moveeverything up to the firstfloor,safefromthefast-risingwaters, but he couldn’t findhim anywhere. He went

outside, shouting ‘Ziauddin,Ziauddin!’ThesearchalmostcostHidayatullahhislife.Thenarrow street outside theschool was totally floodedand he was soon up to hisneck in water. There werelive electric cables hangingloose and swaying in thewind. He watched paralysedwith fear as they almosttouched the water. Had theydoneso,hewouldhavebeen

electrocuted.When he finally foundmy

father,helearnedthathehadheard a woman crying thather husband was trapped intheirhouseandhehadrushedin to save him. Then hehelpedthemsavetheirfridge.Hidayatullah was furious.‘You saved this woman’shusband but not your ownhouse!’ he said. ‘Was itbecause of the cry of a

woman?’When the waters receded,

they found their home andschool destroyed: theirfurniture, carpets, books,clothes and the audio systementirely caked in thick foul-smelling mud. They hadnowheretosleepandnocleanclothes to change into.Luckily, a neighbour calledMr Aman-ud-din took theminforthenight.Ittookthema

weektoclearthedebris.Theywere both away when, tendayslater,therewasasecondflood and the building againfilled with mud. Shortlyafterwards they had a visitfrom an official ofWAPDA,the water and powercompany, who claimed theirmeter was rigged anddemanded a bribe.Whenmyfather refused, a bill arrivedwith a large fine. There was

nowaytheycouldpaythissomy father asked one of hispolitical friends to use hisinfluence.It started to feel as though

the school was not meant tobe, but my father would notgive up on his dream soeasily. Besides, he had afamily to provide for. I wasborn on 12 July 1997. Mymother was helped by aneighbourwho had delivered

babiesbefore.My fatherwasin the school waiting andwhen he heard the news hecame running. My motherwasworriedabouttellinghimhe had a daughter not a son,buthesayshelookedintomyeyesandwasdelighted.‘Malala was a lucky girl,’

saysHidayatullah.‘Whenshewasbornourluckchanged.’But not immediately. On

Pakistan’sfiftiethanniversary

on14August1997therewereparadesandcommemorationsthroughout the country.However, my father and hisfriendssaidtherewasnothingtocelebrateasSwathadonlysuffered since it had mergedwith Pakistan. They woreblack armbands to protest,saying the celebrations werefor nothing, and werearrested. They had to pay afinetheycouldnotafford.

A few months after I wasborn the three rooms abovetheschoolbecamevacantandwe all moved in. The wallswere concrete and there wasrunning water so it was animprovement on our muddyshack, butwewere still verycramped as we were sharingit with Hidayatullah and wealmost always had guests.Thatfirstschoolwasamixedprimary school and very

small.BythetimeIwasbornithadfiveorsixteachersandaround a hundred pupilspaying a hundred rupees amonth. My father wasteacher, accountant andprincipal. He also swept thefloors,whitewashedthewallsand cleaned the bathrooms.He used to climb upelectricity poles to hangbanners advertising theschool, even though he was

soafraidofheightsthatwhenhegottothetopoftheladderhis feet shook. If the waterpump stopped working, hewould go down the well torepairithimself.WhenIsawhim disappear down there Iwould cry, thinking hewouldn’t come back. Afterpaying the rent and salaries,therewaslittlemoneyleftforfood.We drank green tea aswe could not affordmilk for

regular tea.But after awhilethe school started to breakeven andmy father began toplan a second school, whichhewanted to call theMalalaEducationAcademy.Ihadtherunoftheschoolasmy playground. My fathertells me even before I couldtalk I would toddle intoclasses and talk as if Iwas ateacher. Some of the femalestaff like Miss Ulfat would

pick me up and put me ontheir lap as if Iwas their petor even take me home withthemforawhile.WhenIwasthree or four Iwas placed inclasses for much olderchildren. I used to sit inwonder, listening toeverything they were beingtaught. Sometimes I wouldmimic the teachers. Youcould say I grew up in aschool.

As my father had foundwithNaeem, it isnoteasy tomix business and friendship.Eventually Hidayatullah leftto start his own school andthey divided the students,each taking two of the fouryears. They did not tell theirpupils as theywanted peopleto think the school wasexpanding and had twobuildings. ThoughHidayatullah and my father

were not speaking at thattime,Hidayatullahmissedmesomuchheusedtovisitme.It was while he was

visiting one afternoon inSeptember 2001 that therewas a great commotion andother people started arriving.They said there had been abig attack on a building inNew York. Two planes hadflownintoit. Iwasonlyfourand tooyoung tounderstand.

Even for the adults it washardtoimagine–thebiggestbuildings in Swat are thehospital and a hotel, whichare two or three storeys. Itseemed very far away. I hadno idea what NewYork andAmerica were. The schoolwasmyworld andmyworldwas the school. We did notrealise then that 9/11 wouldchange our world too, andwould bring war into our

valley.

4

TheVillage

IN OUR TRADITION on theseventh day of a child’s lifewe have a celebration calledWoma (which means

‘seventh’) for family, friendsand neighbours to come andadmire the newborn. Myparents had not held one forme because they could notafford the goat and riceneededtofeedtheguests,andmy grandfather would nothelp them out because I wasnotaboy.WhenmybrotherscamealongandBabawantedto pay, my father refused ashe hadn’t done this for me.

But Baba was the onlygrandfather I had as mymother’s father had diedbefore I was born and webecameclose.MyparentssayI have qualities of bothgrandfathers – humorous andwise likemymother’s fatherand vocal like my father’sfather! Baba had grown softand white-bearded in his oldageandIlovedgoingtovisithiminthevillage.

Whenever he saw me hewould greet me with a songas he was still concernedabout thesadmeaningofmyname and wanted to lendsomehappinesstoit:‘MalalaMaiwand wala da. Pa tooljehankedakhushalada,’ hesang. ‘Malala is ofMaiwandandshe’sthehappiestpersoninthewholeworld.’We always went to the

village for the Eid holidays.

Wewoulddress inour finestclothes and pile into theFlyingCoach,aminibuswithbrightly painted panels andjangling chains, and drivenorth to Barkana, our familyvillage in Shangla. Eidhappens twice a year – Eidul-Fitr or ‘Small Eid’ marksthe end of the Ramadanfasting month, and Eid ul-Azha or ‘Big Eid’commemorates the Prophet

Abraham’s readiness tosacrifice his son Ismail toGod. The dates of the feastsare announced by a specialpanel of clerics who watchfor the appearance of thecrescentmoon.Assoonasweheard the broadcast on theradio,wesetoff.Thenightbeforewehardly

slept because we were soexcited. The journey usuallytookaboutfivehoursas long

as the road had not beenwashed away by rains orlandslides, and the FlyingCoach left early in themorning. We struggled toMingorabusstation,ourbagsladenwithgiftsforourfamily– embroidered shawls andboxes of rose and pistachiosweets as well as medicinethey could not get in thevillage. Some people tooksacksof sugar and flour, and

mostof thebaggagewastiedto the top of the bus in atowering pile. Then wecrammedin,fightingoverthewindowseatseventhoughthepanesweresoencrustedwithdirt itwas hard to see out ofthem. The sides of Swatbusesarepaintedwithscenesof bright pink and yellowflowers, neon-orange tigersand snowy mountains. Mybrotherslikeditifwegotone

with F-16 fighter jets ornuclear missiles, though myfather said if our politicianshadn’t spent somuchmoneyon building an atomic bombwe might have had enoughforschools.We drove out of the

bazaar, past the grinning redmouth signs for dentists, thecarts stacked with woodencages crammed with beady-eyed white chickens with

scarlet beaks, and jewellerystores with windows full ofgold wedding bangles. Thelast few shops as we headednorth out of Mingora werewooden shacks that seemedtoleanoneachother,infrontof which were piles ofreconditioned tyres for thebad roads ahead. Then wewere on the main road builtby the last wali, whichfollows the wide Swat River

ontheleftandhugsthecliffstotherightwiththeiremeraldmines. Overlooking the riverwere tourist restaurants withbig glass windows we hadneverbeento.Ontheroadwepassed dusty-faced childrenbent double with hugebundles of grass on theirbacksandmenleadingflocksof shaggy goats thatwanderedhitherandthither.As we drove on, the

landscape changed to paddyfieldsofdeep lushgreen thatsmeltsofreshandorchardsofapricot and fig trees.Occasionallywepassedsmallmarble works over streamswhich ran milky white withthe discharge of chemicals.This made my father cross.‘Lookatwhatthesecriminalsare doing to pollute ourbeautiful valley,’ he alwayssaid. The road left the river

and wound up throughnarrow passes over steep fir-clad heights, higher andhigher,untilourearspopped.On top of someof the peakswere ruins where vulturescircled, the remains of fortsbuiltbythefirstwali.Thebusstrained and laboured, thedriver cursing as trucksovertook us on blind bendswith steep drops below. Mybrothers loved this, and they

would taunt me and mymother by pointing out thewreckage of vehicles on themountainside.Finallywemadeituponto

Sky Turn, the gateway toShanglaTop,amountainpasswhichfeelsasifit’sontopoftheworld.Up therewewerehigher than the rocky peaksall around us. In the fardistance we could see thesnows of Malam Jabba, our

ski resort. By the roadsidewere fresh springs andwaterfalls, and when westopped for a break and todrink some tea, the air wascleanandfragrantwithcedarandpine.Webreathedit intoourlungsgreedily.Shanglaisall mountain, mountain,mountain and just a smallsky.Afterthistheroadwindsback down for a while thenfollows the Ghwurban River

and peters out into a rockytrack. The onlyway to crosstheriverisbyropebridgesoron a pulley systembywhichpeople swing themselvesacross in a metal box.Foreigners call them suicidebridgesbutwelovedthem.IfyoulookatamapofSwatyou’llseeitisonelongvalleywith little valleys we calldaraeofftothesideslikethebranches of a tree. Our

village lies about halfwayalong on the east. It’s in theKanadara,whichisenclosedbycraggymountainwallsandso narrow there is not evenroom for a cricket ground.We call our village Shahpur,but really there is a necklaceof three villages along thebottom of the valley –Shahpur, the biggest;Barkana, where my fathergrew up; andKarshat,which

iswheremymotherlived.Ateitherendisahugemountain– Tor Ghar, the BlackMountain to the south, andSpin Ghar, the WhiteMountain,tothenorth.We usually stayed in

Barkana at my grandfather’shouse,wheremy fathergrewup.Likealmostallthehousesin thearea, itwas flat-roofedandmadeofstoneandmud.Ipreferred staying in Karshat

with my cousins on mymaternal side because theyhad a concrete house with abathroomand therewere lotsof children to playwith.Mymother and I stayed in thewomen’squartersdownstairs.The women spent their dayslookingafterthechildrenandpreparingfoodtoservetothemen in theirhujra upstairs. IsleptwithmycousinsAneesaandSumbul ina roomwhich

hadaclock in theshapeofamosque and a cabinet on thewall containing a rifle andsomepacketsofhairdye.In the village the day

startedearlyandeven I,wholikedtosleeplate,wokewiththe sound of cocks crowingandtheclatterofdishesasthewomenpreparedbreakfastforthe men. In the morning thesun reflected off the top ofTorGhar;whenwegotupfor

the fajr prayers, the first ofour five daily prayers, wewould look left and see thegolden peak of SpinGhar litwith the first rays of the sunlike a white lady wearing ajumar tika – a gold chain onherforehead.Often rain would then

come to wash everythingclean, and the clouds wouldlingeronthegreenterracesofthe hills where people grew

radishes and walnut trees.Dotted around were hives ofbees. I loved the gloopyhoney, which we ate withwalnuts.Downontheriveratthe Karshat end were waterbuffaloes. There was also ashed with a woodenwaterwheel providing powerto turn huge millstones togrind wheat and maize intoflour, which young boyswould then pour into sacks.

Next to that was a smallershed containing a panel witha confusion of wiressproutingfromit.Thevillagereceived no electricity fromthe government so manyvillagersgottheirpowerfromthesemakeshift hydroelectricprojects.Asthedaywentonandthe

sunclimbedhigherinthesky,more andmore of theWhiteMountainwouldbebathedin

golden sun. Then as eveningcame it fell in shadowas thesun moved up the BlackMountain. We timed ourprayersbytheshadowonthemountains.When the sun hitacertainrock,weusedtosayourasr or afternoon prayers.Then in the evening, whenthe white peak of Spin Gharwasevenmorebeautifulthanin the morning, we said themakkam or evening prayers.

You could see the WhiteMountain from everywhere,and my father told me heusedtothinkofitasasymbolofpeaceforourland,awhiteflag at the end of our valley.When he was a child hethought thissmallvalleywasthe entire world and that ifanyonewentbeyondthepointwhereeithermountainkissedthesky,theywouldfalloff.ThoughIhadbeenbornin

a city, I shared my father’slove of nature. I loved therichsoil,thegreennessoftheplants, the crops, thebuffaloes and the yellowbutterfliesthatflutteredaboutme as I walked. The villagewas very poor, but whenwearrived our extended familywould lay on a big feast.There would be bowls ofchicken, rice, local spinachand spicymutton, all cooked

over the fire by the women,followedbyplatesofcrunchyapples, slices of yellow cakeandabigkettleofmilky tea.Noneofthechildrenhadtoysor books. The boys playedcricketinagullyandeventheball was made from plasticbagstiedtogetherwithelasticbands.Thevillagewasaforgotten

place.Waterwascarriedfromthe spring. The few concrete

houses had been built byfamilies whose sons orfathers had gone south towork in the mines or to theGulf, from where they sentmoneyhome.Thereare fortymillion of us Pashtuns, ofwhichtenmillionliveoutsideourhomeland.Myfathersaidit was sad that they couldneverreturnastheyneededtokeep working to maintaintheir families’ new lifestyle.

There were many familieswith no men. They wouldvisit only once a year, andusually a new baby wouldarriveninemonthslater.Scatteredupanddown the

hills therewere housesmadeof wattle and daub, like mygrandfather’s,andtheseoftencollapsed when there werefloods. Children sometimesfroze to death in winter.There was no hospital. Only

Shahpur had a clinic, and ifanyone fell ill in the othervillagestheyhadtobecarriedthere by their relatives on awooden frame which wejokingly called the ShanglaAmbulance. If it wasanything serious they wouldhave to make the long busjourney to Mingora unlessthey were lucky enough toknowsomeonewithacar.Usually politicians only

visited during election time,promising roads, electricity,clean water and schools andgivingmoney and generatorsto influential localpeoplewecalled stakeholders, whowould instruct theircommunitiesonhow tovote.Ofcoursethisonlyappliedtothe men; women in our areadon’t vote. Then theydisappeared off to Islamabadif they were elected to the

National Assembly, orPeshawar for the ProvincialAssembly, and we’d hear nomore of them or theirpromises.My cousins made fun of

me for my city ways. I didnotlikegoingbarefoot.Ireadbooks and I had a differentaccent and used slangexpressions from Mingora.My clothes were often fromshops and not home-made

like theirs. My relativeswould ask me, ‘Would youlike to cook chicken for us?’andI’dsay, ‘No, thechickenis innocent. We should notkill her.’They thought Iwasmodernbecause I came fromtown. They did not realisepeople from Islamabad oreven Peshawar would thinkmeverybackward.Sometimes we went up to

themountainsandsometimes

down to the river on familytrips.Itwasabigstream,toodeep and fast to cross whenthesnowsmelted insummer.The boys would fish usingearthworms threaded likebeads on a string hangingfrom a long stick. Some ofthem whistled, believing thiswould attract the fish. Theyweren’tparticularlytastyfish.Their mouths were veryrough and horny. We called

themchaqwartee.Sometimesa group of girls would godowntotheriverforapicnicwithpotsofriceandsherbet.Our favourite game was‘weddings’. We would getinto two groups, eachsupposedtobeafamily,theneach family would have tobetroth a girl so we couldperform a marriageceremony. Everyone wantedme in their family as I was

from Mingora and modern.The most beautiful girl wasTanzela, and we often gaveher to the other group sowecould then have her as ourbride.Themostimportantpartof

the mock wedding wasjewellery. We took earrings,bangles and necklaces todecorate the bride, singingBollywood songs as weworked. Then we would put

make-up on her face thatwe’dtakenfromourmothers,dipherhandsinhotlimestoneandsodatomakethemwhite,and paint her nails red withhenna. Once she was ready,the bride would start cryingandwewouldstrokeherhairandtrytoconvincehernottoworry. ‘Marriage is part oflife,’ we said. ‘Be kind toyour mother-in-law andfather-in-law so they treat

you well. Take care of yourhusbandandbehappy.’Occasionally there would

be real weddings with bigfeastswhichwentonfordaysand left the family bankruptor in debt. The brideswouldwearexquisiteclothesandbedrapedingold,necklacesandbangles given by both sidesof the family. I read thatBenazir Bhutto insisted onwearing glass bangles at her

wedding to set an examplebut the tradition of adorningthe bride still continued.Sometimes a plywood coffinwould be brought back fromoneofthemines.Thewomenwould gather at the house ofthe dead man’s wife ormotheranda terriblewailingwould start and echo roundthe valley, which made myskincrawl.At night the village was

verydarkwith just oil lampstwinkling in houses on thehills. None of the olderwomenhadanyeducationbutthey all told stories andrecited what we call tapey,Pashto couplets. Mygrandmotherwas particularlygood at them. They wereusuallyabout loveorbeingaPashtun. ‘No Pashtun leaveshis land of his own sweetwill,’ she would say. ‘Either

he leaves frompovertyorheleaves for love.’ Our auntsscared us with ghost stories,like the one aboutShalgwatay, the twenty-fingered man, who theywarned would sleep in ourbeds.Wewouldcryinterror,though in fact as ‘toe’ and‘finger’inPashtoisthesame,we were all twenty-fingered,but we didn’t realise. Tomakeuswash,ouraunts told

stories about a scary womancalled Shashaka, who wouldcome after you with hermuddy hands and stinkingbreath if you didn’t take abath or wash your hair, andturn you into a dirty womanwithhair likerats’ tails filledwith insects. Shemight evenkill you. In the winter whenparents didn’t want theirchildrentostayoutsideinthesnowtheywouldtellthestory

about the lion or tigerwhichmust always make the firststep in the snow.Onlywhenthe lionor tigerhas left theirfootprintwerewe allowed togooutside.Aswegotolderthevillage

began to seem boring. Theonly television was in thehujra of oneof thewealthierfamilies, and no one had acomputer.Women in the village hid

theirfaceswhenevertheylefttheir purdah quarters andcould not meet or speak tomenwhowerenottheircloserelatives. I wore morefashionableclothesanddidn’tcover my face even when Ibecame a teenager. One ofmy male cousins was angryand asked my father, ‘Whyisn’t she covered?’ Hereplied, ‘She’s my daughter.Lookafteryourownaffairs.’

But some of the familythought people would gossipaboutusandsaywewerenotproperly followingPashtunwali.I am very proud to be a

Pashtun but sometimes Ithinkourcodeofconducthasa lot to answer for,particularly where thetreatment of women isconcerned. A woman namedShahida who worked for us

and had three smalldaughters, toldme thatwhenshewasonlytenyearsoldherfather had sold her to an oldmanwho already had a wifebut wanted a younger one.Whengirlsdisappeareditwasnot always because they hadbeenmarriedoff.Therewasabeautiful fifteen-year-old girlcalledSeema.Everyoneknewshe was in love with a boy,andsometimeshewouldpass

byandshewouldlookathimfrom under her long darklashes, which all the girlsenvied. In our society for agirl to flirt with any manbrings shame on the family,though it’s all right for theman. We were told she hadcommitted suicide, but welater discovered her ownfamilyhadpoisonedher.We have a custom called

swarabywhichagirlcanbe

given to another tribe toresolvea feud. It isofficiallybannedbut still continues. Inourvillagetherewasawidowcalled Soraya whomarried awidower from another clanwhich had a feud with herfamily. Nobody can marry awidow without thepermission of her family.When Soraya’s family foundoutabouttheuniontheywerefurious. They threatened the

widower’sfamilyuntilajirgawascalledofvillageelderstoresolvethedispute.The jirgadecided that the widower’sfamilyshouldbepunishedbyhanding over their mostbeautifulgirltobemarriedtothe least eligible man of therival clan. The boy was agood-for-nothing, so poorthat the girl’s father had topay all their expenses. Whyshould a girl’s life be ruined

to settle a dispute she hadnothingtodowith?When I complained about

these things to my father hetold me that life was harderfor women in Afghanistan.Theyearbefore Iwasbornagroup called the Taliban ledby a one-eyed mullah hadtaken over the country andwas burning girls’ schools.They were forcing men togrow beards as long as a

lantern and women to wearburqas. Wearing a burqa islikewalkinginsidebigfabricshuttlecockwithonlyagrilleto see through and on hotdaysit’slikeanoven.AtleastIdidn’thavetowearone.HesaidthattheTalibanhadevenbannedwomenfromlaughingout loud or wearing whiteshoes aswhitewas ‘a colourthat belonged to men’.Womenwerebeinglockedup

and beaten just for wearingnail varnish. I shiveredwhenhetoldmesuchthings.I readmybooks likeAnna

Karenina and the novels ofJaneAustenandtrustedinmyfather’s words: ‘Malala isfreeasabird.’WhenIheardstories of the atrocities inAfghanistanIfeltproudtobeinSwat.‘Hereagirlcangotoschool,’Iusedtosay.ButtheTaliban were just around the

cornerandwerePashtunslikeus. For me the valley was asunny place and I couldn’tsee the clouds gatheringbehind the mountains. Myfather used to say, ‘I willprotectyourfreedom,Malala.Carryonwithyourdreams.’

5

WhyIDon’tWearEarringsandPashtunsDon’tSayThankYou

BY THE AGE of seven I wasusedtobeingtopofmyclass.

Iwastheonewhowouldhelpother pupils who haddifficulties. ‘Malala is ageniusgirl,’myclassfellowswouldsay. Iwasalsoknownforparticipatingineverything– badminton, drama, cricket,art, even singing, though Iwasn’tmuchgood.Sowhenanew girl named Malka-e-Noorjoinedourclass,Ididn’tthink anything of it. Hernamemeans‘QueenofLight’

andshesaidshewantedtobePakistan’s first female armychief. Her mother was ateacher at a different school,whichwasunusualasnoneofour mothers worked. Tobegin with she didn’t saymuch in class. Thecompetition was alwaysbetween me and my bestfriend Moniba, who hadbeautiful writing andpresentation, which the

examinersliked,butIknewIcouldbeatheroncontent.Sowhenwe did the end-of-yearexams and Malka-e-Noorcamefirst,Iwasshocked.Athome I cried and cried andhad to be comforted by mymother.Around that time we

moved away from where wehad been living on the samestreet as Moniba to an areawhere I didn’t have any

friends. On our new roadtherewasagirlcalledSafina,who was a bit younger thanme, and we started to playtogether.Shewasapamperedgirlwhohadlotsofdollsanda shoebox full of jewellery.But she kept eyeing up thepink plastic pretend mobilephone my father had boughtme, which was one of theonly toys I had. My fatherwas always talking on his

mobilesoIlovedtocopyhimandpretend tomakecalls onmine.Onedayitdisappeared.A few days later I saw

Safina playing with a phoneexactly the same as mine.‘Where did you get that?’ Iasked. ‘I bought it in thebazaar,’shesaid.I realise now she could

havebeentellingthetruthbutback then I thought, She isdoingthistomeandIwilldo

thesame toher. Iused togoto her house to study, sowheneverIwasthereIwouldpockether things,mostly toyjewellery like earrings andnecklaces. It was easy. Atfirststealinggavemeathrill,but that did not last long.Soonitbecameacompulsion.Ididnotknowhowtostop.One afternoon I came

homefromschoolandrushedintothekitchenasusualfora

snack. ‘Hello, Bhabi!’ Icalled. ‘I’m starving!’ Therewas silence.Mymother wassitting on the floor poundingspices, brightly colouredturmeric and cumin, fillingtheairwiththeiraroma.Overand over she pounded. Hereyes would not meet mine.WhathadIdone?Iwasverysad and went to my room.WhenIopenedmycupboard,IsawthatallthethingsIhad

taken were gone. I had beencaught.My cousin Reena came

into my room. ‘They knewyou were stealing,’ she said.‘Theywerewaitingforyoutocomecleanbutyou just kepton.’I felt a terrible sinking

feeling in my stomach. Iwalked back to my motherwith my head bowed. ‘Whatyou didwaswrong,Malala,’

she said. ‘Are you trying tobring shame on us that wecan’t afford to buy suchthings?’‘It’s not true!’ I lied. ‘I

didn’ttakethem.’But she knew I had.

‘Safinastartedit,’Iprotested.‘ShetookthepinkphonethatAbaboughtme.’My mother was unmoved.

‘Safina is younger than youand you should have taught

her better,’ she said. ‘Youshouldhavesetanexample.’I started crying and

apologised over and overagain. ‘Don’t tell Aba,’ Ibegged. I couldn’t bear forhimtobedisappointedinme.It’shorrible to feelunworthyintheeyesofyourparents.It wasn’t the first time.

When I was little I went tothe bazaar with my motherandspottedapileofalmonds

on a cart. They looked sotasty that I couldn’t resistgrabbing a handful. Mymother told me off andapologised to the cart owner.Hewasfuriousandwouldnotbeplacated.Westillhadlittlemoney and my mothercheckedherpursetoseewhatshe had. ‘Can you sell themto me for ten rupees?’ sheasked. ‘No,’ he replied.‘Almondsareverycostly.’

Mymotherwasveryupsetand told my father. Heimmediatelywentandboughtthe whole lot from the manandputtheminaglassdish.‘Almonds are good,’ he

said. ‘If you eat them withmilkjustbeforebeditmakesyou brainy.’ But I knew hedidn’thavemuchmoneyandthe almonds in thedishwerea reminder of my guilt. IpromisedmyselfI’dneverdo

suchathingagain.AndnowIhad. My mother took me tosay sorry to Safina and herparents. It was very hard.Safinasaidnothingaboutmyphone, which didn’t seemfair, but I didn’t mention iteither.Though I felt bad, I was

also relieved it was over.Since that day I have neverliedorstolen.Notasinglelienor a single penny, not even

the coins my father leavesaround the house, whichwe’re allowed to buy snackswith. I also stopped wearingjewellery because I askedmyself, What are thesebaubles which tempt me?Why should I lose mycharacter for a few metaltrinkets? But I still feelguilty, and to this day I saysorrytoGodinmyprayers.My mother and father tell

eachothereverythingsoAbasoonfoundoutwhyIwassosad. I could see in his eyesthatIhadfailedhim.Iwantedhim to be proud of me, likehewaswhenIwaspresentedwith the first-in-year trophiesat school. Or the day ourkindergarten teacher MissUlfat told him I hadwritten,‘OnlySpeakinUrdu,’ontheblackboardformyclassmatesat thestartofanUrdu lesson

so we would learn thelanguagefaster.My father consoledme by

tellingmeaboutthemistakesgreatheroesmadewhen theywere children. He told methat Mahatma Gandhi said,‘Freedomisnotworthhavingif it does not include thefreedom to make mistakes.’AtschoolwehadreadstoriesaboutMohammadAliJinnah.AsaboyinKarachihewould

study by the glow of streetlights because there was nolight at home. He told otherboys to stop playingmarblesinthedustandtoplaycricketinstead so their clothes andhands wouldn’t get dirty.Outside his office my fatherhada framedcopyofa letterwritten by Abraham Lincolntohisson’steacher,translatedinto Pashto. It is a verybeautiful letter, full of good

advice. ‘Teach him, if youcan, the wonder of books . .. But also give him quiettime to ponder the eternalmystery of birds in the sky,bees in the sun, and theflowersonagreenhillside,’itsays. ‘Teach him it is farmore honourable to fail thantocheat.’I think everyone makes a

mistake at least once in theirlife. The important thing is

whatyoulearnfromit.That’swhyIhaveproblemswithourPashtunwali code. We aresupposed to take revenge forwrongsdonetous,butwheredoesthatend?Ifamaninonefamily is killed or hurt byanotherman,revengemustbeexactedtorestorenang.Itcanbe taken by killing anymalemember of the attacker’sfamily. Then that family inturn must take revenge. And

onandonitgoes.Thereisnotimelimit.Wehaveasaying:‘The Pashtun took revengeafter twenty years andanother said itwas taken toosoon.’We are a people of many

sayings.Oneis‘ThestoneofPashto does not rust inwater,’ which means weneither forget nor forgive.That’salsowhywerarelysaythank you, manana, because

we believe a Pashtun willneverforgetagooddeedandis bound to reciprocate atsome point, just as hewill abad one. Kindness can onlybe repaid with kindness. Itcan’t be repaid withexpressionslike‘thankyou’.Many families live in

walled compounds withwatchtowerssotheycankeepan eye out for their enemies.We knew many victims of

feuds.Onewas Sher Zaman,a man who had been in myfather’s class and always gotbetter grades than him. Mygrandfatheranduncleusedtodrivemy fathermad, teasinghim, ‘You’re not as good asSher Zaman,’ so much heoncewishedthatrockswouldcomedownthemountainandflatten him. But Sher Zamandid not go to college andended up becoming a

dispenser in the villagepharmacy.Hisfamilybecameembroiled in a dispute withtheircousinsoverasmallplotof forest. One day, as SherZaman and two of hisbrotherswereontheirwaytotheland,theywereambushedbyhisuncle and someofhismen.All three brotherswerekilled.As a respectedman in the

community, my father was

often called on to mediatefeuds. He did not believe inbadal–revenge–andwouldtry to make people see thatneither side had anything togain from continuing theviolence, and it would bebetterforthemtogetonwiththeir lives. There were twofamilies in our village hecouldnotconvince.Theyhadbeen locked in a feud for solong no one even seemed to

remember how it had started– probably some small slightas we are a hot-headedpeople.Firstabrotherononesidewouldattackanuncleontheother.Thenviceversa. Itconsumedtheirlives.Ourpeoplesayitisagood

system, andour crime rate ismuch lower than in non-Pashtunareas.ButIthinkthatifsomeonekillsyourbrother,you shouldn’t kill them or

their brother, you shouldteach them instead. I aminspired by Khan AbdulGhaffar Khan, the man whosome call the FrontierGandhi, who introduced anon-violentphilosophytoourculture.It’s thesamewithstealing.

Some people, like me, getcaught and vow they willneverdoitagain.Otherssay,‘Oh it’s no big deal – itwas

just a little thing.’ But thesecond time they will stealsomething bigger and thethird something bigger still.In my country too manypoliticians think nothing ofstealing.Theyarerichandweare a poor country yet theyloot and loot. Most of themdon’t pay tax, but that’s theleastofit.Theytakeoutloansfrom state banks but theydon’t pay them back. They

getkickbacksongovernmentcontracts from friends or thecompanies they award themto. Many of them ownexpensiveflatsinLondon.Idon’tknowhowtheycan

live with their conscienceswhen they see our peoplegoinghungryorsittinginthedarkness of endless powercuts,orchildrenunabletogotoschoolastheirparentsneedthemtowork.Myfathersays

thatPakistanhasbeencursedwithmore than its fair shareof politicianswho only thinkaboutmoney.Theydon’tcareif the army is actually flyingthe plane, they are happy tostayoutofthecockpitandsitin business class, close thecurtains and enjoy the finefood and service while therest of us are squashed ineconomy.Ihadbeenborn intoasort

ofdemocracyinwhichfortenyears Benazir Bhutto andNawaz Sharif kept replacingeach other, none of theirgovernmentsevercompletinga term and always accusingeachother of corruption.ButtwoyearsafterIwasbornthegenerals again took over. Ithappened in a manner sodramatic that it sounds likesomething out of a movie.Nawaz Sharif was prime

minister at the time and hadfallenoutwithhisarmychiefGeneral Pervez Musharrafand sacked him. At the timeGeneral Musharraf was on aplane of our national airlinePIA coming back from SriLanka. Nawaz Sharif was soworried about his reactionthathetriedtostoptheplanefrom landing in Pakistan.Heordered Karachi airport toswitch off its landing lights

and to park fire engines ontherunwaytoblocktheplaneeven though it had200otherpassengers on board and notenough fuel toget toanothercountry. Within an hour ofthe announcement ontelevision of Musharraf ’ssacking, tanks were on thestreets and troops had takenover the newsrooms and theairports. The localcommander,General Iftikhar,

stormed the control tower atKarachi so thatMusharraf ’splane could land. Musharrafthen seized power and threwSharif into a dungeon inAttock Fort. Some peoplecelebrated by handing outsweets as Sharif wasunpopular, but my fathercried when he heard thenews. He had thought wewere done with militarydictatorships. Sharif was

accused of treason and onlysaved by his friends in theSaudi royal family, whoarrangedhisexile.Musharraf was our fourth

military ruler. Like all ourdictators, he started byaddressing thenationonTV,beginning, ‘Mere azizhamwatano’ – ‘My dearcountrymen’–thenwentintoa long tirade against Sharif,saying that under him

Pakistanhad‘lostourhonour,dignity and respect’. Hevowed to end corruption andgo after those ‘guilty ofplundering and looting thenational wealth’. Hepromised hewouldmake hisown assets and tax returnpublic.Hesaidhewouldonlyrun the country for a shorttime, but no one believedhim. General Zia hadpromised to be in power for

ninety days and had stayedmore than eleven years untilhewaskilledinanaircrash.It’sthesameoldstory,my

father said,andhewas right.Musharraf promised to endthe old feudal system bywhich the same few dozenfamilies controlled our entirecountry, and bring freshyoung clean faces intopolitics. Instead his cabinetwas made up of the very

same old faces. Once againour country was expelledfrom theCommonwealthandbecameaninternationalblacksheep. The Americans hadalready suspended most aidthe year before when weconducted nuclear tests, butnow almost everyoneboycottedus.With such a history, you

can see why the people ofSwat did not always think it

wasagoodideatobepartofPakistan. Every few yearsPakistansentusanewdeputycommissioner, or DC, togovern Swat, just as theBritish had done in colonialdays. It seemed to us thatthesebureaucratscametoourprovince simply to get rich,then went back home. Theyhadno interest indevelopingSwat.Ourpeopleareused tobeing subservient because

under the wali no criticismwas tolerated. If anyoneoffended him, their entirefamily could be expelledfromSwat.SowhentheDCscame from Pakistan, theywere the new kings and noone questioned them. Olderpeople often looked backnostalgically to the days ofthe lastwali.Back then, theysaid, the mountains were allstill covered in trees, there

were schools every fivekilometresandthewalisahibwouldvisittheminpersontoresolveproblems.After what happened withSafina, I vowed that Iwouldnever treat a friend badlyagain.My fatheralways saysit’s important to treat friendswell.Whenhewasatcollegeandhadnomoneyforfoodorbooks many of his friendshelped him out and he never

forgotthat.Ihavethreegoodfriends – Safina from myarea,Sumbulfromthevillageand Moniba from school.Moniba had becomemy bestfriend in primary schoolwhen we lived near eachother, and I persuaded her tocome to our school. She is awisegirl,thoughweoftenfallout, particularlywhenwe goon school trips. She comesfromalargefamilywiththree

sisters and four brothers. Ithink of her asmy big sistereven thoughIamsixmonthsolder than her. Moniba setsdown rules which I try tofollow.Wedon’thavesecretsfromeachotherandwedon’tshareoursecretswithanyoneelse. She doesn’t like metalkingtoothergirlsandsayswe must be careful ofassociating with people whoare badly behaved or have a

reputation for trouble. Shealways says, ‘I have fourbrothers,andifIdoeventheslightestthingwrongtheycanstopmegoingtoschool.’I was so eager not to

disappoint my parents that Iran errands for anyone. Onedayourneighboursaskedmeto buy some maize for themfromthebazaar.Onthewayaboyonabicyclecrashedintomeandmyleftshoulderhurt

so much that my eyeswatered. But I still went andbought the maize, took it tomyneighboursandthenwenthome. Only then did I cry.Shortly after that I found theperfectwaytotrytowinbackthe respect of my father.Noticeshadgoneupatschoolfor a public speakingcompetition andMoniba andI both decided to enter. Iremembered the story of my

father surprising mygrandfather and longed to dothesame.When we got the topic, I

couldn’t believe my eyes. Itwas ‘Honesty is the bestpolicy’.Theonlypracticewe’dhad

was reading out poems atmorning assembly, but therewas an older girl at schoolcalledFatimawhowasaverygood speaker. She was

beautiful and spoke in ananimated way. She couldspeak confidently in front ofhundreds of people and theywould hang on her everyword.MonibaandIlongedtobe like her and studied hercarefully.Inourculturespeechesare

usuallywrittenbyourfathers,unclesor teachers.They tendtobe inEnglishorUrdu,notin our native Pashto. We

thought speaking in Englishmeant you were moreintelligent. We were wrong,of course. It does not matterwhat language you choose,the important thing is thewords you use to expressyourself. Moniba’s speechwas written by one of herolder brothers. She quotedbeautiful poems by AllamaIqbal, our national poet. Myfatherwrotemy speech. In it

heargued that ifyouwant todo good, but do it in a badway, that’s still bad. In thesame way, if you choose agoodmethodtodosomethingbadit’sstillbad.Heendeditwith Lincoln’s words: ‘it isfar more honourable to failthantocheat’.On the day only eight or

nineboysandgirlsturnedup.Monibaspokewell–shewasvery composed and her

speech was more emotionalandpoetic thanmine, thoughmine might have had thebetter message. I was sonervous before the speech, Iwas trembling with fear.Mygrandfather had come towatch and I knew he reallywanted me to win thecompetition,whichmademeeven more nervous. Iremembered what my fatherhad said about taking a deep

breath before starting, butthen I saw that all eyeswereonmeandIrushedthrough.Ikept losing my place as thepages danced in my shakinghands, but as I ended withLincoln’swords, I lookedupatmyfather.Hewassmiling.When the judges

announced the results at theend,Monibahadwon.Icamesecond.It didn’t matter. Lincoln

alsowrote in the letter tohisson’s teacher, ‘Teach himhowtogracefullylose.’Iwasused to coming top of myclass.ButIrealisedthat,evenifyouwinthreeorfourtimes,the next victory will notnecessarily be yours withouttrying – and also thatsometimes it’s better to tellyour own story. I startedwritingmyownspeechesandchanging theway Idelivered

them, from my heart ratherthanfromasheetofpaper.

6

ChildrenoftheRubbishMountain

AS THE KHUSHAL Schoolstarted toattractmorepupils,we moved again and finally

hadatelevision.Myfavouriteprogramme was Shaka LakaBoom Boom, an Indianchildren’s series about a boycalledSanjuwhohasamagicpencil. Everything he drewbecame real. If he drew avegetableorapoliceman,thevegetableorpolicemanwouldmagically appear. If heaccidentally drew a snake hecould erase it and the snakewoulddisappear.Heusedhis

pencil to help people – heeven saved his parents fromgangsters–andIwantedthatmagic pencil more thananythingelseintheworld.At night I would pray,

‘God,givemeSanju’spencil.Iwon’ttellanyone.Justleaveit inmy cupboard. Iwill useit to make everyone happy.’AssoonasIfinishedpraying,I would check the drawer.The pencil was never there,

butIknewwhoIwouldhelpfirst. Just along the streetfrom our new house was anabandoned strip of land thatpeople used as a rubbishdump – there is no rubbishcollectioninSwat.Quickly,itbecamearubbishmountain.Ididn’t likewalkingnear it asit smelt so bad. Sometimeswe would spot rats runningthrough it and crows wouldcircleoverhead.

Onedaymybrotherswerenothomeandmymotherhadaskedmetothrowawaysomepotato peel and eggshells. Iwrinkled my nose as Iapproached, swatting awayfliesandmakingsureIdidn’tstep on anything in my niceshoes.AsIthrewtherubbishon the mountain of rottingfood, I saw something moveand I jumped. It was a girlabout my age. Her hair was

matted and her skin wascovered in sores. She lookedlikeIimaginedShashaka,thedirty woman they told usaboutintalesinthevillagetomakeuswash.Thegirlhadabig sack and was sortingrubbish into piles, one forcans, one for bottle tops,another forglassandanotherfor paper.Nearby therewereboys fishing in the pile formetal using magnets on

strings.IwantedtotalktothechildrenbutIwastooscared.That afternoon, when my

father came home fromschool, I told him about thescavenger children andbeggedhimtogowithme tolook.Hetriedtotalktothembut they ran away. Heexplained that the childrenwould sell what they hadsortedtoagarbageshopforafew rupees. The shop would

then sell itonat aprofit.Onthewaybackhome Inoticedthathewasintears.‘Aba, you must give them

free places at your school,’ Ibegged. He laughed. Mymother and I had alreadypersuaded him to give freeplacestoanumberofgirls.Thoughmymotherwasnot

educated, she was thepractical one in the family,thedoerwhilemyfatherwas

the talker. She was alwaysouthelpingpeople.Myfatherwouldgetangrysometimes–he would arrive home atlunchtime and call out, ‘TorPekai, I’m home!’ only tofind she was out and therewas no lunch for him. Thenhewould find shewasat thehospital visiting someonewho was ill, or had gone tohelpafamily,sohecouldnotstaycross.Sometimesthough

shewouldbeoutbecauseshewas shopping for clothes inthe Cheena Bazaar, and thatwouldbeadifferentmatter.Wherever we lived my

mother filled our house withpeople. I shared my roomwithmy cousinAneesa fromthevillage,whohadcome tolivewith us so she could goto school, and a girl calledShehnaz whose motherSultana had once worked in

our house. Shehnaz and hersister had also been sent outto collect garbage after theirfather had died leaving themvery poor. One of herbrotherswasmentally ill andwas always doing strangethingslikesettingfiretotheirclothes or selling the electricfan we gave them to keepcool.Sultanawasvery short-tempered andmymother didnot like having her in the

house,butmyfatherarrangedasmallallowanceforheranda place for Shehnaz and herother brother at his school.Shehnaz had never been toschool, so even though shewas twoyears older thanmeshe was put two classesbelow, and she came to livewith us so that I could helpher.There was also Nooria,

whose mother Kharoo did

some of our washing andcleaning,andAlishpa,oneofthedaughters ofKhalida, thewoman who helped mymother with the cooking.Khalida had been sold intomarriage to an old man whoused to beat her, andeventuallysheranawaywithher threedaughters.Herownfamily would not take herback because it is believedthatawomanwhohaslefther

husband has brought shameonherfamily.Forawhileherdaughters also had to collectrubbish to survive.Her storywaslikesomethingoutofthenovelsIhadstartedreading.Theschoolhadexpandeda

lot by then and had threebuildings–theoriginaloneinLandikas was a primaryschool, and then there was ahigh school for girls onYahya Street and one for

boys with a big garden ofrosesnear the remainsof theBuddhist temple. We hadabout 800 students in total,and although the school wasnotreallymakingmoney,myfathergaveawaymorethanahundred free places. One ofthem was to a boy whosefather, Sharafat Ali, hadhelped my father when hewas a penniless collegestudent. They were friends

fromthevillage.SharafatAliworked at the electricitycompany and he would givemy father a few hundredrupees whenever he couldspare them. My father washappy tobeable to repayhiskindness. Another was a girlin my class called Kausar,whose father embroideredclothes and shawls – a tradeour region is famous for.When we went on school

trips tovisit themountains, Iknew she couldn’t affordthem so I would pay for herwithmypocketmoney.Giving places to poor

children didn’t justmeanmyfatherlosttheirfees.Someofthe richer parents took theirchildren out of the schoolwhen theyrealised theyweresharing classrooms with thesonsanddaughtersofpeoplewho cleaned their houses or

stitched their clothes. Theythought it was shameful fortheir children to mix withthosefrompoorfamilies.Mymother said it was hard forthe poor children to learnwhen they were not gettingenoughfoodathomesosomeof the girls would come toour house for breakfast. Myfather joked that our homehad become a boardinghouse.

Having so many peoplearoundmadeithardtostudy.I had been delighted to havemyownroom,andmyfatherhad even bought me adressingtabletoworkon.Butnow I had two other girls inthe room. ‘Iwant space!’ I’dcry.ButthenIfeltguiltyasIknew we were lucky. Ithought back to the childrenworkingon therubbishheap.Ikeptseeingthedirtyfaceof

the girl from the dump andcontinuedtopestermyfatherto give them places at ourschool.He tried to explain that

those children werebreadwinners so if theywentto school, even for free, thewhole family would gohungry. However, he got awealthy philanthropist,AzadayKhan,topayforhimto produce a leaflet asking,

‘Kiahasooleeluminbachunka haq nahe? ’ – ‘Iseducation not the right ofthese children?’ My fatherprinted thousands of theseleaflets, left them at localmeetingsanddistributedthemaroundtown.By then my father was

becoming a well-knownfigure in Swat. Even thoughhe was not a khan or a richman, people listened to him.

They knew he would havesomething interesting to sayat workshops and seminarsand wasn’t afraid to criticisethe authorities, even thearmy, which was nowrunning our country.Hewasbecomingknowntothearmytoo,andfriendstoldhimthatthe local commander hadcalled him ‘lethal’ in public.My father didn’t know whatexactly the brigadier meant,

but inourcountry,wherethearmyissopowerful,itdidnotbodewell.One of his pet hates was

the ‘ghost schools’.Influential people in remoteareas took money from thegovernment for schoolswhich never saw a singlepupil. Instead they used thebuildings for their hujras oreven to keep their animals.There was even a case of a

man drawing a teacher’spension when he had nevertaughtadayinhislife.Asidefrom corruption and badgovernment, my father’smain concern in those dayswas the environment.Mingora was expandingquickly – around 175,000people now called it home –and our once-fresh air wasbecoming very polluted fromall the vehicles and cooking

fires. The beautiful trees onourhills andmountainswerebeing chopped down fortimber. My father said onlyaround half the town’spopulationhadaccess tosafedrinkingwaterandmost, likeus, had no sanitation. So heand his friends set upsomething called the GlobalPeaceCouncilwhich,despiteits name, had very localconcerns. The name was

ironic and my father oftenlaughed about it, but theorganisation’s aim wasserious: to preserve theenvironment of Swat andpromote peace and educationamonglocalpeople.My father also loved to

write poetry, sometimesabout love, but often oncontroversial themes such ashonour killings andwomen’srights. Once he visited

Afghanistan for a poetryfestival at the KabulIntercontinental Hotel, wherehe read a poem about peace.Itwasmentionedasthemostinspiring in the closingspeech, and some in theaudienceaskedhim to repeatwhole stanzas and couplets,exclaiming ‘Wah wah’ whenaparticularlinepleasedthem,which is a bit like ‘Bravo’.Even my grandfather was

proud. ‘Son,may you be thestarintheskyofknowledge,’heusedtosay.Wetoowereproud,buthis

higher profile meant wedidn’t see him verymuch. Itwas always our mother whoshopped for our clothes andtookustohospitalifwewereill, even though in ourculture, particularly for thoseofusfromvillages,awomanis not supposed to do these

things alone. So one of myfather’s nephewswould havetogo along.Whenmy fatherwas at home, he and hisfriendssatontheroofatduskand talked politics endlessly.There was really only onesubject – 9/11. Itmight havechanged thewholeworldbutwe were living right in theepicentre of everything.Osama bin Laden, the leaderof al-Qaeda, had been living

in Kandahar when the attackon the World Trade Centerhappened,andtheAmericanshad sent thousands of troopsto Afghanistan to catch himand overthrow the Talibanregime which had protectedhim.In Pakistan we were still

under a dictatorship, butAmericaneededourhelp,justasithadinthe1980stofightthe Russians in Afghanistan.

Just as the Russian invasionof Afghanistan had changedeverythingforGeneralZia,so9/11 transformed GeneralMusharraf from aninternational outcast.Suddenly he was beinginvitedtotheWhiteHousebyGeorge W. Bush and to 10Downing Street by TonyBlair. There was a majorproblem, however. Our ownintelligence service, ISI, had

virtually created the Taliban.Many ISIofficerswerecloseto its leaders, having knownthem for years, and sharedsome of their beliefs. TheISI’s Colonel Imam boastedhehadtrained90,000Talibanfighters and even becamePakistan’s consul general inHerat during the Talibanregime.We were not fans of the

Talibanaswehadheardthey

destroyed girls’ schools andblewupgiantBuddhastatues– we had many Buddhas ofour own that we were proudof. But many Pashtuns didnot like the bombing ofAfghanistan or the wayPakistan was helping theAmericans, even if it wasonly by allowing them tocross our airspace andstoppingweapons supplies totheTaliban.Wedidnotknow

then thatMusharrafwas alsolettingtheAmericansuseourairfields.Some of our religious

peoplesawOsamabinLadenas a hero. In the bazaar youcouldbuypostersofhimonawhite horse and boxes ofsweets with his picture onthem.Theseclerics said9/11was revenge on theAmericans forwhat theyhadbeen doing to other people

round the world, but theyignored the fact that thepeople in the World TradeCenterwereinnocentandhadnothing to dowithAmericanpolicy and that the HolyQuranclearlysaysitiswrongto kill. Our people seeconspiracies behindeverything, andmany arguedthat the attack was actuallycarried out by Jews as anexcuseforAmericatolaunch

a war on the Muslim world.Some of our newspapersprinted stories that no Jewswent to work at the WorldTrade Center that day. Myfathersaidthiswasrubbish.Musharraf told our people

that he had no choice but tocooperate with theAmericans.He said they hadtoldhim,‘Eitheryouarewithus, or you are with theterrorists,’ and threatened to

‘bomb us back to the StoneAge’ if we stood againstthem.Butweweren’texactlycooperating as the ISI wasstill arming Taliban fightersand giving their leaderssanctuary in Quetta. Theyeven persuaded theAmericans to let them flyhundredsofPakistanifightersout of northern Afghanistan.The ISI chief asked theAmericans to hold off their

attackonAfghanistanuntilhehad gone toKandahar to askthe Taliban leader MullahOmartohandoverbinLaden;insteadheofferedtheTalibanhelp.In our province Maulana

Sufi Mohammad, who hadfoughtinAfghanistanagainstthe Russians, issued a fatwaagainsttheUS.Heheldabigmeeting in Malakand, whereour ancestors had fought the

British. The Pakistanigovernment didn’t stop him.Thegovernorofourprovinceissued a statement thatanyone who wanted to fightinAfghanistanagainstNATOforces was free to do so.Some 12,000 young menfrom Swat went to help theTaliban. Many never cameback. They were most likelykilled,butasthereisnoproofofdeath, theirwivescan’tbe

declared widows. It’s veryhard on them. My father’sclose friend Wahid Zaman’sbrother and brother-in-lawwere among the many whowent to Afghanistan. Theirwives and children are stillwaitingforthem.Iremembervisitingthemandfeelingtheirlonging. Even so, it allseemed far, far away fromour peaceful garden valley.Afghanistan is less than a

hundred miles away, but toget there you have to gothrough Bajaur, one of thetribal areas between Pakistanand the border withAfghanistan.BinLadenandhismenfled

to the White Mountains ofTora Bora in easternAfghanistan, where he hadbuilt a network of tunnelswhile fighting the Russians.They escaped through these

and over the mountains intoKurram, another tribalagency.Whatwedidn’tknowthenwasthatbinLadencameto Swat and stayed in aremote village for a year,taking advantage of thePashtunwalihospitalitycode.Anyone could see that

Musharraf was double-dealing, taking Americanmoneywhilestillhelping thejihadis– ‘strategicassets’, as

the ISI calls them. TheAmericans say they gavePakistanbillionsofdollars tohelp their campaign againstal-Qaeda butwe didn’t see asinglecent.Musharrafbuiltamansion by Rawal Lake inIslamabad and bought anapartment in London. Everyso often an importantAmerican official wouldcomplain that we weren’tdoing enough and then

suddenlysomebigfishwouldbe caught. Khalid SheikhMohammad, the mastermindof9/11,wasfoundinahousejust a mile from the armychief ’s official residence inRawalpindi. But PresidentBush kept praisingMusharraf, inviting him toWashington and calling himhisbuddy.My father andhisfriends were disgusted. Theysaid the Americans always

preferred dealing withdictatorsinPakistan.From an early age I was

interested in politics and satonmyfather’sknee listeningto everything he and hisfriends discussed. But I wasmore concernedwithmatterscloser to home – our ownstreet to be exact. I told myfriends at school about therubbish-dump children andthat we should help. Not

everyone wanted to as theysaid the children were dirtyand probably diseased, andtheir parents would not likethem going to school withchildren like that. They alsosaiditwasn’tuptoustosortout the problem. I didn’tagree. ‘We can sit by andhope the government willhelp but theywon’t. If I canhelp support one or twochildren and another family

supports one or two thenbetweenuswecanhelpthemall.’I knew it was pointless

appealing to Musharraf. Inmy experience, if my fathercouldn’t help with matterslikethese,therewasonlyoneoption. I wrote a letter toGod. ‘DearGod,’ Iwrote, ‘Iknowyouseeeverything,butthereare somany things thatmaybe,sometimes,thingsget

missed,particularlynowwiththe bombing in Afghanistan.But I don’t think you wouldbe happy if you saw thechildrenonmyroadlivingona rubbish dump. God, giveme strength and courage andmake me perfect because Iwant to make this worldperfect.Malala.’TheproblemwasIdidnot

know how to get it to him.SomehowIthoughtitneeded

to go deep into the earth, sofirstIburiedit in thegarden.Then I thought it would getspoilt, so I put it in a plasticbag. But that didn’t seemmuch use. We like to putsacred texts in flowingwaters,soIrolleditup,tieditto a piece ofwood, placed adandelion on top and floatedit in the stream which flowsinto the Swat River. SurelyGodwouldfinditthere.

7

TheMuftiWhoTriedtoCloseOurSchool

JUST IN FRONT of the schoolon Khushal Street, where Iwasborn,wasthehouseofa

tallhandsomemullahandhisfamily. His name wasGhulamullah and he calledhimselfamufti,whichmeanshe is an Islamic scholar andauthority on Islamic law,though my father complainsthatanyonewithaturbancancall themselvesamaulanaormufti. The school was doingwell, and my father wasbuilding an impressivereception with an arched

entrance in the boy’s highschool. For the first timemymothercouldbuyniceclothesandevensendoutforfoodasshe had dreamed of doingback in the village. But allthis time the mufti waswatching. He watched thegirls going in and out of ourschooleverydayandbecameangry,particularlyassomeofthe girls were teenagers.‘Thatmaulanahasabadeye

on us,’ said my father oneday.Hewasright.Shortly afterwards the

muftiwenttothewomanwhoowned the school premisesandsaid,‘Ziauddinisrunninga haram school in yourbuilding and bringing shameon the mohalla[neighbourhood]. These girlsshouldbeinpurdah.’Hetoldher, ‘Take this building backfromhimandIwillrentitfor

my madrasa. If you do thisyou will get paid now andalso receive a reward in thenextworld.’She refused and her son

came to my father in secret.‘This maulana is starting acampaign against you,’ hewarned. ‘Wewon’t give himthebuildingbutbecareful.’Myfatherwasangry. ‘Just

as we say, “Nim hakimkhatraijan”–“Halfadoctor

isadanger toone’s life,” so,“Nimmullahkhatraiiman”–“A mullah who is not fullylearnedisadangertofaith”,’hesaid.Iamproudthatourcountry

was created as the world’sfirst Muslim homeland, butwe still don’t agree on whatthis means. The Quranteachesussabar–patience–butoftenitfeelsthatwehaveforgotten the word and think

Islammeanswomensittingathome in purdah or wearingburqas while men do jihad.We have many strands ofIslam in Pakistan. Ourfounder Jinnah wanted therightsofMuslims in India tobe recognised, but themajority of people in IndiawereHindu.Itwasasiftherewas a feud between twobrothers and they agreed tolive in different houses. So

British India was divided inAugust 1947, and anindependent Muslim statewas born. It could hardlyhave been a bloodierbeginning. Millions ofMuslims crossed from India,and Hindus travelled in theother direction. Almost twomillion of them were killedtrying to cross the newborder. Many wereslaughtered on trains which

arrived at Lahore and Delhifull of bloodied corpses.Myown grandfather narrowlyescaped death in the riotswhen his train was attackedby Hindus on his way homefrom Delhi, where he hadbeenstudying.Nowweareacountry of 180 million andmore than 96 per cent areMuslim.Wealsohavearoundtwo million Christians andmore than two million

Ahmadis, who say they areMuslims though ourgovernmentsaystheyarenot.Sadly those minoritycommunities are oftenattacked.JinnahhadlivedinLondon

asayoungmanandtrainedasabarrister.Hewanted a landoftolerance.Ourpeopleoftenquote the famous speech hemade a few days beforeindependence: ‘You are free

togotoyourtemples,youarefreetogotoyourmosquesortoanyotherplaceofworshipinthisStateofPakistan.Youmaybelongtoanyreligionorcaste or creed – that hasnothing to do with thebusiness of the state.’ MyfathersaystheproblemisthatJinnah negotiated a piece ofreal estate for us but not astate.Hediedof tuberculosisjust a year after the creation

of Pakistan and we haven’tstopped fighting since. Wehave had three wars againstIndia and what seems likeendlesskillinginsideourowncountry.We Muslims are split

between Sunnis and Shias –we share the samefundamental beliefs and thesame Holy Quran but wedisagree over who was theright person to lead our

religion when the Prophetdied in the seventh century.The man chosen to be theleader or caliph was AbuBakr, a close friend andadviseroftheProphetandthemanhechose to leadprayersas he lay on his deathbed.‘Sunni’ comes from theArabic for ‘one who followsthetraditionsoftheProphet’.But a smaller group believedthat leadership should have

stayed within the Prophet’sfamily and that Ali, his son-in-law and cousin, shouldhave taken over. Theybecame known as Shias,shortenedfromShia-t-Ali,thePartyofAli.Every year Shias

commemorate the killing ofthe Prophet’s grandsonHussein Ibn Ali at the battleof Karbala in the year 680with a festival called

Muharram. They whipthemselves into a bloodyfrenzy with metal chains orrazor blades on strings untilthestreetsrunred.Oneofmyfather’s friends is aShia andhe cries whenever he talksabout Hussein’s death atKarbala.Hegetssoemotionalyou would think the eventshad happened just the nightbefore, not more than 1,300years ago. Our own founder,

Jinnah, was a Shia, andBenazirBhutto’smotherwasalsoaShiafromIran.MostPakistanisareSunnis

likeus–morethaneightypercent–butwithin thatweareagain many groups. By farthe biggest group is theBarelvis,whoarenamedaftera nineteenth-centurymadrasainBareilly,which lies in theIndianstateofUttarPradesh.Thenwe have theDeobandi,

named after another famousnineteenth-century madrasainUttarPradesh, this time inthevillageofDeoband.Theyare very conservative andmost of our madrasas areDeobandi. We also have theAhl-e-Hadith (people of theHadith), who are Salafists.This group is more Arab-influenced and even moreconservative than the others.Theyarewhat theWestcalls

fundamentalists. They don’taccept our saints and shrines– many Pakistanis are alsomysticalpeopleandgatheratSufi shrines to dance andworship. Each of thesestrands has many differentsubgroups.The mufti on Khushal

Street was a member ofTablighi Jamaat, a Deobandigroup that holds ahuge rallyeveryyearat itsheadquarters

in Raiwind, near Lahore,attended by millions ofpeople. Our last dictatorGeneralZiausedtogothere,and in the 1980s, under hisregime,theTablighisbecamevery powerful. Many of theimamsappointedtopreachinarmybarrackswereTablighisand army officers wouldoften take leave and go onpreachingtoursforthegroup.One night, after the mufti

had failed to persuade ourlandlady to cancel our lease,he gathered some of theinfluential people and eldersof our mohalla into adelegation and turned up atour door. There were sevenpeople – some other seniorTablighis,amosquekeeper,aformer jihadi and ashopkeeper – and they filledoursmallhouse.My father seemed worried

and shooed us into the otherroom, but the house wassmallsowecouldheareveryword. ‘I am representing theUlema and Tablighian andTaliban,’ MullahGhulamullah said, referringto not just one but twoorganisations of Muslimscholars to give himselfgravitas. ‘I am representinggood Muslims and we allthink your girls’ school is

haramandablasphemy.Youshould close it. Girls shouldnot be going to school,’ hecontinued.‘Agirlissosacredshe should be in purdah, andso private that there is nolady’s name in the Quran asGod doesn’t want her to benamed.’My father could listen no

more. ‘Maryam ismentionedeverywhere in the Quran.Was she not awoman and a

goodwomanatthat?’‘No,’saidthemullah.‘She

isonlytheretoprovethatIsa[Jesus] was the son ofMaryam,notthesonofGod!’‘Thatmay be,’ repliedmy

father.‘ButIampointingoutthat the Quran namesMaryam.’Themufti started to object

but my father had hadenough.Turningtothegroup,he said, ‘When this

gentleman passes me on thestreet,Ilooktohimandgreethimbuthedoesn’tanswer,hejustbowshishead.’The mullah looked down

embarrassedbecausegreetingsomeone properly isimportant in Islam. ‘You runthe haram school,’ he said.‘That’s why I don’t want togreetyou.’Thenoneof theothermen

spokeup.‘I’dheardyouwere

an infidel,’ he said to myfather, ‘but there are Quransinyourroom.’‘Of course there are!’

repliedmy father, astonishedthat his faith would bequestioned.‘IamaMuslim.’‘Let’s get back to the

subject of the school,’ saidthemufti, who could see thediscussion was not going hisway. ‘There are men in thereception area of the school,

and they see the girls enter,andthisisverybad.’‘Ihaveasolution,’saidmy

father. ‘The school hasanother gate. The girls willenterthroughthat.’The mullah clearly wasn’t

happy as he wanted theschool closed altogether. Butthe elders were happy withthis compromise and theyleft.My father suspected this

would not be the end of thematter. What we knew andthey didn’t was that themufti’s own niece attendedtheschoolinsecret.Soafewdayslatermyfathercalledthemufti’s elder brother, thegirl’sfather.‘I am very tired of your

brother,’ he said. ‘What kindofmullahishe?He’sdrivinguscrazy.Canyouhelptogethimoffourbacks?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t helpyou,Ziauddin,’ he replied. ‘Ihavetroubleinmyhometoo.Heliveswithusandhastoldhiswifethatshemustobservepurdah from us and that ourwives must observe purdahfrom him, all in this smallspace. Our wives are likesisterstohimandhisislikeasister to us, but thismadmanhasmade our house a hell. Iam sorry but I can’t help

you.’My father was right to

think thismanwasnotgoingto give up – mullahs hadbecome more powerfulfigures since Zia’s rule andcampaignofIslamisation.In some ways GeneralMusharrafwas very differentfromGeneralZia.Thoughheusuallydressedinuniform,heoccasionally wore Westernsuits and he called himself

chief executive instead ofchief martial lawadministrator. He also keptdogs, which we Muslimsregard as unclean. Instead ofZia’s Islamisation he beganwhat he called ‘enlightenedmoderation’. He opened upour media, allowing newprivate TV channels andfemale newsreaders, as wellas showing dancing ontelevision.Thecelebrationof

Western holidays such asValentine’s Day and NewYear’s Eve was allowed. Heeven sanctioned an annualpop concert on the eve ofIndependence Day, whichwas broadcast to the nation.He did something which ourdemocratic rulers hadn’t,even Benazir, and abolishedthe law that for a woman toproveshewasraped,shehadto produce four male

witnesses. He appointed thefirst woman governor of thestate bank and the firstwomen airline pilots andcoastguards. He evenannounced we would havefemale guards at Jinnah’stombinKarachi.However in our Pashtun

homeland of the North-WestFrontierProvincethingswerevery different. In 2002Musharraf held elections for

‘controlleddemocracy’.Theywere strange elections as themain party leaders NawazSharif and Benazir Bhuttowereinexile.Inourprovincethese elections brought whatwe called a ‘mullahgovernment’ to power. TheMuttahida Majlis e-Amal(MMA)alliancewasagroupof five religious partiesincluding the Jamiat Ulema-e-Islam (JUI), which ran the

madrasas where the Talibanwere trained.People jokinglyreferred to the MMA as theMullahMilitaryAllianceandsaid theygotelectedbecausethey had Musharraf ’ssupport. But some peoplesupported them because thevery religious Pashtuns wereangry at the Americaninvasion of Afghanistan andthe removal of the Talibanfrompowerthere.

Our area had always beenmore conservative than mostoftherestofPakistan.Duringthe Afghan jihad manymadrasashadbeenbuilt,mostof them funded by Saudimoney,andmanyyoungmenhadpassedthroughthemasitwas freeeducation.Thatwasthe start of what my fathercalls the ‘Arabisation’ ofPakistan.Then9/11hadmadethis militancy more

mainstream.SometimeswhenIwalkedalongthemainroadI saw chalked messages onthe sides of buildings.CONTACT US FOR JIHADTRAINING, they would say,listing a phone number tocall. In those days jihadigroups were free to dowhatever they wanted. Youcould see them openlycollecting contributions andrecruiting men. There was

even a headmaster fromShanglawhowouldboastthathis greatest success was tosend tenboys inGrade9 forjihadtraininginKashmir.The MMA government

banned CD and DVD shopsand wanted to create amorality police like theAfghan Taliban had set up.The idea was they would beable to stop a womanaccompanied by a man and

require her to prove that theman was her relative.Thankfully, our supremecourt stopped this. ThenMMA activists launchedattacks on cinemas and toredownbillboardswithpicturesof women or blacked themout with paint. They evensnatched female mannequinsfrom clothing shops. Theyharassed men wearingWestern-style shirts and

trousers instead of thetraditionalshalwarkamizandinsisted women cover theirheads. It was as though theywantedtoremovealltracesofwomankindfrompubliclife.My father’s high school

opened in 2003. That firstyear they had boys and girlstogether, but by 2004 theclimatehadchangedsoitwasunthinkable tohavegirls andboys in the same class. That

changing climate madeGhulamullahbold.Oneoftheschool clerks told my fatherthat the mufti kept cominginto school and demandingwhywegirlswere stillusingthe main entrance. He saidthat one day, when a malememberofstafftookafemaleteacher out to the main roadto get a rickshaw, themaulanaasked,‘Whydidthismanescorthertotheroad,is

heherbrother?’‘No,’ replied theclerk, ‘he

isacolleague.’‘That is wrong!’ said the

maulana.My father told theclerk to

callhimnexttimehesawthemaulana. When the callcame, my father and theIslamic studies teacher wentouttoconfronthim.‘Maulana,youhavedriven

me to the wall!’ my father

said. ‘Whoare you?You arecrazy! You need to go to adoctor.You think I enter theschool and take my clothesoff?Whenyouseeaboyandagirlyouseeascandal.Theyare schoolchildren. I thinkyou should go and see DrHaiderAli!’DrHaiderAliwas awell-

known psychiatrist in ourarea,sotosay,‘ShallwetakeyoutoDrHaiderAli?’meant

‘Areyoumad?’The mufti went quiet. He

tookoffhis turbanandput itin my father’s lap. For us aturban is a public symbol ofchivalryandPashtunness,andforamantolosehisturbanisconsidered a great humili–ation. But then he started upagain. ‘I never said thosethings to your clerk. He islying.’Myfatherhadhadenough.

‘Youhavenobusinesshere,’heshouted.‘Goaway!’The mufti had failed to

close our school but hisinterferencewasanindicationof how our country waschanging. My father wasworried. He and his fellowactivistswereholdingendlessmeetings. These were nolonger just about stoppingpeoplecuttingdowntreesbutwere also about education

anddemocracy.In 2004, after resisting

pressurefromWashingtonformore than two and a halfyears,GeneralMusharrafsentthe army into the FederallyAdministered Tribal Areas(FATA), seven agencies thatlie along the border withAfghanistan, where thegovernmenthadlittlecontrol.The Americans claimed thatal-Qaeda militants who had

fled fromAfghanistanduringthe US bombing were usingthe areas as a safe haven,taking advantage of ourPashtun hospitality. Fromthere they were runningtrainingcampsand launchingraids across the border onNATOtroops.ForusinSwatthiswas very close to home.One of the agencies, Bajaur,is next to Swat. The peoplewholivein theFATAareall

from Pashtun tribes like usYousafzai, and live on bothsides of the border withAfghanistan.The tribal agencies were

created in British times as abuffer zone betweenAfghanistan and what wasthen India, and they are stillrun in the same way,administered by tribal chiefsor elders known as maliks.Unfortunately, the maliks

makelittledifference.Intruththe tribal areas are notgoverned at all. They areforgotten places of harshrocky valleys where peoplescrapebyonsmuggling.(Theaverageannualincomeisjust$250 – half the Pakistaniaverage.)Theyhaveveryfewhospitals and schools,particularly for girls, andpolitical parties were notallowed there until recently.

Hardly any women fromthese areas can read. Thepeoplearerenownedfortheirfierceness and independence,asyoucanseeifyoureadanyoftheoldBritishaccounts.Ourarmyhadneverbefore

gone into the FATA. Insteadthey had maintained indirectcontrol in the same way theBritish had, relying on thePashtun-recruited FrontierCorps rather than regular

soldiers. Sending in theregular army was a toughdecision. Not only did ourarmyandISIhave long linkswith some of the militants,but it also meant our troopswould be fighting their ownPashtun brothers. The firsttribal area that the armyentered was SouthWaziristan, in March 2004.Predictably the local peoplesaw it as an attack on their

wayoflife.Allthementherecarry weapons and hundredsof soldiers were killed whenthelocalsrevolted.The army was in shock.

Some men refused to fight,not wishing to battle theirown people. They retreatedafter just twelve days andreached what they called a‘negotiated peace settlement’with local militant leaderslike Nek Mohammad. This

involved the army bribingthem to halt all attacks andkeepoutforeignfighters.Themilitantssimplyusedthecashto buy more weapons andresumed their activities. Afew months later came thefirst attack on Pakistan by aUSdrone.On 17 June 2004 an

unmannedPredatordroppedaHellfire missile on NekMohammad in South

Waziristan apparently whilehewasgivinganinterviewbysatellite phone. He and themen around him were killedinstantly.Localpeoplehadnoideawhat itwas–back thenwe did not know that theAmericans could do such athing. Whatever you thoughtabout Nek Mohammad, wewere not at war with theAmericansandwere shockedthat they would launch

attacks from the sky on oursoil. Across the tribal areaspeoplewere angry andmanyjoined militant groups orformed lashkars, localmilitias.Then there were more

attacks. The Americans saidthat bin Laden’s deputyAyman al-Zawahiri washiding in Bajaur and hadtakenawifethere.InJanuary2006 a drone supposedly

targeting him landed on avillage called Damadola,destroying three houses andkilling eighteen people. TheAmericans said he had beentipped off and escaped. Thatsame year, on 30 October,another US Predator hit amadrasa on a hill near themain town of Khar, killingeighty-two people, many ofthem young boys. TheAmericanssaid itwas theal-

Qaeda training camp whichhad featured in the group’svideos and that the hill wasriddled with tunnels and gunemplacements. Within a fewhours of the attack, aninfluential local cleric calledFaqir Mohammad, who hadrun the madrasa, announcedthat the deaths would beavengedbysuicidebombingsagainstPakistanisoldiers.My father and his friends

were worried and calledtogether local elders andleaders for a peaceconference. It was a bitterlycoldnightinJanuarybut150peoplegathered.‘It’s coming here,’ my

father warned. ‘The fire isreaching thevalley.Let’sputout the flames of militancybeforetheyreachhere.’But no one would listen.

Some people even laughed,

including a local politicalleadersittinginthefrontrow.‘MrKhan,’my father said

to him, ‘you know whathappened to the people ofAfghanistan. They are nowrefugees and they’re livingwith us. The same ishappening with Bajaur. Thesamewillhappentous,markmywords, andwewill haveno shelter, no place tomigrateto.’

But the expression on theman’s face was mocking.‘Look at this man,’ heseemed to be saying of myfather. ‘I am a khan. Whowould dare kick me out ofthisarea?’My father came home

frustrated. ‘I have a school,butIamneitherakhannorapolitical leader. I have noplatform,’hesaid.‘Iamonlyonesmallman.’

8

TheAutumnoftheEarthquake

ONEFINEOCTOBERdaywhenI was still in primary schoolour desks started to tremble

and shake. Our classes werestillmixedatthatage,andallthe boys and girls yelled,‘Earthquake!’Weranoutsideaswehadbeen taught todo.All the children gatheredaroundourteachersaschicksswarmtoamotherhen.Swat lies on a geological

fault line and we often hadearthquakes, but this feltdifferent. All the buildingsaround us seemed to be

shaking and the rumblingdidn’t stop.Most of us werecrying and our teacherswerepraying. Miss Rubi, one ofmyfavouriteteachers,toldusto stop crying and to staycalm;itwouldsoonbeover.Once the shaking had

stopped we were all senthome.We found our mothersitting in a chair holding theQuran, reciting verses overand over. Whenever there is

troublepeopleprayalot.Shewas relieved to see us andhugged us, tears streamingdown her face. But theaftershocks kept coming allafternoon so we remainedveryscared.Wehadmovedagain–we

would move seven times bythe time Iwas thirteen–andwere living in an apartmentbuilding. It was high forMingora, two storeys with a

big water tank on the roof.My mother was terrified itwould collapse on top of ussowekeptgoingoutside.Myfather did not get home tilllate that evening as he hadbeen busy checking all theotherschoolbuildings.Whennightfallcame,there

were still tremors and mymother was in a state ofpanic. Every time we felt atremorwe thought itwas the

Day of Judgement. ‘We willbe buried in our beds!’ shecried. She insisted we leave,butmy father was exhaustedand weMuslims believe ourfate iswrittenbyGod.Soheput me and my brothersKhushalandAtal, thenjustababy,tobed.‘Go wherever you want,’

he told my mother andcousin. ‘I amstayinghere. Ifyou believe in God you will

stayhere.’Ithinkwhenthereisagreatdisasterorourlivesare in danger we rememberour sins andwonderhowwewill meet God and whetherwewillbeforgiven.ButGodhasalsogivenusthepowertoforget, so that when thetragedyisoverwecarryonasnormal. I trusted in myfather’s faith, but I alsosharedmymother’sveryrealconcerns.

That earthquake of 8October2005turnedouttobeoneoftheworstinhistory.Itwas 7.6 on theRichter Scaleand was felt as far away asKabulandDelhi.OurtownofMingorawaslargelyspared–justafewbuildingscollapsed– but neighbouring Kashmirand the northern areas ofPakistan were devastated.Even in Islamabad buildingscollapsed.

It took a while for us torealisehowbaditwas.Whenthe TV news began to showthe devastation we saw thatentire villages had beenturned to dust. Landslidesblocked access to the worstaffected parts and all thephonesandpower linesweredown. The earthquake hadaffected 30,000 squarekilometres, an area as big asthe American state of

Connecticut. The numberswereunbelievable.Morethan73,000peoplehadbeenkilledand128,000injured,manyofthem permanently disabled.Around three and a halfmillion people had lost theirhomes.Roads,bridges,waterand power had all gone.Places we had visited likeBalakot were almostcompletely destroyed. Manyof those killed were children

who like me had been atschool that morning. Some6,400 schoolswere turned torubble and 18,000 childrenlosttheirlives.We remembered how

scared we had been thatmorning and started raisingmoney at school. Everyonebroughtwhat theycould.Myfather went to everybody heknew,askingfordonationsoffood, clothing and money,

and I helped my mothercollect blankets. My fatherraised money from the SwatAssociation of PrivateSchoolsandtheGlobalPeaceCouncil to add to what wehad collected at school. Thetotal came to more than onemillion rupees. A publishingcompany in Lahore whichsuppliedourschoolbookssentfive trucks of food and otheressentials.

We were terribly worriedabout our family in Shangla,jammed between thosenarrowmountains.Finallywegot news from a cousin. Inmy father’s small villageeight people had been killedand many homes destroyed.Oneofthemwasthehouseofthe local cleric, MaulanaKhadim, which fell downcrushing his four beautifuldaughters. I wanted to go to

Shangla with my father andthe trucks but he told me itwouldbetoodangerous.When he returned a few

days later he was ashen. Hetoldusthatthelastpartofthejourney had been verydifficult. Much of the roadhad collapsed into the riverand largebouldershad fallenand blocked the way. Ourfamily and friends said theyhadthoughtitwastheendof

theworld.Theydescribedtheroar of rocks sliding downhills and everyone runningout of their houses recitingthe Quran, the screams asroofs crashed down and thehowls of the buffaloes andgoats. As the tremorscontinued they had spent theentire day outdoors and thenthe night too, huddlingtogether for warmth, eventhough itwasbitterlycold in

themountains.To start with the only

rescue workers who camewere a few from a locallybasedforeignaidagencyandvolunteers from the Tehrike-Nifaz-e-Sharia-e-Mohammadi(TNSM)orMovementfortheEnforcementof IslamicLaw,the group founded by SufiMohammad that had sentmen to fight in Afghanistan.SufiMohammadhadbeen in

jail since 2002 whenMusharraf arrested a numberof militant leaders afterAmerican pressure, but hisorganisation still continuedandwasbeingrunbyhisson-in-law Maulana Fazlullah. Itwashardfortheauthoritiestoreach places like Shanglabecausemostoftheroadsandbridges had gone and localgovernment had been wipedoutthroughouttheregion.We

saw an official from theUnited Nations say ontelevision that it was the‘worst logistical nightmarethattheUNhadeverfaced’.GeneralMusharrafcalledit

a ‘test of the nation’ andannounced that the army hadset up Operation Lifeline –our army likes giving theiroperationsnames.Therewerelotsofpicturesonthenewsofarmy helicopters laden with

supplies and tents, but inmanyofthesmallvalleysthehelicopterscouldnotlandandthe aid packages theydropped often rolled downslopes into rivers. In someplaces, when the helicoptersflew in the locals all rushedunderneath them, whichmeant they could not dropsuppliessafely.But some aid did get in.

TheAmericanswerequickas

they had thousands of troopsand hundreds of helicoptersin Afghanistan so couldeasily fly in supplies andshowtheywerehelpingusinour hour of need, thoughsome crews covered theAmerican markings on theirhelicopters, fearing attack.Formanyintheremoteareasitwas the first time theyhadseenaforeigner.Most of the volunteers

came from Islamic charitiesor organisations but some ofthesewere fronts formilitantgroups. The most visible ofall was Jamaat-ul-Dawa(JuD), the welfare wing ofLashkare-Taiba. LeT hadcloselinkstotheISIandwasset up to liberate Kashmir,which we believe should bepart of Pakistan not India asits population is mostlyMuslim.TheleaderofLeTis

afieryprofessorfromLahorecalled Hafiz Saeed, who isoftenon televisioncallingonpeople to attack India.Whenthe earthquake happened andour government did little tohelp,JuDsetupreliefcampspatrolled by men withKalashnikovs and walkie-talkies.Everyone knew thesemen belonged to LeT, andsoon their black and whitebanners with crossed swords

wereflyingeverywhereinthemountainsandvalleys.Inthetown of Muzaffarabad inAzad Kashmir the JuD evenset up a large field hospitalwith X-ray machines, anoperating theatre, a well-stocked pharmacy and adental department. Doctorsand surgeons offered theirservicesalongwiththousandsofyoungvolunteers.Earthquakevictimspraised

theactivistswhohadtrudgedup and down mountains andthrough shattered valleyscarrying medical help toremote regions no one elsehad bothered with. Theyhelped clear and rebuilddestroyed villages as well asleading prayers and buryingbodies. Even today, whenmost of the foreign aidagencieshavegone,shatteredbuildings still line the

roadside and people are stillwaiting for compensationfromthegovernmenttobuildnewhouses, the JuDbannersand helpers are still present.Mycousinwhowasstudyingin the UK said they raisedlotsofmoneyfromPakistanisliving there.People latersaidthat some of thismoney hadbeen diverted to finance aplottobombplanestravellingfromBritaintotheUS.

With such a large numberof people killed, there weremany children orphaned –11,000ofthem.Inourcultureorphans are usually taken inby the extended family, butthe earthquake was so badthat entire families had beenwiped out or lost everythingsowereinnopositiontotakein children. The governmentpromised they would all belooked after by the state, but

that felt as empty as mostgovernment promises. Myfatherheard thatmanyof theboys were taken in by theJuD and housed in theirmadrasas. In Pakistan,madrasas are a kind ofwelfare system as they givefree food and lodging, buttheirteachingdoesnotfollowa normal curriculum. Theboys learn the Quran byheart, rockingback and forth

astheyrecite.Theylearnthatthere is no such thing asscience or literature, thatdinosaurs never existed andthat man never went to themoon.The whole nation was in

shockforalongtimeaftertheearthquake. Already sounlucky with our politiciansand military dictators, now,ontopofeverythingelse,wehad to deal with a natural

disaster. Mullahs from theTNSM preached that theearthquake was a warningfromGod.Ifwedidnotmendour ways and introduceshariat or Islamic law, theyshouted in their thunderingvoices, more severepunishmentwouldcome.

PARTTWO

TheValleyofDeath

RababmangiawakhtdeteershoDakalikhwataTalibaanraaghalidena

FarewellMusic!Evenyoursweetesttunesarebestkeptsilent

TheTalibanontheedgeofthevillagehavestilledalllips

9

RadioMullah

IWAS TEN when the Talibancame to our valley. Monibaand I had been reading theTwilightbooksandlongedto

be vampires. It seemed to usthattheTalibanarrivedinthenightjustlikevampires.Theyappeared in groups, armedwith knives andKalashnikovs, and firstemerged in Upper Swat, inthehillyareasofMatta.Theydidn’tcallthemselvesTalibanto start with and didn’t lookliketheAfghanTalibanwe’dseen in pictures with theirturbans and black-rimmed

eyes.These were strange-

looking men with longstraggly hair and beards andcamouflage vests over theirshalwar kamiz, which theywore with the trousers wellabove the ankle. They hadjoggingshoesorcheapplasticsandals on their feet, andsometimes stockings overtheir heads with holes fortheireyes,andtheyblewtheir

noses dirtily into the ends oftheir turbans. They woreblack badges which saidSHARIAT YA SHAHADAT –SHARIALAWORMARTYRDOM–andsometimesblackturbans,so people called them TorPatki or the Black-TurbanedBrigade.Theylookedsodarkand dirty that my father’sfriend described them as‘peopledeprivedofbathsandbarbers’.

Their leader was MaulanaFazlullah, a 28-year-old whoused to operate the pulleychair tocross theSwatRiverand whose right leg draggedbecause of childhood polio.HehadstudiedinthemadrasaofMaulanaSufiMohammad,the founder of the TNSM,and married his daughter.When Sufi Mohammad wasimprisoned in a round-up ofmilitant leaders in 2002,

Fazlullah had taken over themovement’s leadership. Itwas shortly before theearthquake thatFazlullahhadappeared in Imam Deri, asmallvillagejustafewmilesoutsideMingoraon theotherside of the Swat River, andsetuphisillegalradiostation.In our valley we received

mostofourinformationfromthe radio because so manyhad no TV or are illiterate.

Soon everyone seemed to betalking about the radiostation. It became known asMullah FM and Fazlullah asthe Radio Mullah. Itbroadcast every night fromeight to ten and again in themorningfromseventonine.In the beginning Fazlullah

wasverywise.Heintroducedhimself as an IslamicreformerandaninterpreteroftheQuran.Mymotherisvery

devout, and to start with sheliked Fazlullah. He used hisstationtoencouragepeopletoadopt good habits andabandon practices he saidwerebad.Hesaidmenshouldkeep theirbeardsbutgiveupsmoking and using thetobacco they liked to chew.He said people should stopusing heroin, and chars,which is our word forhashish. He told people the

correct way to do theirablutionsforprayers–whichbody part to wash first. Heeven told people how theyshould wash their privateparts.Sometimes his voice was

reasonable, like when adultsare trying topersuadeyou todosomethingyoudon’twantto, and sometimes it wasscary and full of fire. Oftenhewouldweepashespokeof

hisloveforIslam.Usuallyhespoke for a while, then hisdeputyShahDourancameonair, a man who used to sellsnacks from a tricycle in thebazaar. They warned peopleto stop listening to music,watching movies anddancing.Sinfulactslikethesehad caused the earthquake,Fazlullah thundered, and ifpeopledidn’tstoptheywouldagaininvitethewrathofGod.

Mullahs often misinterpretthe Quran and Hadith whenthey teach them in ourcountry as few peopleunderstand the originalArabic. Fazlullah exploitedthisignorance.‘Is he right,Aba?’ I asked

myfather.Irememberedhowfrightening the earthquakehadbeen.‘No,Jani,’ he replied. ‘He

isjustfoolingpeople.’

My father said the radiostation was the talk of thestaffroom. By then ourschools had about seventyteachers, around forty menand thirty women. Some ofthe teachers were anti-Fazlullahbutmanysupportedhim. People thought that hewas agood interpreterof theHoly Quran and admired hischarisma.They likedhis talkof bringing back Islamic law

as everyone was frustratedwith the Pakistani justicesystem, which had replacedours when we were mergedinto the country. Cases suchas land disputes, common inour area, which used to beresolved quickly now tookten years to come to court.Everyone wanted to see theback of the corruptgovernmentofficialssentintothevalley.Itwasalmostasif

they thoughtFazlullahwouldrecreateouroldprincelystatefromthetimeofthewali.Within six months people

weregettingridoftheirTVs,DVDs and CDs. Fazlullah’smencollectedthemintohugeheaps on the streets and setthem on fire, creating cloudsof thick black smoke thatreached high into the sky.Hundreds of CD and DVDshops closed voluntarily and

their owners were paidcompensationbytheTaliban.My brothers and I wereworried aswe lovedourTV,but my father reassured usthat we were not getting ridofit.Tobesafewemoveditinto a cupboard andwatchedit with the volume low. TheTalibanwereknownto listenat people’s doors then forcetheirwayin,taketheTVsandsmash them to pieces on the

street. Fazlullah hated theBollywood movies we soloved,whichhedenouncedasun-Islamic. Only the radiowas allowed, and all musicexcept forTalibansongswasdeclaredharam.Onedaymyfatherwentto

visit a friend in hospital andfound lots of patientslistening to cassettes ofFazlullah’s sermons. ‘Youmust meet Maulana

Fazlullah,’ people told him.‘He’sagreatscholar’.‘He’s actually a high-

school dropout whose realname isn’t even Fazlullah,’my father retorted, but theywouldn’t listen. My fatherbecame depressed becausepeoplehadbeguntoembraceFazlullah’s words and hisreligious romanticism. ‘It’sridiculous,’ my father wouldsay, ‘that this so-called

scholar is spreadingignorance.’Fazlullah was particularly

popular in remote areaswhere people rememberedhow TNSM volunteers hadhelped during the earthquakewhen the government wasnowheretobeseen.Onsomemosquestheysetupspeakersconnected to radios so hisbroadcastscouldbeheardbyeveryoneinthevillageandin

the fields. The most popularpart of his show came everyeveningwhen hewould readoutpeople’snames.He’dsay,‘Mr So-and-so was smokingchars but has stoppedbecauseit’ssinful,’or,‘MrXhas kept his beard and Icongratulate him,’ or, ‘Mr Yvoluntarily closed down hisCDshop.’He told them theywould have their reward inthe hereafter. People liked to

heartheirnamesontheradio;theyalso liked tohearwhichof their neighbours weresinful so they could gossip:‘Have you heard about So-and-so?’Mullah FM made jokes

about the army. Fazlullahdenounced Pakistanigovernment officials as‘infidels’ and said they wereopposed tobringing insharialaw. He said that if they did

not implement it, his menwould ‘enforce it and tearthem to pieces’. One of hisfavourite subjects was theinjusticeofthefeudalsystemof the khans. Poor peoplewere happy to see the khansgetting their comeuppance.TheysawFazlullahasakindof Robin Hood and believedthatwhenFazlullahtookoverhewouldgivethekhans’landto the poor. Some of the

khans fled. My father wasagainst‘khanism’buthesaidtheTalibanwereworse.My father’s friend

Hidayatullah had become agovernment official inPeshawar and warned us,‘This is how these militantswork. They want to win thehearts and minds of thepeople so they first seewhatthe local problems are andtarget those responsible, and

thatway theyget thesupportof the silent majority. That’swhat they did in Waziristanwhen they went afterkidnappersandbandits.After,when they get power, theybehavelikethecriminalstheyoncehunteddown.’Fazlullah’s broadcasts

were often aimed at women.He must have known thatmanyof ourmenwere awayfrom home, working in coal

mines in the south or onbuilding sites in the Gulf.Sometimes he would say,‘Men, go outside now. I amtalking to the women.’ Thenhe’d say, ‘Women aremeantto fulfil their responsibilitiesin the home. Only inemergencies can they gooutside, but then they mustweartheveil.’Sometimeshismenwould display the fancyclothesthattheysaidtheyhad

takenfrom‘decadentwomen’toshamethem.My friends at school said

their mothers listened to theRadio Mullah although ourheadmistress MadamMaryam told us not to. Athome we only had mygrandfather’s old radio,which was broken, but mymother’s friends all listenedandtoldherwhattheyheard.They praised Fazlullah and

talked of his long hair, theway he rode a horse andbehaved like the Prophet.Women would tell him theirdreamsandhewouldprayforthem. My mother enjoyedthese stories, but my fatherwashorrified.I was confused by

Fazlullah’s words. In theHoly Quran it is not writtenthat men should go outsideand women should work all

day in the home. In ourIslamicstudiesclassatschoolwe used to write essaysentitled ‘How the ProphetLived’. We learned that thefirstwifeoftheProphetwasabusinesswoman calledKhadijah. She was forty,fifteen years older than him,and she had been marriedbefore, yet he still marriedher. I also knew fromwatchingmyownmotherthat

Pashtun women are verypowerful and strong. Hermother,mygrandmother,hadlookedafteralleightchildrenalone after my grandfatherhadanaccidentandbrokehispelvisandcouldnotleavehisbedforeightyears.Amangoesouttowork,he

earnsawage,hecomesbackhome, he eats, he sleeps.That’swhathedoes.Ourmenthink earning money and

ordering around others iswherepowerlies.Theydon’tthinkpowerisinthehandsofthewomanwhotakescareofeveryone all day long, andgives birth to their children.In our house my mothermanaged everything becausemyfatherwassobusy.Itwasmymother whowould wakeupearly in themorning, ironour school clothes,make ourbreakfastandteachushowto

behave. It was my motherwhowouldgo to themarket,shop for us and cook. Allthosethingsshedid.In the first year of the

TalibanIhadtwooperations,one to take outmy appendixand the other to remove mytonsils. Khushal had hisappendix out too. It was mymother who took us tohospital; my father justvisited us and brought ice

cream. Yet my mother stillbelieved itwaswritten in theQuranthatwomenshouldnotgooutandwomenshouldnottalk to men other thanrelatives they cannot marry.My father would say to her,‘Pekai, purdah is not only inthe veil, purdah is in theheart.’Lots of women were so

movedbywhatFazlullahsaidthat they gave him gold and

money, particularly in poorvillages or householdswherethe husbands were workingabroad. Tables were set upfor the women to hand overtheir wedding bangles andnecklacesandwomenqueueduptodosoorsenttheirsons.Somegave their life savings,believing that this wouldmake God happy. He beganbuilding a vast red-brickheadquarters in Imam Deri

complete with a madrasa, amosqueandwalls and leveesto protect it from the SwatRiver.Nooneknewwherehegot the cement and iron barsfrom but the workforce waslocal. Every village had totake turns sending their menforadaytohelpbuildit.OnedayoneofourUrduteachers,NawabAli,toldmyfather,‘Iwon’t be coming to schooltomorrow.’ When my father

asked why, he explained itwashisvillage’sturntoworkonFazlullah’sbuildings.‘Your prime responsibility

is to teach the students,’repliedmyfather.‘No,Ihavetodothis,’said

NawabAli.My father came home

fuming. ‘If peoplevolunteered in the samewayto construct schools or roadsor even clear the river of

plastic wrappers, by God,Pakistan would become aparadise within a year,’ hesaid. ‘The only charity theyknow is to give to mosqueandmadrasa.’Afewweekslaterthesame

teachertoldhimthathecouldno longer teach girls as ‘themaulanadoesn’tlikeit’.My father tried to change

hismind.‘Iagreethatfemaleteachers should educate

girls,’ he said. ‘But first weneed to educate our girls sotheycanbecometeachers!’One day Sufi Mohammadproclaimed from jail thatthere should be no educationfor women even at girls’madrasas. ‘If someone canshow any example in historywhere Islam allows a femalemadrasa, they can come andpiss on my beard,’ he said.Then the Radio Mullah

turned his attention toschools. He began speakingagainst school administratorsand congratulating girls byname who left school. ‘MissSo-and-so has stopped goingto school and will go toheaven,’ he’d say, or, ‘MissX of Y village has stoppededucation at Class 5. Icongratulate her.’ Girls likeme who still went to schoolhecalledbuffaloesandsheep.

My friends and I couldn’tunderstand why it was sowrong.‘Whydon’ttheywantgirlstogotoschool?’Iaskedmyfather.‘They are scared of the

pen,’hereplied.Thenanotherteacheratour

school, a maths teacher withlong hair, also refused toteach girls. My father firedhim, but some other teacherswere worried and sent a

delegation to his office. ‘Sir,don’t do this,’ they pleaded.‘Thesearebaddays.Lethimstay and we will cover forhim.’Everydayitseemedanew

edict came. Fazlullah closedbeauty parlours and bannedshavingsotherewasnoworkfor barbers. My father, whoonly has a moustache,insistedhewouldnotgrowabeard for the Taliban. The

Talibantoldwomennottogoto the bazaar. I didn’t mindnot going to the CheenaBazaar. I didn’t enjoyshopping, unlike my mother,who liked beautiful clotheseven though we didn’t havemuch money. My motheralways told me, ‘Hide yourface – people are looking atyou.’I would reply, ‘It doesn’t

matter; I’m also looking at

them,’andshe’dgetsocross.Mymotherandherfriends

were upset about not beingable to go shopping,particularlyinthedaysbeforethe Eid holidays, when webeautify ourselves and go tothestallslitupbyfairylightsthat sell bangles and henna.All of that stopped. Thewomenwouldnotbeattackedif they went to the markets,but the Taliban would shout

at them and threaten themuntil they stayed at home.One Talib could intimidate awhole village. We childrenwere cross too. Normallythere are new film releasesfortheholidays,butFazlullahhad closed the DVD shops.Around this time mymotheralso got tired of Fazlullah,especially when he began topreach against education andinsist that thosewhowent to

schoolwouldalsogotohell.Next Fazlullah began

holding a shura, a kind oflocal court. People liked thisas justicewas speedy, unlikeinPakistanicourts,whereyoucouldwait years and have topaybribestobeheard.Peoplebegangoing toFazlullahandhismentoresolvegrievancesaboutanythingfrombusinessmatters to personal feuds. ‘Ihada thirty-year-oldproblem

and it’s been resolved inonego,’ oneman toldmy father.The punishments decreed byFazlullah’s shura includedpublic whippings, which wehadneverseenbefore.Oneofmy father’s friends told himhe had seen three menpublicly flogged after theshura had found them guiltyof involvement in theabduction of two women. Astage was set up near

Fazlullah’s centre, and aftergoingtohearhimgiveFridayprayers, hundreds of peoplegathered to watch thefloggings, shouting ‘Allahuakbar! ’ – ‘God is great!’with each lash. SometimesFazlullah appeared gallopinginonablackhorse.His men stopped health

workers giving polio drops,saying the vaccinations werean American plot to make

Muslim women infertile sothatthepeopleofSwatwoulddie out. ‘To cure a diseasebefore its onset is not inaccordance with sharia law,’said Fazlullah on the radio.‘You will not find a singlechild to drink a drop of thevaccineanywhereinSwat.’Fazlullah’s men patrolled

the streets looking foroffenders against his decreesjust like theTalibanmorality

policewehadheardabout inAfghanistan. They set upvolunteer trafficpolicecalledFalcon Commandos, whodrovethroughthestreetswithmachinegunsmountedontopoftheirpick-uptrucks.Some people were happy.

One day my father ran intohisbankmanager.‘Onegoodthing Fazlullah is doing isbanningladiesandgirlsfromgoing to the Cheena Bazaar,

which saves usmenmoney,’he said. Few spoke out. Myfather complained that mostpeople were like our localbarber, who one daygrumbledtomyfatherthathehadonlyeighty rupees inhistill, less than a tenth ofwhathis takings used to be. Justthedaybeforethebarberhadtold a journalist that theTalibanweregoodMuslims.AfterMullahFMhadbeen

on air for about a year,Fazlullah became moreaggressive. His brotherMaulana Liaquat, along withthreeofLiaquat’s sons,wereamong those killed in anAmericandroneattackonthemadrasa inBajaur at the endof October 2006. Eightypeople were killed includingboys as young as twelve,some of whom had comefrom Swat. We were all

horrified by the attack andpeople swore revenge. Tendays later a suicide bomberblew himself up in the armybarracks at Dargai, on thewayfromIslamabadtoSwat,andkilledforty-twoPakistanisoldiers.At that time suicidebombings were rare inPakistan – there were six intotalthatyear–anditwasthebiggest attack that had everbeencarriedoutbyPakistani

militants.AtEidweusuallysacrifice

animals like goats or sheep.But Fazlullah said, ‘On thisEid two-legged animals willbe sacrificed.’ We soon sawwhat he meant. His menbegan killing khans andpoliticalactivistsfromsecularand nationalist parties,especially the AwamiNational Party (ANP). InJanuary2007aclosefriendof

one of my father’s friendswas kidnapped in his villageby eighty masked gunmen.His name was Malak BakhtBaidar. He was from awealthy khan family and thelocal vice president of theANP. His body was founddumped in his family’sancestral graveyard. His legsandarmshadallbeenbroken.Itwasthefirsttargetedkillingin Swat, and people said it

was because he had helpedthe army find Talibanhideouts.The authorities turned a

blind eye. Our provincialgovernmentwasstillmadeupof mullah parties whowouldn’t criticise anyonewho claimed to be fightingforIslam.AtfirstwethoughtweweresafeinMingora,thebiggest town in Swat. ButFazlullah’sheadquarterswere

just a few miles away, andeventhoughtheTalibanwerenotnearourhouse theywerein the markets, in the streetsandthehills.Dangerbegantocreepcloser.DuringEidwewenttoour

familyvillageasusual.Iwasinmycousin’scar,andaswedrove through a river wherethe road had been washedaway we had to stop at aTaliban checkpoint. I was in

thebackwithmymother.Mycousin quickly gave us hismusiccassettestohideinourpurses. The Taliban weredressed in black and carriedKalashnikovs. They told us,‘Sisters, you are bringingshame. You must wearburqas.’When we arrived back at

school after Eid, we saw aletter taped to the gate. ‘Sir,theschoolyouare running is

Western and infidel,’ it said.‘You teach girls and have auniform that is un-Islamic.Stop this or you will be introubleandyourchildrenwillweepandcryforyou.’Itwassigned,‘FedayeenofIslam’.My father decided to

change the boys’ uniformfrom shirt and trousers toshalwar kamiz, baggypyjama-like trousers and along shirt. Ours remained a

royal-blue shalwar kamizwith a white dupatta, orheadscarf, and we wereadvised to keep our headscoveredcominginandoutofschool.His friend Hidayatullah

told him to stand firm.‘Ziauddin, you havecharisma; you can speak upand organise against them,’he said. ‘Life isn’t just abouttaking in oxygen and giving

out carbon dioxide. You canstay there acceptingeverything from the Talibanor you can make a standagainstthem.’My father told us what

Hidayatullah had said. Hethen wrote a letter to theDaily Azadi, our localnewspaper.‘TotheFedayeenof Islam [or Islamicsacrificers], this is not theright way to implement

Islam,’ he wrote. ‘Pleasedon’t harm my childrenbecause theGod you believein is the sameGod theyprayto every day. You can takemy life but please don’t killmy schoolchildren.’ Whenmyfathersawthenewspaperhe was very unhappy. Theletter had been buried on aninsidepageandtheeditorhadpublished his name and theaddress of the school, which

my father had not expectedhimtodo.But lotsofpeoplecalled to congratulate him.‘Youhave put the first stonein standingwater,’ they said.‘Now we will have thecouragetospeak.’

10

Toffees,TennisBallsandtheBuddhasof

Swat

FIRST THE TALIBAN took ourmusic, then our Buddhas,

then our history. One of ourfavouritethingswasgoingonschool trips. We were luckytoliveinaparadiselikeSwatwithsomanybeautifulplacestovisit–waterfalls,lakes,theski resort, the wali’s palace,theBuddha statues, the tombofAkhundofSwat.Alltheseplaces told our special story.Wewouldtalkaboutthetripsfor weeks beforehand, then,when the day finally came,

we dressed up in our bestclothes and piled into busesalong with pots of chickenandriceforapicnic.Someofus had cameras and tookphotographs. At the end ofthe day my father wouldmake us all take turnsstanding on a rock and tellstories about what we hadseen. When Fazlullah camethere were no more schooltrips.Girlswerenotsupposed

tobeseenoutside.The Taliban destroyed the

Buddhist statues and stupaswhere we played, which hadbeen there for thousands ofyears andwere a part of ourhistory from the time of theKushan kings.They believedany statue or painting washaram, sinful and thereforeprohibited. One black daytheyevendynamitedthefaceof the Jehanabad Buddha,

which was carved into ahillside just half an hour’sdrive from Mingora andtoweredtwenty-threefeetintothesky.Archaeologistssayitwas almost as important asthe Buddhas of Bamiyan,which the Afghan Talibanblewup.It took them two goes to

destroyit.Thefirsttimetheydrilled holes in the rock andfilled them with dynamite,

but that didn’t work. A fewweeks later, on 8 October2007, they tried again. Thistime they obliterated theBuddha’s face, which hadwatchedoverthevalleysincethe seventh century. TheTalibanbecametheenemyoffine arts, culture and ourhistory. The Swat museummoveditscollectionawayforsafekeeing. They destroyedeverything old and brought

nothing new. The Talibantook over the EmeraldMountain with its mine andbegan selling the beautifulstones to buy their uglyweapons. They took moneyfromthepeoplewhochoppeddown our precious trees fortimber and then demandedmoremoneytolettheirtruckspass.Their radio coverage

spread across the valley and

neighbouring districts.Though we still had ourtelevision they had switchedoff the cable channels.MonibaandIcouldnolongerwatch our favouriteBollywood shows likeShararatorMakingMischief.It seemed like the Talibandidn’twantustodoanything.Theyevenbannedoneofourfavourite board games calledCarrom in which we flick

counters across a woodenboard. We heard stories thatthe Taliban would hearchildren laughing and burstinto the room and smash theboards. We felt like theTaliban saw us as little dollsto control, telling us what todo and how to dress. Ithought if God wanted us tobelikethatHewouldn’thavemadeusalldifferent.One day we found our

teacher Miss Hammeda infloods of tears. Her husbandwasapoliceman in thesmalltown of Matta, andFazlullah’s men had stormedin and some police officershadbeenkilled,includingherhusband. It was the firstTaliban attack on the policein our valley. Soon they hadtakenovermanyvillages.Theblack and white flags ofFazlullah’s TNSM started

appearing on police stations.The militants would entervillageswithmegaphonesandthe police would flee. In ashort time they had takenover fifty-nine villages andset up their own paralleladministrations. Policemenweresoscaredofbeingkilledthat they took out adverts inthe newspapers to announcetheyhadlefttheforce.All this happened and

nobodydida thing.Itwasasthough everyone was in atrance.Myfathersaidpeoplehad been seduced byFazlullah. Some joined hismen, thinking they wouldhave better lives. My fathertried to counter theirpropagandabutitwashard.‘IhavenomilitantsandnoFMradio,’ he joked. He evendared to enter the RadioMullah’sownvillageoneday

to speak at a school. Hecrossedtheriverinoneofthemetal boxes suspended froma pulley that we use asmakeshift bridges. On thewayhesawsmokesohigh ittouched the clouds, theblackest smoke he’d everseen. At first he thought itmight be a brick factory, butas he approached he sawbearded figures in turbansburningTVsandcomputers.

Intheschoolmyfathertoldthe people, ‘I saw yourvillagersburningthesethings.Don’t you realise the onlyones who will profit are thecompaniesinJapan,whowilljustmakemore?’Someone came up to him

and whispered, ‘Don’t speakany more in this way – it’srisky.’Meanwhile the authorities,

likemostpeople,didnothing.

It felt as though the wholecountry was goingmad. Therest of Pakistan waspreoccupied with somethingelse–theTalibanhadmovedright into the heart of ournation’s capital, Islamabad.Wesawpicturesonthenewsof what people were callingthe Burqa Brigade – youngwomen and girls like us inburqas with sticks, attackingCD and DVD shops in

bazaars in the centre ofIslamabad.The women were from

Jamia Hafsa, the biggestfemale madrasa in ourcountry and part of LalMasjid – theRedMosque inIslamabad. It was built in1965 and got its name fromits red walls. It’s just a fewblocks from parliament andthe headquarters of ISI, andmany government officials

and military used to praythere. The mosque has twomadrasas, one for girls andoneforboys,whichhadbeenused for years to recruit andtrain volunteers to fight inAfghanistan and Kashmir. Itwas run by two brothers,Abdul Aziz and AbdulRashid, and had become acentre for spreadingpropaganda about bin LadenwhomAbdulRashidhadmet

in Kandahar when visitingMullah Omar. The brotherswere famed for their fierysermons and attractedthousands of worshippers,particularly after 9/11.WhenPresidentMusharrafagreedtohelpAmerica in the ‘WaronTerror’,themosquebrokeoffitslonglinkswiththemilitaryand became a centre ofprotest against thegovernment. Abdul Rashid

was even accused of beingpart of a plot to blow upMusharraf ’s convoy inRawalpindi in December2003. Investigators said theexplosives used had beenstored in Lal Masjid. But afew months later he wascleared.When Musharraf sent

troops into the FATA,starting with Waziristan in2004, the brothers led a

campaign declaring themilitary action un-Islamic.They had their own websiteand pirate FM station onwhich they broadcast, justlikeFazlullah.Around the same time as

ourTalibanwereemerginginSwat, the girls of the RedMosque madrasa beganterrorising the streets ofIslamabad. They raidedhouses they claimed were

being used as massagecentres, they kidnappedwomen they said wereprostitutes and closed downDVD shops, again makingbonfires of CDs and DVDs.When it suits the Taliban,women can be vocal andvisible. The head of themadrasa was Umme Hassan,thewife of the elder brother,Abdul Aziz, and she evenboasted that she had trained

many of her girls to becomesuicidebombers.Themosquealso set up its own courts todispense Islamic justice,saying the state had failed.Their militants kidnappedpolicemen and ransackedgovernmentbuildings.TheMusharrafgovernment

didn’t seem to knowwhat todo.Thiswasperhapsbecausethe military had been soattached to the mosque. But

by the middle of 2007 thesituation was so bad thatpeople began to worry themilitants could take over thecapital. It was almostunbelievable – Islamabad isusuallyaquiet,orderlyplace,very different to the rest ofour country. Finally on theeveningof3Julycommandoswith tanks and armouredpersonnelcarrierssurroundedthemosque.Theycutoff the

electricity in the area, and asdusk fell there was a suddenburst of gunfire andexplosions. The troopsblasted holes in the wallsurrounding the mosque andfired mortars at thecompound as helicoptergunships hovered overhead.Overloudspeakerstheycalledforthegirlstosurrender.Many of the militants in

the mosque had fought in

Afghanistan or Kashmir.They barricaded themselvesand the madrasa studentsinside concrete bunkers withsandbags. Worried parentsgatheredoutside,callingtheirdaughters on mobile phones,begging them to come out.Some of the girls refused,saying their teachers hadtaught themthat tobecomeamartyrisagloriousthing.The next evening a small

group of girls emerged.Hidden among them wasAbdul Aziz, disguised in aburqa, along with hisdaughter. But his wife andyounger brother stayedinside, along with manystudents,andthereweredailyexchangesofgunfirebetweenthe militants and the troopsoutside. The militants hadRPGsandpetrolbombsmadefromSpritebottles.Thesiege

went on until late on 9 July,when the commander of thespecial forces outside waskilled by a sniper in one ofthe minarets. The militaryfinally lost patience andstormedthecompound.They called it Operation

Silence although it was veryloud. Never had there beensuch a battle in the heart ofour capital. Commandosfoughtfromroomtoroomfor

hours until they finallytrackedAbdulRashidandhisfollowers to a basementwhere they killed him. Bynightfallon10July,whenthesiegewasfinallyover,arounda hundred people had beenkilled including severalsoldiers and a number ofchildren. The news showedshocking pictures of thewreckage, everywhere bloodand broken glass, and dead

bodies. We all watched inhorror. Some of the studentsat the two madrasas werefrom Swat. How couldsomethinglikethathappeninour capital city and in amosque? A mosque is asacredplaceforus.It was after the Red

Mosque siege that the SwatTaliban changed.On 12 July–which I remember becauseit was my birthday –

Fazlullah gave a radioaddress that was quitedifferenttohispreviousones.He raged against the LalMasjid attack and vowed toavenge the death of AbdulRashid.ThenhedeclaredwaronthePakistanigovernment.This was the start of real

trouble. Fazlullah could nowcarry out his threats andmobilise support for hisTaliban in the name of Lal

Masjid.Afewdayslatertheyattacked an army convoytravelling in the direction ofSwat and killed thirteensoldiers.Thebacklashwasn’tjust in Swat. There was anenormous protest bytribesmen in Bajaur and awave of suicide bombingsacrossthecountry.Therewasone ray of hope – BenazirBhutto was returning. TheAmericanswereworried that

their ally General MusharrafwastoounpopularinPakistanto be effective against theTaliban so they had helpedbroker an unlikely power-sharing deal. The plan wasthat Musharraf would finallytakeoffhisuniformandbeacivilian president, supportedby Benazir’s party. In returnhe would drop corruptioncharges against her and herhusband and agree to hold

elections, which everyoneassumed would result inBenazir becoming primeminister. No Pakistani,including my father, thoughtthis deal would work asMusharraf andBenazir hatedeachother.Benazir had been in exile

sinceIwastwoyearsold,butI had heard so much abouther from my father and wasvery excited that she would

return and we might have awoman leader once more. Itwas because of Benazir thatgirls like me could think ofspeaking out and becomingpoliticians. She was our rolemodel. She symbolised theend of dictatorship and thebeginning of democracy aswellassendingamessageofhope and strength to the restof the world. She was alsoour only political leader to

speak out against themilitants and even offered tohelp American troops huntforbinLadeninsidePakistaniborders.Somepeopleobviouslydid

not like that. On 18 October2007wewereallgluedtotheTV as she walked down thesteps of the plane inKarachiandweptasshesteppedontoPakistani soil after almostnineyearsinexile.Whenshe

paraded on an open-top busthrough the streets, hundredsof thousands of peopleflocked to see her. They hadtravelled from all over thecountry and many of themwerecarrying small children.Some released white doves,oneofwhichflewtoperchonBenazir’s shoulder. Thecrowdsweresolargethatthebusmovedatawalkingpace.We stoppedwatching after a

while as itwas clearly goingtotakehours.Ihadgonetobedwhenjust

beforemidnight themilitantsstruck. Benazir’s bus wasblownupinawaveoforangeflame.My father toldme thenews when I woke up thenext morning. He and hisfriendswereinsuchastateofshock that theyhadnotgoneto bed. Luckily, Benazirsurvived because she had

gone downstairs to anarmouredcompartmenttoresther feet just before theexplosions, but 150 peoplehad been killed. It was thebiggest bomb ever to havegone off in our country.Many of the dead werestudents who had made ahuman chain around the bus.They called themselvesMartyrs for Benazir. Atschoolthatdayeveryonewas

subdued,eventhosewhohadopposed Benazir. We weredevastated but also thankfulthatshehadsurvived.About aweek later the armycametoSwat,makinglotsofnoise with their jeeps andhelicopters. We were atschool when the helicoptersfirst arrived and were veryexcited. We ran outside andthey threw toffees and tennisballs down to us, which we

rushed to catch. HelicopterswereararesightinSwat,butsince our housewas close tothe local army headquartersthey sometimes flew rightover us. We used to holdcompetitions for who wouldcollectthemosttoffees.Onedayamanfromalong

the street came and told usthatithadbeenannouncedinthemosquesthat therewouldbeacurfewthenextday.We

didn’t know what a curfewwasandwereanxious.Therewasahole in thewall toourneighbours’ house, Safina’sfamily, through which weused to communicate withthem,andweknockedonthewall so they would come tothehole. ‘Whatdoes itmeanthiscurfew?’weasked.Whenthey explained, we didn’teven come out of our roomsbecause we thought

somethingbadmighthappen.Later the curfew took overourlives.Weheardonthenewsthat

Musharraf had sent 3,000troops into our valley toconfront the Taliban. Theyoccupied all government andprivate buildings which theythought were of strategicimportance.Until then it hadseemed as if the rest ofPakistan was ignoring what

was happening in Swat. Thefollowing day a suicidebomber attacked anotherarmy truck in Swat, killingseventeen soldiers andthirteen civilians. Then allthat night we heard dar dardar,theboomofcannonsandmachine guns from the hills.Itwashardtosleep.OntheTVthenextdaywe

heard that fighting haderupted in the hills to the

north.Schoolwasclosedandwe stayed at home, trying tounderstand what was goingon. The fighting was takingplaceoutsideMingorathoughwe could still hear gunfire.Themilitarysaidithadkilledmore than a hundredmilitants,butthenonthefirstdayofNovemberaround700Taliban overran an armyposition at Khwazakhela.Somefiftymendesertedfrom

the Frontier Corps andanother forty-eight werecaptured and then paradedaround. Fazlullah’s menhumiliated them by takingtheir uniforms and guns andgiving them each 500 rupeestomake theirway back. TheTaliban then took two policestations in Khwazakhela andmoved on toMadyan,wheremore police officers gave uptheir weapons. Very quickly

the Taliban controlled mostofSwatoutsideMingora.On 12 November

Musharraf ordered 10,000more troops into our valleywith additional helicoptergunships. The army waseverywhere. They evencamped on the golf course,their big guns trained on thehillsides.They then launchedanoperationagainstFazlullahwhichlaterbecameknownas

thefirstbattleofSwat.Itwasthe first time the army hadlaunchedanoperationagainstits own people outside theFATA. Police once tried tocapture Fazlullah when hewas speaking at a gathering,butagiantsandstormblewupand he managed to escape.Thisaddedtohismysteryandspiritualreputation.The militants did not give

up easily. Instead they

advanced to the east and on16 November capturedAlpuri, the main town ofShangla. Again local policefled without a fight. Peoplethere said Chechens andUzbeks were among thefighters. We worried aboutourfamilyinShangla,thoughmyfathersaidthevillagewastoo remote for theTaliban tobother with and local peoplehadmade itclear theywould

keep them out. The Pakistanarmy had far more men andheavy weapons so theyquicklymanagedtorecapturethe valley. They took ImamDeri, the headquarters ofFazlullah. The militants fledto the forests and by earlyDecemberthearmysaidtheyhad cleared most areas.Fazlullah retreated into themountains.But they did not drive the

Taliban away. ‘This will notlast,’myfatherpredicted.Fazlullah’s group was not

the only one causing havoc.All across north-westernPakistan different militantgroups had emerged led bypeople from various tribalgroups. About a week afterthe battle of Swat, fortyTaliban leaders from acrossour province met in SouthWaziristan to declarewar on

Pakistan.Theyagreedtoforma united front under thebanner of Tehrik-i-Taliban-Pakistan (TTP), or thePakistanTaliban,andclaimedto have 40,000 fightersbetweenthem.Theychoseastheir leader aman in his latethirties called BaitullahMehsud, who had fought inAfghanistan. Fazlullah wasmade chief of the Swatsector.

Whenthearmyarrivedwethought that the fightingwouldsoonstop,butwewerewrong.Therewasmuchmoretocome.TheTalibantargetednotonlypoliticians,MPsandthe police, but also peoplewho were not observingpurdah, wearing the wronglength of beard or thewrongkindofshalwarkamiz.On 27 December Benazir

Bhutto addressed an election

rally in Liaquat Bagh, theparkinRawalpindiwhereourfirst prime minister, LiaquatAli, was assassinated. ‘Wewill defeat the forces ofextremismandmilitancywiththepowerof thepeople,’shedeclared to loud cheers. Shewas in a special bulletproofToyota Land Cruiser, and asit left the park she stood upon the seat and popped herhead through the sunroof to

wavetosupporters.Suddenlytherewasthecrackofgunfireandanexplosionasasuicidebomber blew himself up bythe side of her vehicle.Benazir slid back down. TheMusharraf government latersaid she hit her head on theroofhandle;otherpeoplesaidshehadbeenshot.Wewerewatching theTV

whenthenewscamethrough.My grandmother said,

‘Benazir will becomeshaheed,’meaningshewoulddie an honourable death.Weallstartedcryingandprayingforher.Whenwelearnedshewas dead, my heart said tome,Why don’t you go thereandfightforwomen’srights?We were looking forward todemocracy and now peopleasked, ‘If Benazir can die,nobody is safe.’ It felt as ifmy country was running out

ofhope.Musharraf blamed

Benazir’s death on BaitullahMehsud, theTTP leader, andreleased a transcript of anintercepted phone call thatwas supposed to be betweenhim and a fellow militantdiscussing the attack.Baitullah deniedresponsibility, which wasunusualfortheTaliban.We used to have Islamic

studiesteachers–qarisahibs– who came to our home toteach the Quran to me andother local children. By thetime the Taliban came I hadfinished my recitation of thecompleteQuran,whatwecallKhatam ul-Quran, much tothe delight of Baba, mygrandfather the cleric. Werecite in Arabic, and mostpeople don’t actually knowwhat the verses mean, but I

hadalsostartedlearningthemin translation. To my horroroneqarisahib tried to justifyBenazir’s assassination. ‘Itwasaverygood jobshewaskilled,’ he said. ‘When shewas alive she was useless.She was not following Islamproperly. If she had livedthere would have beenanarchy.’Iwasshockedandtoldmy

father. ‘We don’t have any

option.We are dependent onthese mullahs to learn theQuran,’hesaid.‘Butyoujustuse him to learn the literalmeaning of the words; don’tfollow his explanations andinterpretation. Only learnwhatGodsays.Hiswordsaredivine messages, which youare free and independent tointerpret.’

11

TheCleverClass

ITWAS SCHOOL that keptmegoing in those dark days.WhenIwasinthestreetitfeltasthougheverymanIpassed

might be a talib.We hid ourschoolbagsandourbooksinourshawls.Myfatheralwayssaid that the most beautifulthing in a village in themorningisthesightofachildinaschooluniform,butnowwewereafraidtowearthem.We hadmoved up to high

school.MadamMaryam saidno one wanted to teach ourclass as we asked so manyquestions. We liked to be

known as the clever girls.When we decorated ourhandswithhennaforholidaysand weddings, we drewcalculus and chemicalformulae instead of flowersand butterflies. My rivalrywith Malka-e-Noorcontinued,butaftertheshockof being beaten by herwhenshe first joined our school, Iworked hard and hadmanaged to regain my

position on the schoolhonours board for first inclass. She usually camesecondandMonibathird.Theteachers told us examinersfirst looked at howmuchwehad written, thenpresentation.Moniba had themost beautiful writing andpresentation of the three ofus, but I always told her shedid not trust herself enough.She worked hard as she

worried that if she got lowmarks her male relativesmight use it as an excuse tostop her education. I wasweakestinmaths–onceIgotzero in a test – but Iworkedhard at it. My chemistryteacher Sir Obaidullah (wecalled all our teachers Sir orMiss) said I was a bornpoliticianbecause,atthestartoforalexams,Iwouldalwayssay, ‘Sir, can I just say you

arethebestteacherandyoursismyfavouriteclass.’Some parents complained

that I was being favouredbecausemyfatherowned theschool, but people werealways surprised that despiteour rivalrywewere all goodfriends and not jealous ofeachother.Wealsocompetedinwhatwecallboardexams.These would select the beststudents fromprivate schools

in the district, and one yearMalka-e-Noor and I gotexactly the same marks. Wedidanotherpaperatschooltosee who would get the prizeand again we got equalmarks. So people wouldn’tthink I was getting specialtreatment,myfatherarrangedforustodopapersatanotherschool, that of his friendAhmad Shah. Again we gotthe same, sowebothgot the

prize.There was more to school

than work. We likedperforming plays. I wrote asketch based on Romeo andJuliet about corruption. Iplayed Romeo as a civilservant interviewing peoplefor a job. The first candidateisabeautifulgirl,andheasksher very easy questions suchas,‘Howmanywheelsdoesabicycle have?’ When she

replies, ‘Two,’he says, ‘Youare so brilliant.’ The nextcandidateisamansoRomeoasks him impossible thingslike, ‘Without leaving yourchair tellme themakeof thefan in the room above us.’‘How could I possiblyknow?’ asks the candidate.‘You’retellingmeyouhaveaPhD and you don’t know!’repliesRomeo.Hedecidestogivethejobtothegirl.

The girl was played byMoniba, of course, andanother classmate Attiyaplayed the part of myassistant to add some salt,pepper and masala with herwitty asides. Everyonelaughedalot.I liketomimicpeople, and in breaks myfriends used to beg me toimpersonate our teachers,particularly Sir Obaidullah.With all the bad stuff going

on in those days, we neededsmall,smallreasonstolaugh.Thearmyactionattheend

of2007hadnotgotridoftheTaliban.ThearmyhadstayedinSwatandwereeverywhereinthetown,yetFazlullahstillbroadcast every day on theradio and throughout 2008the situationwas evenworsethanbeforewithbombblastsand killings. All we talkedabout in those days was the

armyandtheTalibanandthefeeling that we were caughtbetween the two.Attiyausedto tease me by saying,‘Taliban is good, army notgood.’Ireplied,‘If there isasnake and a lion coming toattackuswhatwouldwe sayisgood,thesnakeorlion?’Our school was a haven

from the horrors outside.Allthe other girls in my classwanted to be doctors, but I

decided I wanted to be aninventor and make an anti-Taliban machine whichwould sniff them out anddestroy their guns. But ofcourse at school we wereunderthreattoo,andsomeofmy friends dropped out.Fazlullah kept broadcastingthatgirlsshouldstayathomeand his men had startedblowing up schools, usuallyduring night-time curfew

when the children were notthere.The first school to be

blown up was ShawarZangay, a government girls’primary school inMatta.Wecouldn’t believe anyonewould do such a thing. Thenmany more bombingsfollowed, almost every day.Even inMingora, therewereexplosions. Twice bombswent off when I was in the

kitchen, so close by that thewhole house rattled and thefan above the window felldown. I became very scaredofgoing into thekitchenandwouldonlyruninandout.OnthelastdayofFebruary

2008 I was in the kitchenwhenwe heard an enormousblast. It was ear-shatteringlyloud and obviously close by.Aswe always did,we calledtoeachothertomakesurewe

wereallsafe.‘Khaista,Pisho,Bhabi, Khushal, Atal!’ Thenwe heard sirens, one afteranother as if all theambulances ofMingorawerepassing. A suicide bomberhad struck in the basketballcourt at Haji Baba HighSchool. Funeral prayers hadbeenunderwayforapopularlocal police officer, JavidIqbal,whohadbeenkilledbyasuicidebomber ina remote

area while trying to escapefrom the Taliban. He wasfrom Mingora, and his bodyhadbeenbroughtbackforthefuneral and a police salute.NowtheTalibanhadbombedthe mourners. More thanfifty-five people were killed,includingJavidIqbal’syoungson and many people weknew. Ten members ofMoniba’s family were thereand were either killed or

injured. Moniba wasdevastated and the wholetown was in shock. Therewere condolences in everymosque.‘Are you scared now?’ I

askedmyfather.‘Atnightourfearisstrong,

Jani,’ he toldme, ‘but in themorning,inthelight,wefindour courage again.’ And thisis true for my family. Wewerescared,butourfearwas

not as strong as our courage.‘We must rid our valley oftheTaliban, and then no onehastofeelthisfear,’hesaid.In times of crisis we

Pashtuns resort to the oldtrusted ways, so in 2008elders in Swat created anassembly called the QaumiJirga to challenge Fazlullah.Three local men, MukhtarKhan Yousafzai, KhurshidKakajee and Zahid Khan

went from hujra to hujrapersuading elders to jointogether.Theseniorelderwasa white-bearded man ofseventy-four called AbdulKhan Khaliq who had beenone of the Queen’sbodyguards when she hadvisitedSwat to staywith ourwali. Even thoughmy fatherwasnotanelderorakhan,hewas chosen as spokespersonashewasnotafraid tospeak

out. Though he was morepoetic in Pashto, he couldspeak our national language,Urdu, and English fluently,which meant he was aneffective communicatoroutside Swat as well asinside.Everyday,onbehalfofthe

Swat Council of Elders, hewas at seminars or on themedia challenging Fazlullah.‘What are you doing?’ he

would ask. ‘You are playinghavocwith our lives and ourculture.’Myfatherwouldsaytome,

‘Any organisation whichworksforpeace,Iwilljoin.Ifyouwanttoresolveadisputeorcomeoutfromconflict,theveryfirstthingistospeakthetruth.Ifyouhaveaheadacheandtellthedoctoryouhaveastomach ache, how can thedoctorhelp?Youmustspeak

the truth. The truth willabolishfear.’When he met his fellow

activists, particularly his oldfriends Ahmad Shah,Mohammad Farooq andZahid Khan, I often wentwith him. Ahmad Shah alsohad a school, whereMohammad Farooq worked,and they would sometimesgather on his lawn. ZahidKhanwas a hotel owner and

had a big hujra. When theycame to our house I wouldbringthemteathensitquietlylistening as they discussedwhattodo.‘Malalaisnotjustthe daughter of Ziauddin,’they would say; ‘she is thedaughterofallofus.’They went back and forth

to Peshawar and Islamabadandgavelotsofinterviewsonthe radio, particularly to theVoice of America and the

BBC, taking turns so therewouldalwaysbeoneofthemavailable. They told peoplethat what was happening inSwat was not about Islam.My father said the Talibanpresence in Swat was notpossible without the supportof some in the army and thebureaucracy. The state ismeant toprotect therightsofits citizens, but it’s a verydifficult situation when you

can’t tell the differencebetween state and non-stateand can’t trust the state toprotectyouagainstnon-state.Our military and ISI are

very powerful and mostpeople did not like to voicethese thingspublicly, butmyfatherandmanyofhisfriendswere not scared. ‘What youare doing is against ourpeople and against Pakistan,’hewouldsay. ‘Don’tsupport

Talibanisation, it’s inhuman.WearetoldthatSwatisbeingsacrificed for the sake ofPakistan, but no one andnothing should be sacrificedfor thestate.Astate is likeamother, and a mother neverdeserts or cheats herchildren.’Hehatedthefactthatmost

peoplewouldnotspeakup.Inhis pocket he kept a poemwritten byMartinNiemöller,

who had lived in NaziGermany.

Firsttheycameforthecommunists,andIdidn’tspeakoutbecauseIwasn’tacommunist.Thentheycameforthesocialists,andIdidn’tspeakoutbecauseIwasn’tasocialist.Thentheycameforthetradeunionists,andIdidn’tspeakoutbecauseIwasn’tatradeunionist.ThentheycamefortheJews,andIdidn’tspeakoutbecauseIwasnotaJew.

ThentheycamefortheCatholics,andIdidn’tspeakoutbecauseIwasnotaCatholic.Thentheycameforme,andtherewasnoonelefttospeakforme.

I knew he was right. Ifpeople were silent nothingwouldchange.At school my father

organised a peacemarch andencouraged us to speak outagainst what was happening.

Moniba put it well. ‘WePashtunsareareligion-lovingpeople,’shesaid.‘BecauseoftheTaliban, thewholeworldis claiming we are terrorists.This is not the case.We arepeace-loving.Ourmountains,our trees, our flowers –everything in our valley isabout peace.’ A group of usgirls gave an interview onATV Khyber, the onlyprivately owned Pashto

televisionchannel,aboutgirlsdroppingoutofschoolduetomilitancy.Teachershelpedusbeforehand on how torespondtoquestions.Iwasn’tthe only one to beinterviewed. When we wereeleven and twelve, we didthem together, but as weturnedthirteenorfourteenmyfriends’ brothers and fathersdidn’t allow them becausetheyhadenteredpubertyand

should observe purdah andalsotheywereafraid.One day I went on Geo,

which is one of the biggestnewschannelsinourcountry.There was a wall of screensin their office. I wasastonished to see so manychannels. Afterwards Ithought, The media needsinterviews. They want tointerviewasmallgirl,butthegirls are scared, and even if

they’re not, their parentswon’tallowit.Ihaveafatherwho isn’t scared,who standsby me. He said, ‘You are achild and it’s your right tospeak.’ThemoreinterviewsIgave, the stronger I felt andthemoresupportwereceived.I was only eleven but Ilooked older, and the mediaseemedtolikehearingfromayoung girl. One journalistcalled me takra jenai – a

‘bright shining young lady’and another said you are‘pakha jenai’ – you are wisebeyond your years. In myheartwas thebelief thatGodwould protect me. If I amspeaking for my rights, forthe rights of girls, I am notdoing anything wrong. It’smydutytodoso.Godwantstoseehowwebehaveinsuchsituations. There is a sayingin theQuran, ‘The falsehood

has to go and the truth willprevail.’ If one man,Fazlullah, can destroyeverything,whycan’tonegirlchange it? I wondered. Iprayed toGodeverynight togivemestrength.The media in Swat were

under pressure to givepositive coverage to theTaliban – some evenrespectfully called theTaliban spokesman Muslim

Khan‘Schooldada’,wheninreality he was destroyingschools. But many localjournalists were unhappyaboutwhatwashappening totheirvalley and theygaveusa powerful platform as wewould say things they didn’tdareto.Wedidn’thaveacarsowe

went by rickshaw, or one ofmy father’s friends wouldtakeustotheinterviews.One

day my father and I went toPeshawartoappearonaBBCUrdu talk show hosted by afamous columnist calledWasatullah Khan. We wentwithmyfather’s friendFazalMaulaandhisdaughter.Twofathersandtwodaughters.Torepresent the Taliban theyhad Muslim Khan, whowasn’t in the studio. Iwas abitnervousbutIknewitwasimportantasmanypeopleall

over Pakistan would belistening. ‘How dare theTaliban take away my basicright to education?’ I said.There was no response fromMuslim Khan because hisphone interview had beenpre-recorded. How can arecording respond to livequestions?Afterwards people

congratulated me. My fatherlaughedand said I shouldgo

into politics. ‘Even as atoddler you talked like apolitician,’ he teased. But Inever listened to myinterviews.Iknewthesewereverysmallsteps.Our words were like the

eucalyptusblossomsofspringtossedawayonthewind.Thedestruction of schoolscontinued. On the night of 7October 2008 we heard aseries of faraway blasts. The

nextmorningwelearnedthatmaskedmilitants had enteredthe Sangota Convent Schoolfor girls and the ExcelsiorCollege for boys and blownthem up using improvisedexplosive devices (IEDs).The teachers had alreadybeen evacuated as they hadreceivedthreatsearlier.Thesewere famous schools,particularly Sangota, whichdatedfromthetimeofthelast

waliandwaswellknownforacademic excellence. Theywerealsobig–Excelsiorhadover 2,000 pupils andSangotahad1,000.Myfatherwentthereafterthebombingsand found the buildingscompletely razed to theground.HegaveinterviewstoTV reporters amid brokenbricks and burned books andreturnedhomehorrified. ‘It’salljustrubble,’hesaid.

Yet my father remainedhopeful and believed therewould be a day when therewasanendtothedestruction.What really depressed himwas the looting of thedestroyed schools – thefurniture, the books, thecomputerswere all stolen bylocal people. He cried whenhe heard this, ‘They arevultures jumping on a deadbody.’

Thenextdayhewentonalive show on the Voice ofAmerica and angrilycondemned the attacks.Muslim Khan, the Talibanspokesman, was on thephone. ‘What was so wrongwith these two schools thatyou should bomb them?’myfatheraskedhim.Muslim Khan said that

SangotawasaconventschoolteachingChristianityand that

Excelsiorwasco-educational,teaching girls and boystogether. ‘Both things arefalse!’ replied my father.‘Sangota school has beenthere since the 1960s andnever converted anyone toChristianity–infactsomeofthemconvertedtoIslam.AndExcelsior is only co-educational in the primarysection.’Muslim Khan didn’t

answer. ‘What about theirown daughters?’ I asked myfather.‘Don’ttheywantthemtolearn?’Our headmistress Madam

Maryam had studied atSangota, and her youngersister Ayesha was a pupilthere,sosheandsomeoftheother Sangota girlstransferredtoourschool.Themonthly school fees wereneverenoughtocoverallour

outgoings so the extra feeswerewelcome,butmyfatherwas unhappy. He wenteverywhere he coulddemanding thereconstructionof both schools. Once hespoke at a big gathering andheld up an audiencemember’sbabygirl and said,‘Thisgirlisourfuture.Dowewanthertobeignorant?’Thecrowdagreedthattheywouldsacrifice themselves before

giving up their daughters’education.Thenewgirls hadhorrible stories. Ayesha toldus how one day on the wayhome from Sangota she hadseenaTalibanholdingupthesevered head of a policemanby its hair, blood drippingfrom the neck. The Sangotagirls were also very bright,which meant morecompetition. One of them,Rida,wasexcellentatmaking

speeches.Shebecameagoodfriend of mine and ofMoniba’s, which sometimescaused fights as three is atricky number. Moniba oftenbrought food to school andwould just bring one sparefork. ‘Are you my friend orRida’s?’IaskedMoniba.She laughedandsaid, ‘We

areallthreegoodfriends.’Bytheendof2008,around

400 schools had been

destroyedbytheTaliban.WehadanewgovernmentunderPresident Asif Zardari, thewidowerofBenazir,but theydidn’t seem to care aboutSwat. I told people thingswould be different ifZardari’sowndaughterswereatschoolinSwat.Thereweresuicidebombingsalloverthecountry: even the MarriottHotel in Islamabad had beenblownup.

InSwat itwas safer in thetownthanintheremoteareasandmanyofourfamilycamefrom the countryside to staywithus.Thehousewassmalland got very crowded withthecousinswhoalreadylivedwith us. There was little todo.We couldn’t play cricketin the street or on the rooflike we used to. We playedmarbles in the yard over andoveragain. I foughtnon-stop

withmybrotherKhushal,andhe would go crying to ourmother.NeverinhistoryhaveKhushal and Malala beenfriends.I liked doing my hair in

different styles and wouldspendagesinthebathroominfrontof themirror tryingoutlooks I had seen in movies.Until Iwas eight or ninemymother used to cut my hairshort like my brothers

because of lice and also tomake it easier to wash andbrushas itwouldgetmessedup under my shawl. ButfinallyIhadpersuadedhertolet me grow it to myshoulders. Unlike Moniba,whohasstraighthair,mineiswavy, and I liked to twist itintocurlsor tie it intoplaits.‘Whatareyoudoing in therePisho?’ my mother wouldshout. ‘Our guests need the

bathroom and everyone ishavingtowaitforyou.’Oneoftheworsttimeswas

the fasting month ofRamadan in 2008. DuringRamadan no food or drinkcan pass a Muslim’s lips indaylight hours. The Talibanbombed the power station sowe had no electricity, then afew days later they blastedthepipelinesowehadnogaseither. The price of the gas

cylinders we used to buyfrom the market doubled somymother had to cook on afirelikewedidinthevillage.She didn’t complain – foodneeded tobe cookedand shecooked it, and there wereothersworseoff thanus.Buttherewasnocleanwaterandpeople started dying fromcholera. The hospital couldnotcopewithall thepatientsand had to erect big tents

outsidetotreatpeople.Though we had no

generator at home,my fatherbought one to install at theschool, and fresh water waspumped from a bore-hole,which all the children in theneighbourhood went tocollect. Every day therewould be lines of peoplewaiting to fill jugs, bottlesand drums. One of theneighbours got frightened.

‘What are you doing?’ heasked.‘IftheTalibanfindoutyou’re giving water in themonth of Ramadan they willbombus!’My father replied that

people would die either ofthirstorbombings.Thedayswhenweused to

go for trips or for picnicsseemedlikeadream.Noonewould venture from theirhomes after sunset. The

terroristsevenblewuptheskilift and the big hotel inMalam Jabba where touristsused to stay. A holidayparadise turned into a hellwhere no tourist wouldventure.Then, at the end of 2008,

Fazlullah’s deputy MaulanaShah Dauran announced onthe radio that all girls’schoolswouldclose.From15January girls must not go to

school, he warned. First Ithought it was a joke. ‘Howcan they stop us from goingto school?’ I asked myfriends. ‘Theydon’thave thepower. They are saying theywilldestroythemountainbutthey can’t even control theroad.’Theothergirlsdidn’tagree

with me. ‘Who will stopthem?’ they asked. ‘Theyhave already blown up

hundreds of schools and noonehasdoneanything.’My father used to say the

people of Swat and theteachers would continue toeducateourchildrenuntil thelastroom,thelastteacherandthelaststudentwasalive.Myparents never once suggestedI should withdraw fromschool, ever. Though weloved school, we hadn’trealised how important

education was until theTaliban tried to stop us.Going to school, reading anddoing our homework wasn’tjustawayofpassing time, itwasourfuture.That winter it snowed and

we built snow bears butwithout much joy. In wintertheTalibanusedtodisappearinto the mountains, but weknewtheywouldbebackandhadnoideawhatwascoming

next. We believed schoolwould start again. TheTaliban could take our pensand books, but they couldn’tstopourmindsfromthinking.

12

TheBloodySquare

THE BODIES WOULD bedumpedinthesquareatnightso that everyone would seethem the next morning on

theirwaytowork.Therewasusuallyanotepinnedtothemsaying something like, ‘Thisis what happens to an armyagent’, or ‘Do not touch thisbodyuntil11a.m.oryouwillbe next.’ On some of thenights of the killings therewould also be earthquakes,which made people evenmore scared as we connectevery natural disaster with ahumandisaster.

They killed Shabana on abitterly cold night in January2009. She lived in BanrBazaar,anarrowstreetinourtown of Mingora which isfamous for its dancers andmusicians. Shabana’s fathersaid a group of men hadknocked at her door andasked her to dance for them.She went to put on herdancing clothes, and whenshe returned to dance for

them, they pulled out theirgunsandthreatenedtoslitherthroat. This happened afterthe9p.m.curfewandpeopleheard her screaming, ‘IpromiseI’ll stop! IpromiseIwon’t sing and dance again.Leaveme, for God’s sake! Iam a woman, a Muslim.Don’t kill me!’ Then shotsrangoutandherbullet-riddenbody was dragged to GreenChowk. Somany bodies had

been left there that peoplestarted calling it the BloodySquare.Weheard about Shabana’s

death the next morning. OnMullah FM, Fazlullah saidshe deserved to die for herimmoral character and anyother girls found performingin Banr Bazaar would bekilledonebyone.WeusedtobeproudofourmusicandartinSwat,butnowmostof the

dancers fled to Lahore or toDubai. Musicians took outadverts in the papers sayingtheyhadstoppedplayingandwere pledging to live piouslivestoappeasetheTaliban.People used to talk about

Shabana’s bad character, butour men both wished to seeher dance and also despisedherbecauseshewasadancer.A khan’s daughter can’tmarry a barber’s son and a

barber’sdaughtercan’tmarrya khan’s son. We Pashtunsloveshoesbutdon’t love thecobbler; we love our scarvesand blankets but do notrespect the weaver. Manualworkers made a greatcontribution to our societybut received no recognition,andthisisthereasonsomanyof them joined theTaliban –to finally achieve status andpower.

So people loved to seeShabana dance but didn’trespect her, and when shewas murdered they saidnothing. Some even agreedwithherkilling,outoffearofthe Taliban or because theywere in favour of them.‘ShabanawasnotaMuslim,’they said. ‘Shewas bad, andit was right that she waskilled.’I can’t say that was the

worstday.AroundthetimeofShabana’s murder every dayseemed like the worst day;everymomentwastheworst.The bad news waseverywhere: this person’splace bombed, this schoolblown up, public whippings.The storieswere endless andoverwhelming. A couple ofweeks after Shabana’smurder, a teacher in Mattawaskilledwhenherefusedto

pull his shalwar above theankle the way the Talibanworetheirs.Hetoldthemthatnowhere in Islam is thisrequired.Theyhunghimandthentheyshothisfather.I couldn’tunderstandwhat

theTalibanweretryingtodo.‘They are abusing ourreligion,’Isaidininterviews.‘HowwillyouacceptIslamifI put agun toyourhead andsayIslamisthetruereligion?

If they want every person intheworld to beMuslimwhydon’t they show themselvestobegoodMuslimsfirst?’Regularlymyfatherwould

comehomeshakenupduetothe terrible things he hadwitnessed and heard aboutsuch as policemen beheaded,their heads paraded throughthetown.Eventhosewhohaddefended Fazlullah at thestart, believing hismenwere

the real standard-bearers ofIslam, and given him theirgold, began to turn againsthim.Myfathertoldmeabouta woman who had donatedgenerously to the Talibanwhile her husband wasworking abroad. When hecamebackandfoundoutshehad given away her gold hewas furious. One night therewasasmallexplosionintheirvillage and the wife cried.

‘Don’tcry,’saidherhusband.‘That is the sound of yourearringsandnosestuds.Nowlisten to the sound of yourlocketsandbangles.’Yet still so few people

spoke out. My father’s oldrival incollegepolitics Ihsanul-Haq Haqqani had becomea journalist in Islamabad andorganisedaconferenceonthesituationinSwat.Noneofthelawyers and academics he

invited from Swat to speakturned up. Only my fatherand some journalistswent. Itseemed that people haddecidedtheTalibanwereheretostayandtheyhadbettergetalongwith them. ‘When youare in the Taliban you have100 per cent life security,’peoplewouldsay.That’swhythey volunteered their youngmen. The Taliban wouldcome to peoples’ houses,

demanding money to buyKalashnikovs, or they wouldask them to hand over theirsonstofightwiththem.Manyoftherichfled.Thepoorhadno choice but to stay andsurvive the best they could.SomanyofourmenhadgonetotheminesortotheGulftowork, leaving their familiesfatherless,thesonswereeasyprey.The threats began to come

closer to home. One dayAhmad Shah received awarning from unknownpeople that they would killhim,soforawhileheleftforIslamabad to try to raiseawareness there of what washappening toourvalley.Oneoftheworstthingsaboutthatperiod was when we startedtodoubtoneanother.Fingerswere even pointed at myfather. ‘Ourpeople are being

killed,butthisZiauddinissooutspokenandhe’sstillalive!He must be a secret agent!’Actually he had beenthreatenedtoobuthadn’ttoldus. He had given a pressconference in Peshawardemanding that the militaryactagainsttheTalibanandgoafter their commanders.Afterwards people told himhis name was heard onMullah FM in a threat from

ShahDouran.My father brushed it off.

But I was worried. He wasoutspokenandinvolvedinsomanygroupsandcommitteesthat he often wouldn’t comehometillmidnight.Hestartedtosleepatoneofhisfriend’shouses to protect us in casetheTalibancameforhim.Hecouldn’t bear the thought ofbeing killed in front of us. Icould not sleep until he

returnedand Icould lock thegate. When he was at homemy mother would place aladder in thebackyardup tothe outside wall so he couldget down to the street belowif he was in sudden danger.He laughed at the idea.‘Maybe Atal the squirrelcouldmakeitbutnotme!’My mother was always

trying to think up plans forwhat she would do if the

Talibancame.Shethoughtofsleeping with a knife underher pillow. I said I couldsneak into the toilet and callthepolice.MybrothersandIthought of digging a tunnel.Once again I prayed for amagic wand to make theTalibandisappear.One day I saw my little

brotherAtaldiggingfuriouslyin the garden. ‘What are youdoing?’ I asked him.‘Making

a grave,’ he said. Our newsbulletinswere fullofkillingsanddeathsoitwasnaturalforAtal to think of coffins andgraves. Instead of hide andseek and cops and robbers,children were now playingArmyvsTaliban.Theymaderockets from branches andused sticks forKalashnikovs;these were their sports ofterror.There was no one to

protect us. Our own deputycommissioner, Syed Javid,was going to Talibanmeetings, praying in theirmosque and leading theirmeetings. He became aperfect talib. One target ofthe Taliban were non-governmental organisationsor NGOs, which they saidwere anti-Islam. When theNGOs received threateningletters from the Taliban and

wenttotheDCtoaskforhishelp, hewouldn’t even listento them. Once in a meetingmy father challenged him:‘Whose orders are yourepresenting? Fazlullah’s orthegovernment’s?’WesayinArabic, ‘People follow theirking.’ When the highestauthorityinyourdistrictjoinsthe Taliban, thenTalibanisation becomesnormal.

We like conspiracytheories in Pakistan and wehadmany.Somebelievedtheauthorities were deliberatelyencouraging the Taliban.They said the army wantedthe Taliban in Swat becausetheAmericanswanted to usean airbase there to launchtheirdrones.WiththeTalibaninthevalley,ourgovernmentcould say to the Americanswecan’thelpyoubecausewe

have our own problems. Itwas also a way to answergrowing American criticismthat ourmilitarywas helpingtheTalibanratherthantryingto stop them. Now ourgovernment could respond,‘You saywe are taking yourmoney and aiding theseterrorists, but if that’s thecase why are they attackingustoo?’‘The Taliban obviously

have the support of unseenforces,’ said my father. ‘Butwhat’s happening is notsimple, and the more youwant to understand the morecomplexitbecomes.’That year, 2008, the

government even releasedSufiMohammad,thefounderof the TNSM, from prison.He was said to be moremoderate than his son-in-lawFazlullah,andtherewashope

that he would make a peacedeal with the government toimpose sharia law in Swatand release us from Talibanviolence. My father was infavour of this.We knew thiswouldnotbetheend,butmyfather argued that if we hadshariat the Taliban wouldhave nothing more to fightfor. They should then putdowntheirarmsandlivelikeordinarymen.Iftheydidnot,

he said, this would exposethem for what they reallywere.The army still had their

gunstrainedonthemountainsoverlooking Mingora. Wewould lie in bed listening tothem boom boom all night.Theywouldstopforfive,tenor fifteen minutes and thenstart again the moment wedrifted off to sleep.Sometimes we covered our

ears or buried our headsunder pillows, but the gunswere close by and the noisewas too loud to block out.Then the morning after, onTV, we would hear of moreTaliban killings and wonderwhatthearmywasdoingwithall its booming cannons andwhytheycouldnotevenstopthe daily broadcasts onMullahFM.Both the army and the

Taliban were powerful.Sometimes their roadblockswere less than a kilometreapartonthesamemainroads.They would stop us butseemed unaware of eachother’s presence. It wasunbelievable. No oneunderstoodwhywewere notbeing defended. Peoplewould say they were twosides of the same coin. Myfather said we common

peoplewerelikechaffcaughtbetween the two stones of awatermill.Buthestillwasn’tafraid. He said we shouldcontinuetospeakout.I am only human, and

when I heard the guns myheart used to beat very fast.Sometimes I was very afraidbut I said nothing, and itdidn’t mean I would stopgoing to school. But fear isverypowerfuland in theend

itwasthisfearthathadmadepeople turn against Shabana.Terrorhadmadepeoplecruel.The Taliban bulldozed bothour Pashtun values and thevaluesofIslam.Itriedtodistractmyselfby

readingStephenHawking’sABriefHistory of Time, whichanswered big questions suchas how the universe beganand whether time could runbackwards.Iwasonlyeleven

years old and already Iwisheditcould.We Pashtuns know the

stone of revenge neverdecays, and when you dosomething wrong you willface the music. But whenwould that be? wecontinuallyaskedourselves.

13

TheDiaryofGulMakai

IT WAS DURING one of thosedark days that my fatherreceivedacallfromhisfriend

Abdul Hai Kakar, a BBCradio correspondent based inPeshawar.Hewaslookingfora female teacher or aschoolgirl to write a diaryabout life under the Taliban.He wanted to show thehumansideofthecatastrophein Swat. Initially MadamMaryam’s younger sisterAyeshaagreed,butherfatherfound out and refused hispermission saying it was too

risky.When I overheard my

father talking about this, Isaid,‘Whynotme?’Iwantedpeople to know what washappening. Education is ourright, I said. Just as it is ourright tosing.Islamhasgivenus this right and says thateverygirl andboy shouldgotoschool.TheQuransaysweshouldseekknowledge,studyhard and learn the mysteries

ofourworld.Ihadneverwrittenadiary

before and didn’t know howto begin.Althoughwe had acomputer,therewerefrequentpower cuts and few placeshad Internet access. So HaiKakar would call me in theevening on my mother’smobile. He used his wife’sphonetoprotectusashesaidhisownphonewasbuggedbythe intelligence services. He

would guide me, asking mequestions aboutmy day, andasking me to tell him smallanecdotes or talk about mydreams.Wewould speak forhalf an hour or forty-fiveminutesinUrdu,eventhoughwe are both Pashtun, as theblog was to appear in Urduandhewantedthevoicetobeasauthenticaspossible.Thenhe wrote up my words andonce a week they would

appear on the BBC Urduwebsite. He told me aboutAnne Frank, a thirteen-year-oldJewishgirlwhohidfromthe Nazis with her family inAmsterdam during the war.He told me she kept a diaryabout their lives all crampedtogether, about how theyspenttheirdaysandaboutherownfeelings.Itwasverysadas in the end the familywasbetrayed and arrested and

Anne died in a concentrationcamp when she was onlyfifteen. Later her diary waspublished and is a verypowerfulrecord.HaiKakartoldmeitcould

be dangerous to use my realname and gave me thepseudonym Gul Makai,which means ‘cornflower’andisthenameoftheheroineinaPashtunfolkstory.It’sakind of Romeo and Juliet

storyinwhichGulMakaiandMusa Khan meet at schooland fall in love.But theyarefrom different tribes so theirlove causes a war. However,unlike Shakespeare’s playtheir story doesn’t end intragedy. Gul Makai uses theQurantoteachhereldersthatwar is bad and theyeventually stop fighting andallowtheloverstounite.My first diary entry

appeared on 3 January 2009under the heading I AMAFRAID: ‘I had a terribledream last night filled withmilitary helicopters andTaliban. I have had suchdreams since the launch ofthe military operation inSwat.’ I wrote about beingafraidtogotoschoolbecauseof the Taliban edict andlooking overmy shoulder allthe time. I also described

something that happened onmywayhomefromschool:‘Iheard a man behind mesaying, “I will kill you.” Iquickenedmy pace and afterawhileIlookedbacktoseeifhewas followingme.Tomyhuge relief I saw he wasspeaking on his phone, hemust have been talking tosomeoneelse.’It was thrilling to see my

wordsonthewebsite.Iwasa

bitshytostartwithbutafterawhile I got to know thekindof things Hai Kakar wantedme to talk about andbecamemore confident. He likedpersonalfeelingsandwhathecalled my ‘pungentsentences’andalsothemixofeveryday family lifewith theterroroftheTaliban.I wrote a lot about school

as that was at the centre ofour lives. I loved my royal-

blue school uniform but wewere advised to wear plainclothes instead and hide ourbooksunderour shawls.Oneextract was called DO NOTWEARCOLOURFULCLOTHES. Init I wrote, ‘I was gettingreadyforschoolonedayandwas about to put on myuniform when I rememberedtheadviceofourprincipal,sothatdayIdecidedtowearmyfavouritepinkdress.’

I also wrote about theburqa. When you’re veryyoung, you love the burqabecauseit’sgreatfordressingup.Butwhenyouaremadetowear it, that’s a differentmatter.Alsoitmakeswalkingdifficult! One of my diaryentrieswasaboutan incidentthathappenedwhenIwasoutshoppingwithmymotherandcousin in theCheenaBazaar:‘There we heard gossip that

one day a woman waswearing a shuttlecock burqaand fell over. When a mantried to help her she refusedand said. “Don’t help me,brother, as this will bringimmense pleasure toFazlullah.”Whenwe enteredthe shop we were going to,the shopkeeper laughed andtoldushegotscaredthinkingwemightbesuicidebombersas many suicide bombers

woretheburqa.’At school people started

talking about the diary. Onegirl even printed it out andbrought it in to show myfather.‘It’s very good,’ he said

withaknowingsmile.I wanted to tell people it

was me, but the BBCcorrespondent had told menot to as it could bedangerous. I didn’t see why

asIwasjustachildandwhowould attack a child? Butsome of my friendsrecognised incidents in it.And I almost gave the gameaway in one entry when Isaid, ‘My mother liked mypen name Gul Makai andjokedtomyfatherweshouldchange my name . . . I alsolikethenamebecausemyrealnamemeans“grief-stricken”.’The diary of Gul Makai

received attention furtherafield. Some newspapersprinted extracts. The BBCeven made a recording of itusing another girl’s voice,and I began to see that thepenand thewords that comefrom it can be much morepowerful thanmachine guns,tanksorhelicopters.Wewerelearninghowtostruggle.Andwe were learning howpowerful we are when we

speak.Some of our teachers

stopped coming to school.Onesaidhehadbeenorderedby Mullah Fazlullah to helpbuildhiscentreinImamDeri.Another said he’d seen abeheaded corpse on the wayin and could no longer riskhislifetoteach.Manypeoplewere scared. Our neighbourssaid the Taliban wereinstructing people tomake it

known to themosque if theirdaughters were unmarried sothey could be married off,probablytomilitants.By the start of January

2009therewereonlytengirlsinmy class when once therehadbeentwenty-seven.Manyof my friends had left thevalley so they could beeducatedinPeshawar,butmyfather insisted we would notleave. ‘Swat has given us so

much.Inthesetoughdayswemust be strong for ourvalley,’hesaid.One night we all went for

dinner at the house of myfather’s friendDrAfzal,whoruns a hospital. After dinner,when the doctor was drivingus home, we saw maskedTaliban on both sides of theroad carryingguns.Wewereterrified. Dr Afzal’s hospitalwas in an area that had been

taken over by the Taliban.The constant gunfire andcurfews had made itimpossible for thehospital tofunction, so he hadmoved ittoBarikot.Therehadbeenanoutcry, and the TalibanspokesmanMuslimKhanhadcalledonthedoctortoreopenit. He had asked for myfather’s advice. My fathertoldhim, ‘Don’t accept goodthings from bad people.’ A

hospital protected by theTaliban was not a good ideasoherefused.Dr Afzal did not live far

from us, so once we weresafely home, my fatherinsisted on going back withhim in case he was targetedbytheTaliban.Asheandmyfather drove back, Dr Afzalnervously asked him, ‘Whatnames shall we give if theystopus?’

‘YouareDrAfzalandIamZiauddin Yousafzai,’ repliedmy father. ‘These bloodypeople. We haven’t doneanythingwrong.Why shouldwechangeournames–that’swhatcriminalsdo.’FortunatelytheTalibanhad

disappeared.We all breatheda big sigh of reliefwhenmyfather phoned to say theyweresafe.I didn’t want to give in

either. But the Taliban’sdeadlinewas drawing closer:girls had to stop going toschool. How could they stopmore than 50,000 girls fromgoingtoschoolinthetwenty-first century? I kept hopingsomethingwouldhappenandthe schools would remainopen.Butfinallythedeadlinewas upon us. We weredetermined that the KhushalSchoolbellwouldbe the last

to stop ringing. MadamMaryam had even gotmarried so she could stay inSwat.Her family hadmovedto Karachi to get away fromtheconflictand,asawoman,shecouldnotlivealone.Wednesday14Januarywas

thedaymyschoolclosed,andwhenIwokeupthatmorningI saw TV cameras in mybedroom. A Pakistanijournalist called Irfan Ashraf

was following me around,evenasIsaidmyprayersandbrushedmyteeth.I could tell my father was

in a bad mood. One of hisfriendshadpersuadedhim toparticipate in a documentaryfor the New York Timeswebsite to show the worldwhatwashappening tous.Afew weeks before, we hadmet the American videojournalist Adam Ellick in

Peshawar. It was a funnymeeting as he conducted alonginterviewwithmyfatherinEnglish and I didn’t say aword. Then he asked if hecould talk to me and beganasking questions using Irfanas an interpreter.After abouttenminutesofthisherealisedfrom my facial expressionsthat I could understand himperfectly. ‘You speakEnglish?’heaskedme.

‘Yes, I was just sayingthere isa fear inmyheart,’ Ireplied.Adam was astonished.

‘What’s wrong with youpeople?’ he asked Irfan andmy father. ‘She speaksbetterEnglish than the rest of youand you’re translating forher!’Wealllaughed.The original idea for the

documentary had been tofollow my father on the last

day of school, but at the endof the meeting Irfan askedme, ‘What would you do ifthere comes a daywhen youcan’t go back to your valleyand school?’ I said thiswouldn’t happen. Then heinsistedandIstartedtoweep.IthinkitwasthenthatAdamdecided he should focus onme.Adam could not come to

Swat because it was too

dangerous for foreigners.WhenIrfanandacameramanarrivedinMingora,ouruncle,whowasstayingwithus,saidover andover that itwas toorisky to have cameras in ourhouse. My father also kepttelling them to hide thecameras.Buttheyhadcomealongwayand it’shardforusas Pashtuns to refusehospitality. Besides, myfatherknewthiscouldbeour

megaphone to the outsideworld. His friend had toldhim it would make far moreimpact than him roamingfrompillartopost.I had done a lot of

television interviews andenjoyed speaking into themicrophonesomuch thatmyfriendswouldteaseme.ButIhadneverdoneanything likethis. ‘Be natural,’ Irfan toldme. That wasn’t easy with a

camera trained on meeverywhere I went even as Ibrushed my teeth. I showedthem the uniform I couldn’twear and told them I wasscared that if the Talibancaught me going to schooltheywould throwacid inmyfaceastheyhaddonetogirlsinAfghanistan.We had a special assemblythat finalmorning but itwashardtohearwiththenoiseof

helicopters overhead. Someof us spoke out againstwhatwas happening in our valley.Thebellrangfortheverylasttime, and then MadamMaryamannounceditwasthewinterholidays.Butunlikeinother years no date wasannounced for the start ofnext term. Even so, someteachers still gave ushomework. In the yard Ihugged all my friends. I

looked at the honours boardand wondered if my namewould ever appear on itagain. Exams were due inMarch but how could theytake place? Coming firstdidn’t matter if you couldn’tstudy at all. When someonetakes away your pens yourealise quite how importanteducationis.Before I closed the school

door I looked back as if it

were the last time I wouldever be at school. That’s theclosingshotinonepartofthedocumentary. In reality Iwentback inside.My friendsand I didn’twant that day toendsowedecided tostayonfor a while longer.We wentto the primary school wherethere was more space to runaround and played cops androbbers. Then we playedmango mango, where you

make a circle and sing, thenwhenthesongstopseveryonehas to freeze. Anyone whomovesorlaughsisout.We came home from

school late that day. Usuallywe leave at 1 p.m. but thatday we stayed till three.Beforeweleft,MonibaandIhad an argument oversomething so silly I can’tremember what it was. Ourfriends couldn’t believe it.

‘Youtwoalwaysarguewhenthere’s an importantoccasion!’theysaid.Itwasn’tagoodwaytoleavethings.I told the documentary

makers, ‘They cannot stopme.Iwillgetmyeducationifit’s at home, school orsomewhere else. This is ourrequesttotheworld–tosaveour schools, save ourPakistan,saveourSwat.’When I got home, I cried

and cried. I didn’t want tostop learning. I was onlyeleven years old but I felt asthough I had lost everything.I had told everyone in myclass that the Talibanwouldn’t go through with it.‘They’re just like ourpoliticians–theytalkthetalkbut they won’t do anything,’I’d said. But then they wentahead and closed our schooland I felt embarrassed. I

couldn’tcontrolmyself.Iwascrying,mymotherwascryingbut my father insisted, ‘Youwillgotoschool.’For him the closing of the

schoolsalsomeantthelossofbusiness. The boys’ schoolwouldreopenafterthewinterholidays but the loss of thegirls’schoolrepresentedabigcutinourincome.Morethanhalf the school fees wereoverdue and my father spent

thelastdaychasingmoneytopay the rent, the utility billsandtheteachers’salaries.That night the airwas full

ofartilleryfireandIwokeupthreetimes.Thenextmorningeverything had changed. Ibegan to think that maybe Ishould go to Peshawar orabroad ormaybe I could askour teachers to form a secretschool in our home, as someAfghans had done during

Taliban rule. Afterwards Iwent on as many radio andTV channels as possible.‘They can stop us going toschool but they can’t stop uslearning,’ I said. I soundedhopefulbutinmyheartIwasworried.MyfatherandIwentto Peshawar and visited lotsof places to tell people whatwashappening.Ispokeoftheirony of the Taliban wantingfemale teachers and doctors

for women yet not lettinggirls go to school to qualifyforthesejobs.Once Muslim Khan had

said girls should not go toschool and learn Westernways. This from a man whohadlivedsolonginAmerica!Heinsistedhewouldhavehisowneducationsystem.‘Whatwould Muslim Khan useinsteadofthestethoscopeandthe thermometer?’ my father

asked.‘ArethereanyEasterninstruments which will treatthe sick?’ The Taliban isagainst education becausethey think that when a childreadsabookorlearnsEnglishor studies science he or shewillbecomeWesternised.But I said, ‘Education is

education. We should learneverything and then choosewhich path to follow.’Education is neither Eastern

norWestern,itishuman.Mymotherused to tellme

tohidemyfacewhenIspoketo the media because at myageIshouldbeinpurdahandshewasafraid formysafety.But she never banned mefromdoinganything.Itwasatime of horror and fear.Peopleoftensaid theTalibanmight kill my father but notme. ‘Malala is a child,’ theywould say, ‘and even the

Talibandon’tkillchildren.’But my grandmother

wasn’tsosure.Whenevermygrandmother saw mespeaking on television, orleaving the house she wouldpray, ‘Please God makeMalala like Benazir BhuttobutdonotgiveherBenazir’sshortlife.’After my school closed

downIcontinuedtowritetheblog.Fourdays after theban

on girls’ schools, five morewere destroyed. ‘I am quitesurprised,’ I wrote, ‘becausethese schools had closed sowhydid theyalsoneed tobedestroyed? No one has goneto school following theTaliban’sdeadline.Thearmyis doing nothing about it.They are sitting in theirbunkers on top of the hills.They slaughter goats and eatwith pleasure.’ I also wrote

about people going to watchthe floggings announced onMullahFM, and the fact thatthepolicewerenowheretobeseen.Onedaywegotacallfrom

America, from a student atStanford University. Hername was Shiza Shahid andshe came from Islamabad.She had seen the New YorkTimes documentary ClassDismissedinSwatValleyand

tracked us down. We sawthen the power of the mediaand she became a greatsupport to us.My fatherwasalmost burstingwith pride athow I came across on thedocumentary. ‘Look at her,’he told Adam Ellick. ‘Don’tyouthinksheismeantfortheskies?’ Fathers can be veryembarrassing.Adam took us to

Islamabad. It was the first

time I had ever visited.Islamabad was a beautifulplace with nice whitebungalows and broad roads,though it has none of thenatural beauty of Swat. Wesaw the Red Mosque wherethesiegehadtakenplace,thewide, wide ConstitutionAvenue leading to thewhite-colonnaded buildings of theParliament House and thePresidency, where Zardari

nowlived.GeneralMusharrafwasinexileinLondon.Wewent to shopswhere I

bought school books andAdam bought me DVDs ofAmerican TV programmeslike Ugly Betty, which wasabout a girl with big bracesandabigheart.Iloveditanddreamedofonedaygoing toNewYork andworking on amagazinelikeher.WevisitedtheLokVirsamuseum,andit

was a joy to celebrate ournational heritage once again.Our own museum in Swathad closed. On the stepsoutside an old man wasselling popcorn. He was aPashtunlikeus,andwhenmyfather asked if he was fromIslamabad he replied, ‘DoyouthinkIslamabadcaneverbelong to us Pashtuns?’ HesaidhecamefromMohmand,one of the tribal areas, but

had to flee because of amilitaryoperation.Isawtearsinmyparents’eyes.Lots of buildings were

surrounded by concreteblocks, and there werecheckpoints for incomingvehicles to guard againstsuicidebombs.WhenourbushitapotholeonthewaybackmybrotherKhushal,whohadbeen asleep, jerked awake.‘Was that a bomb blast?’ he

asked. Thiswas the fear thatfilled our daily lives. Anysmall disturbance or noisecouldbeabomborgunfire.On our short trips we

forgot our troubles in Swat.Butwereturnedtothethreatsanddangerasweenteredourvalley once again. Even so,Swat was our home and wewerenotreadytoleaveit.Back in Mingora the first

thing I saw when I opened

my wardrobe was myuniform, school bag andgeometry set. I felt so sad.The visit to Islamabad hadbeen a lovely break, but thiswasmyrealitynow.

14

AFunnyKindofPeace

WHEN MY BROTHERS’schools reopened after thewinterbreak,Khushalsaidhe

would rather stay at homelike me. I was cross. ‘Youdon’t realise how lucky youare!’Itoldhim.Itfeltstrangetohavenoschool.Wedidn’teven have a television set assomeone had stolen ourswhilewewere in Islamabad,using my father’s ‘getaway’laddertogetinside.Someone gave me a copy

of The Alchemist by PauloCoelho, a fable about a

shepherd boy who travels tothe Pyramids in search oftreasurewhenallthetimeit’sat home. I loved that bookand read it over and overagain. ‘When you wantsomething all the universeconspires in helping youachieve it,’ it says. I don’tthink that Paulo Coelho hadcome across the Taliban orouruselesspoliticians.What I didn’t know was

that Hai Kakar was holdingsecret talks with Fazlullahandhis commanders.Hehadgot to know them ininterviews, and was urgingthem to rethink their ban ongirls’education.‘Listen, Maulana,’ he told

Fazlullah.‘Youkilledpeople,you slaughtered people, youbeheaded people, youdestroyed schools and stillthere was no protest in

Pakistan. But when youbanned girls’ educationpeople spoke out. Even thePakistan media, which hasbeen so softonyou till now,isoutraged.’The pressure from the

whole country worked, andFazlullah agreed to lift theban for girls up to ten yearsold–Year4.IwasinYear5andsomeofuspretendedwewere younger than we were.

We started going to schoolagain, dressed in ordinaryclothes andhidingour booksunderourshawls.ItwasriskybutitwastheonlyambitionIhad back then. We werelucky too that MadamMaryam was brave andresisted the pressure to stopworking. She had knownmyfather since she was ten andthey trusted each othercompletely – she used to

signal to him to wind upwhen he spoke for too long,whichwasoften!‘The secret school is our

silentprotest,’shetoldus.I didn’t write anything

about it in my diary. If theyhad caught us they wouldhave flogged or evenslaughtered us as they hadShabana. Some people areafraid of ghosts, some ofspiders or snakes – in those

days we were afraid of ourfellowhumanbeings.On the way to school I

sometimes saw the Talibanwiththeircapsandlongdirtyhair. Most of the time theyhid their faces. They wereawkward, horrible-looking.The streets of Mingora werevery empty as a third of theinhabitantshadleftthevalley.My father said you couldn’treally blame people for

leaving as the governmenthad no power. There werenow 12,000 army troops inthe region – four times asmanyastheirestimatesoftheTaliban – along with tanks,helicopters and sophisticatedweapons. Yet seventy percent of Swat was underTalibancontrol.Aboutaweekafterwehad

returned to school, on 16February 2009, we were

wokenonenightbythesoundof gunfire. Our peopletraditionally fire rifles incelebration of births andweddings but even that hadstopped during the conflict.So at first we thought wewere in danger. Then weheard the news. The gunfirewas in celebration. A peacedealhadbeenstruckbetweentheTalibanandtheprovincialgovernment, which was now

underthecontroloftheANP,not the mullahs. Thegovernment had agreed toimposesharialawthroughoutSwat and in return themilitantswouldstopfighting.The Taliban agreed to a ten-day truce and, as a peacegesture, released a Chinesetelephone engineer who theyhad kidnapped six monthsbefore.We were happy too – my

fatherandIhadoftenspokenin favour of a peace deal –but we questioned how itwould work. People hopedthat the Taliban would settledown,gobacktotheirhomesand live as peaceful citizens.They convinced themselvesthattheshariatinSwatwouldbe different to the Afghanversion–wewouldstillhaveour girls’ schools and therewould be nomorality police.

SwatwouldbeSwatjustwitha different justice system. Iwanted to believe this but Iwas worried. I thought,Surely how the systemworksdepends on the peopleoverseeingit?TheTaliban.And itwashard tobelieve

it was all over!More than athousandordinarypeopleandpolice had been killed.Women had been kept inpurdah, schools and bridges

had been blown up,businesses had closed. Wehad suffered barbaric publiccourtsandviolentjusticeandhad lived in a constant stateoffear.Andnowitwasalltostop.AtbreakfastIsuggestedto

my brothers that we shouldtalkofpeacenowandnotofwar.Asever,theyignoredmeandcarriedonwith theirwargames. Khushal had a toy

helicopter and Atal a pistolmade of paper, and onewould shout, ‘Fire!’ and theother, ‘Take position.’ Ididn’tcare.Iwentandlookedat my uniform, happy that Iwouldsoonbeabletowearitopenly. A message camefrom our headmistress thatexamswouldtakeplaceinthefirst week of March. It wastimetogetbacktomybooks.Ourexcitementdidnotlast

long.JusttwodayslaterIwason the roof of theTajMahalHotel giving an interviewabout the peace deal to awell-known reporter calledHamidMir whenwe got thenewsthatanotherTVreporterweknewhadbeenkilled.Hisname was Musa Khan Khel,andhehadoften interviewedmy father. That day he hadbeencoveringapeacemarchled by Sufi Mohammad. It

wasn’t really a march but acavalcadeofcars.AfterwardsMusaKhan’sbodywasfoundnearby. He had been shotseveral times and his throatpartly slit. He was twenty-eightyearsold.My mother was so upset

when we told her that shewenttobedintears.Shewasworried that violence hadreturnedtothevalleysosoonafter thepeacedeal.Was the

deal merely an illusion? shewondered.A few days later, on 22

February, a ‘permanentceasefire’ was announced byDeputy Commissioner SyedJavid at the Swat PressClubin Mingora. He appealed toall Swatis to return. TheTaliban spokesman MuslimKhan then confirmed theyhad agreed an indefiniteceasefire. President Zardari

would sign the peace dealinto law. The governmentalso agreed to paycompensation to the familiesofvictims.Everyone in Swat was

jubilant,butIfeltthehappiestbecause it meant schoolwould reopen properly. TheTalibansaidgirlscouldgotoschool after the peaceagreementbuttheyshouldbeveiled and covered. We said

OK, if that’swhat youwant,as long as we can live ourlives.Not everyone was happy

aboutthedeal.OurAmericanallies were furious. ‘I thinkthe Pakistan government isbasically abdicating to theTaliban and the extremists,’said Hillary Clinton, the USSecretary of State. TheAmericans were worried thedeal meant surrender. The

Pakistani newspaper Dawnwrote in an editorial that thedeal sent ‘a disastrous signal–fightthestatemilitarilyandit will give you what youwant and get nothing inreturn’.But none of those people

had to live here.We neededpeacewhoever brought it. Inour case it happened to be awhite-bearded militant calledSufiMohammad.Hemade a

‘peace camp’ in Dir and satthere in our famousmosque,Tabligh Markaz, like themaster of our land. He wastheguarantorthattheTalibanwould lay down their armsand there would be peace inthevalley.Peoplevisitedhimto pay homage and kiss hishandbecause theywere tiredofwarandsuicidebombings.InMarchIstoppedwriting

myblogasHaiKakarthought

there was not much more tosay. But to our horror thingsdidn’t change much. Ifanything the Taliban becameeven more barbaric. Theywere now state-sanctionedterrorists. We weredisillusioned anddisappointed. The peace dealwas merely a mirage. Onenight the Taliban held whatwecallaflagmarchnearourstreet and patrolled the roads

withgunsandsticksasiftheywerethearmy.They were still patrolling

the Cheena Bazaar. One daymy mother went shoppingwith my cousin as she wasgettingmarriedandwantedtobuythingsforherwedding.Atalib accosted them andblocked their way. ‘If I seeyouagainwearingascarfbutnoburqa Iwillbeatyou,’hesaid.Mymother isnoteasily

scared and remainedcomposed.‘Yes,OK.Wewillwear burqas in future,’ shetold him.Mymother alwayscoversherheadbuttheburqais not part of our Pashtuntradition.WealsoheardthatTaliban

had attacked a shopkeeperbecause an unaccompaniedwoman was looking at thelipsticks in his beauty shop.‘There is a banner in the

marketsayingwomenarenotallowed to be in your shopunaccompanied by a malerelative and you have defiedus,’ they said. He was badlybeaten and nobody helpedhim.One day I saw my father

and his friends watching avideo on his phone. It was ashocking scene. A teenagegirl wearing a black burqaand red trousers was lying

face down on the groundbeing flogged in broaddaylightbyabeardedmanina black turban. ‘Please stopit!’ she begged in Pashto inbetween screams andwhimpers as each blow wasdelivered. ‘In the name ofAllah,Iamdying!’YoucouldheartheTaliban

shouting, ‘Hold her down.Hold her hands down.’ Atonepointduringtheflogging

herburqa slips and they stopforamomenttoadjustitthencarryonbeatingher.Theyhitherthirty-fourtimes.Acrowdhadgatheredbutdidnothing.Oneofthewoman’srelativesevenvolunteeredtohelpholdherdown.Afewdays later thevideo

was everywhere. A womanfilm-maker in Islamabad gotholdofitanditwasshownonPakistan TV over and over,

and then round the world.Peoplewererightlyoutraged,but this reaction seemed oddtousasitshowedtheyhadnoideaoftheawfulthingsgoingon in our valley. I wishedtheir outrage extended to theTaliban’s banning of girls’education. Prime MinisterYusuf RazaGilani called foran inquiry and made astatementsaying thefloggingof the girl was against the

teachings of Islam. ‘Islamteaches us to treat womenpolitely,’hesaid.Somepeople evenclaimed

the video was fake. Otherssaid that the flogging hadtakenplaceinJanuary,beforethe peace deal, and had beenreleased now to sabotage it.ButMuslimKhan confirmeditwasgenuine.‘Shecameoutofherhousewithamanwhowas not her husband so we

had to punish her,’ he said.‘Some boundaries cannot becrossed.’Around the same time in

early April another well-knownjournalistcalledZahidHussain came to Swat. Hewent to visit the DC at hisofficial residence and foundhimhostingwhatappearedtobe a celebration of theTaliban takeover.Therewereseveral senior Taliban

commanders with armedescorts including MuslimKhan and even FaqirMohammad,theleaderofthemilitantsinBajaur,whowerein the middle of a bloodyfightwiththearmy.Faqirhada $200,000 bounty on hishead yet there hewas sittingin a government official’shousehavingdinner.Wealsoheard that an army brigadierwent to prayers led by

Fazlullah.‘There cannot be two

swords in one sheath,’ saidone of my father’s friends.‘Therecannotbetwokingsinone land. Who is in chargehere – the government orFazlullah?’But we still believed in

peace.Everyonewas lookingforward to a big outdoorpublic meeting on 20 AprilwhenSufiMohammadwould

addressthepeopleofSwat.We were all at home that

morning. My father andbrothers were standingoutside when a group ofteenage Taliban went pastplayingvictorysongsontheirmobiles. ‘Oh look at them,Aba,’ saidKhushal. ‘If I hada Kalashnikov I would killthem.’Itwasaperfectspringday.

Everyone was excited

because they hoped SufiMohammad would proclaimpeaceandvictoryandasktheTaliban to lay down theirarms.Myfatherdidn’tattendthe gathering. He watched itfrom the roof of SaroshAcademy, the school run byhisfriendAhmadShahwherehe and other activists oftengatheredintheevenings.Theroof overlooked the stage sosome media had set up their

camerasthere.Therewasahugecrowd–

between 30,000 and 40,000people–wearingturbansandsinging Taliban and jihadisongs. ‘It was completeTalibanisation humming,’said my father. Liberalprogressives likehimdidnotenjoy the singing andchanting.Theythoughtitwastoxic, especiallyat times likethis.

Sufi Mohammad wassitting on the stage with alongqueueofpeoplewaitingto pay homage. Themeetingstarted with recitations fromthe Chapter of Victory – asurah from the Quran –followed by speeches fromdifferent leaders in the fivedistricts of our valley –Kohistan,Malakand,Shangla,Upper Dir and Lower Dir.They were all very

enthusiastic as each one washoping to be made the amirof theirdistrict so theycouldbe in charge of imposingshariat. Later these leaderswould be killed or thrown injail, but back then theydreamed of power. Soeveryone spoke with greatauthority,celebrating like theProphet when he conqueredMecca, though his speechwas one of forgiveness not

cruelvictory.Then it was Sufi

Mohammad’s turn. He wasnot a good speaker. He wasvery old and seemed in poorhealth and rambled on forforty-five minutes. He saidtotallyunexpectedthingsasifhehadsomeoneelse’stonguein his mouth. He describedPakistan’s courts as un-Islamic and said, ‘I considerWestern democracy a system

imposedonusbytheinfidels.Islam does not allowdemocracyorelections.’Sufi Mohammad said

nothing about education. Hedidn’t tell the Taliban to laydowntheirarmsandleavethehujras.Insteadheappearedtothreaten the whole nation.‘Nowwait,wearecomingtoIslamabad,’heshouted.We were shocked. It was

like when you pour water

onto a blazing fire – theflames are suddenlyextinguished. People werebitterly disappointed andstarted abusing him. ‘Whatdid that devil say?’ peopleasked.‘He’snotforpeace;hewants more killing.’ Mymother put it best. ‘He hadthe chance to be the hero ofhistorybutdidn’ttakeit,’shesaid. Our mood on the wayhomewas the exact opposite

of what we had felt on thewaytothemeeting.Thatnightmyfatherspoke

onGeoTVand toldKamranKhan that people had hadhigh hopes but weredisappointed. SufiMohammad didn’t do whatheshouldhavedone.Hewassupposed to seal the peacedealwithaspeechcallingforreconciliation and an end toviolence.

People had differentconspiracy theories aboutwhat had happened. Somesaid Sufi Mohammad hadgonemad.Otherssaidhehadbeen ordered to deliver thisspeech and been warned, ‘Ifyou don’t, there are four orfive suicide bombers whowill blast you and everyonethere.’ People said he hadlooked uneasy on stagebefore he spoke. They

muttered about hidden handsandunseenforces.Whatdoesit matter? I wondered. Thepoint is we are a Talibanstate.My father was again busy

speaking at seminars on ourtroubleswith theTaliban.Atone the information ministerfor our province saidTalibanisation was the resultof our country’s policy oftrainingmilitantsandsending

them to Afghanistan, first tofight the Russians, then tofight the Americans. ‘If wehadnotputgunsinthehandsof madrasa students at thebehest of foreign powers wewould not be facing thisbloodbath in the tribal areasandSwat,’hesaid.It soon became clear that

theAmericanshadbeenrightin their assessment of thedeal. The Taliban believed

thePakistanigovernmenthadgiven in and they could dowhat they liked. TheystreamedintoBuner,thenextdistrict to the south-east ofSwat and only sixty-fivemilesfromIslamabad.PeopleinBuner had always resistedthe Taliban but they wereordered by the localauthoritiesnottofight.Asthemilitants arrived with theirRPGs and guns, the police

abandonedtheirposts,sayingthe Taliban had ‘superiorweapons’, and people fled.The Taliban set up shariatcourts in all districts andbroadcast sermons frommosques calling on the localyouthtojointhem.Just as they had in Swat,

theyburnedTVsets,pictures,DVDs and tapes. They eventook control of the famousshrine of a Sufi saint, Pir

Baba,whichwasapilgrimagesite. People would visit topray for spiritual guidance,cures for their ailments andeven happy marriages fortheirchildren.Butnowitwaslockedandbolted.People in the lower

districts of Pakistan becamevery worried as the Talibanmoved towards the capital.Everyone seemed to haveseen the video of the girl in

theblackburqabeingfloggedandwereasking,‘Isthiswhatwe want in Pakistan?’Militants had killed Benazir,blown up the country’s best-knownhotel,killedthousandsofpeopleinsuicidebombingsandbeheadingsanddestroyedhundreds of schools. Whatmore would it take for thearmy and government toresistthem?In Washington the

government of PresidentObamahad justannounced itwas sending 21,000 moretroops toAfghanistan to turnround the war against theTaliban. But now theyseemed to be more alarmedabout Pakistan thanAfghanistan. Not because ofgirls like me and my schoolbut because our country hasmore than 200 nuclearwarheads and they were

worriedaboutwhowasgoingto control them. They talkedabout stopping their billionsof dollars in aid and sendingtroopsinstead.At the start of May our

army launched OperationTruePathtodrivetheTalibanout of Swat. We heard theywere dropping hundreds ofcommandos from helicoptersinto the mountains in thenorth. More troops appeared

in Mingora too. This timethey would clear the town.They announced overmegaphones thatall residentsshouldleave.My father said we should

stay. But the gunfire kept usawakemostnights.Everyonewas in a continuous state ofanxiety. One night we werewoken up by screaming.Wehad recently got somepets –three white chickens and a

white rabbit that one ofKhushal’s friends had givenhimandwhichweletwanderaround the house. Atal wasonly five then and reallylovedthatrabbitsoitusedtosleep undermy parents’ bed.But it used to weeeverywhere so that night weput it outside. Aroundmidnight a cat came andkilled it. We all heard therabbit’s agonised cries. Atal

wouldnotstopweeping.‘LetthesuncomeandIwillteachthat cat a lesson tomorrow,’he said. ‘I will kill him.’ Itseemedlikeabadomen.

15

LeavingtheValley

LEAVING THE VALLEY washarder than anything I haddone before. I rememberedthe tapa my grandmother

used to recite: ‘No Pashtunleaves his land of his ownsweet will./ Either he leavesfrompovertyorheleavesforlove.’ Now we were beingdriven out for a third reasonthe tapa writer had neverimagined–theTaliban.Leavingourhomefelt like

havingmyheartrippedout.Istood on our roof looking atthe mountains, the snow-topped Mount Elum where

Alexander the Great hadreached up and touchedJupiter. I looked at the treesallcomingintoleaf.Thefruitof our apricot tree might beeaten by someone else thisyear. Everything was silent,pin-dropsilent.Therewasnosound from the river or thewind;eventhebirdswerenotchirping.I wanted to cry because I

feltinmyheartImightnever

see my home again. Thedocumentary makers hadaskedmehowIwouldfeelifonedayIleftSwatandnevercameback.At thetimeIhadthought it was a stupidquestion, but now I saw thateverything I could notimagine happening hadhappened. I thought myschoolwouldnotcloseandithad. I thought we wouldnever leave Swat and we

were just about to. I thoughtSwat would be free of theTaliban one day and wewould rejoice, but now Irealised that might nothappen. I started to cry. Itwas as if everyone had beenwaiting for someone else tostart. My cousin’s wife,Honey, startedweeping, thenallofuswerecrying.Butmymother was very composedandcourageous.

I put all my books andnotebooks in my school bagthen packed another bag ofclothes. I couldn’t thinkstraight. I took the trousersfromonesetandthetopfromanother so I had a bag ofthings which didn’t match. Ididn’t take anyofmy schoolawards or photos or personalbelongings as we weretravelling in someone else’scarandtherewaslittleroom.

We didn’t own anythingexpensive like a laptop orjewellery–ouronlyvaluableitems had been our TV, afridge and a washingmachine. We didn’t lead alife of luxury – we Pashtunsprefer to sit on floors ratherthan chairs. Our house hasholes in thewalls, and everyplateandcupiscracked.My father had resisted

leaving till the end.But then

some of my parents’ friendshad lost a relative in gunfireso theywent to the house tooffer prayers of condolenceseven though nobody wasreally venturing out. Seeingtheir grief made my motherdetermined to leave.She toldmyfather,‘Youdon’thavetocome, but I am going and Iwill take the children toShangla.’ She knew hecouldn’tlethergoalone.My

motherhadhadenoughofthegunfireandtensionandcalledDr Afzal and begged him topersuade my father to leave.Heandhisfamilyweregoingso they offered us a lift.Wedidn’thaveacar sowewerelucky that our neighbours,Safina and her family, werealso leaving and could fitsomeofus in their carwhilethe rest would go with DrAfzal.

On5May2009webecameIDPs. Internally displacedpersons. It sounded like adisease.Therewerealotofus–not

just us five but also mygrandmother, my cousin, hiswife, Honey, and their baby.My brothers also wanted totaketheirpetchickens–minehaddiedbecause Iwashed itin cold water on a winter’sday. It wouldn’t revive even

whenIput it inashoeboxinthehousetokeepitwarmandgot everyone in theneighbourhood to pray for it.Mymother refused to let thechickens come.What if theymake amess in the car? sheasked.Atalsuggestedwebuythem nappies! In the endweleft themwith a lot ofwaterandcorn.ShealsosaidImustleavemyschoolbagbecausetherewassolittleroom.Iwas

horrified. I went andwhispered Quranic versesover the books to try andprotectthem.Finally everyone was

ready. My mother, father,grandmother, my cousin’swife and baby and mybrothersallsquashedintothebackofDrAfzal’svanalongwith his wife and children.There were children in thelaps of adults and smaller

children in their laps. I wasluckier – there were fewerpeopleinSafina’scar–butIwasdevastatedbythelossofmyschoolbag.BecauseIhadpacked my books separately,I had had to leave them allbehind.Weallsaidsurahsfromthe

Quranandaspecialprayertoprotect our sweet homes andschool. Then Safina’s fatherputhis footon thepedal and

away we drove out of thesmall world of our street,homeandschoolandintotheunknown.Wedidnotknowifwe would ever see our townagain. We had seen picturesofhowthearmyhadflattenedeverything in an operationagainst militants in Bajaurand we thought everythingweknewwouldbedestroyed.The streets were jam-

packed. I had never seen

them so busy before. Therewerecarseverywhere,aswellas rickshaws,mule carts andtrucks ladenwith people andtheir belongings. There wereeven motorbikes with entirefamilies balanced on them.Thousands of people wereleaving with just the clothestheyhadontheirbacks.Itfeltasifthewholevalleywasonthe move. Some peoplebelieve that the Pashtuns

descend from one of the losttribesofIsrael,andmyfathersaid, ‘It is as though we arethe Israelites leaving Egypt,but we have no Moses toguide us.’ Few people knewwhere they were going, theyjust knew they had to leave.This was the biggest exodusinPashtunhistory.Usually there are many

waysoutofMingora,but theTalibanhadcutdownseveral

huge apple trees and usedthemtoblocksomeroutessoeveryone was squashed ontothe same road. We were anoceanofpeople.TheTalibanpatrolled the roadswithgunsandwatchedusfromthetopsof buildings. They werekeeping the cars in lines butwith weapons not whistles.‘TrafficTaliban,’wejokedtotryandkeepourspiritsup.Atregular intervals along the

road we passed army andTaliban checkpoints side byside. Once again the armywas seemingly unaware oftheTaliban’spresence.‘Maybe they have poor

eyesight,’ we laughed, ‘andcan’tseethem.’Theroadwasheavingwith

traffic. It was a long slowjourneyandwewereallverysweaty crammed in together.Usually car journeys are an

adventure for us children aswe rarely go anywhere. Butthis was different. Everyonewasdepressed.Inside Dr Afzal’s van my

father was talking to themedia, giving a runningcommentary on the exodusfrom the valley. My motherkept telling him to keep hisvoice down for fear theTalibanwould hear him.Myfather’s voice is so loud my

mother often jokes that hedoesn’t need to make phonecalls,hecanjustshout.Finallywegot through the

mountain pass at Malakandand left Swat behind. It waslateafternoonbythetimewereached Mardan, which is ahotandbusycity.My fatherkept insisting to

everyone ‘in a few days wewill return. Everything willbe fine.’ But we knew that

wasnottrue.In Mardan there were

already big camps of whiteUNHCR tents like those forAfghanrefugeesinPeshawar.We weren’t going to stay inthecampsbecause itwas theworst idea ever. Almost twomillion of us were fleeingSwat and you couldn’t havefitted two million people inthose camps. Even if therewas a tent for us, it was far

too hot inside and there wastalkthatdiseaseslikecholerawere spreading. My fathersaid he had heard rumoursthat some Talibanwere evenhiding inside the camps andharassingthewomen.Thosewhocould,stayedin

the homes of local people orwith family and friends.Amazingly three-quarters ofall the IDPs were put up bythepeopleofMardanandthe

nearby town of Swabi. Theyopened the doors of theirhomes, schools andmosquestotherefugees.Inourculturewomen are expected not tomix with men they are notrelated to. Inorder toprotectwomen’s purdah, men infamilies hosting the refugeeseven slept away from theirown homes. They becamevoluntary IDPs. It was anastonishing example of

Pashtunhospitality.Wewereconvinced that if the exodushad been managed by thegovernment many morewould have died of hungerandillness.As we had no relatives in

Mardanwewere planning tomakeourwaytoShangla,ourfamilyvillage.Sofarwehaddriven in the oppositedirection, but we had had totaketheonlyliftwecouldget

outofSwat.Wespentthatfirstnightin

the home of Dr Afzal. Myfather then left us to go toPeshawar and alert people towhat was happening. Hepromised to meet us later inShangla. My mother triedveryhard topersuadehim tocomewithusbuthe refused.He wanted the people ofPeshawar and Islamabad tobe aware of the terrible

conditions in which IDPswere living and that themilitary were doing nothing.We said goodbye and wereterribly worried we wouldn’tseehimagain.The next daywe got a lift

to Abbottabad, where mygrandmother’s family lived.There we met up with mycousin Khanjee, who washeadingnorthlikeus.Herana boys’ hostel in Swat and

was taking seven or eightboys to Kohistan by coach.He was going to Besham,from where we would needanother lift to take us toShangla.Itwasnightfallbythetime

we reachedBesham asmanyroadswereblocked.Wespentthe night in a cheap dirtyhotelwhilemycousintriedtoarrange a van to take us toShangla. A man came near

mymother and she took hershoe off and hit him oncethen twice and he ran away.She had hit him so hard thatwhenshelookedattheshoeitwas broken. I always knewmy mother was a strongwoman but I looked at herwithnewrespect.Itwasnoteasytogetfrom

Beshamtoourvillageandwehad to walk twenty-fivekilometres carrying all our

things.Atonepointwewerestopped by the army, whotolduswecouldgonofurtherand must turn back. ‘Ourhome is in Shangla. Wherewillwe go?’webegged.Mygrandmother started cryingandsayingher lifehadneverbeensobad.Finally, they letus through. The army andtheir machine guns wereeverywhere. Because of thecurfew and the checkpoints

there was not one othervehicleontheroadthatdidn’tbelong to the military. Wewere afraid that the armywouldn’tknowwhowewereandwouldshootus.When we reached the

village our family wasastonished to see us.Everyone believed theTaliban would return toShangla so they couldn’tunderstand why we hadn’t

remainedinMardan.We stayed inmymother’s

village, Karshat, with myuncle Faiz Mohammad andhisfamily.Wehadtoborrowclothes from our relatives aswe hadn’t brought much. Iwas happy to be with mycousinSumbul,whoisayearolderthanme.Onceweweresettled I started going toschoolwithher.IwasinYear6 but started inYear 7 to be

with Sumbul. There wereonlythreegirlsinthatyearasmost of the village girls ofthat agedonot go to school,sowewere taughtwith boysas they didn’t have enoughroom or staff to teach justthree girls separately. I wasdifferenttotheothergirlsasIdidn’t cover my face and Iused to talk to every teacherandaskquestions.ButItriedto be obedient and polite,

alwayssaying,‘Yes,sir.’Ittookoverhalfanhourto

walktoschool,andbecauseIam bad at getting up in themorning the second day wewere late. I was shockedwhentheteacherhitmyhandwithasticktopunishme,butthen decided that at least itmeant they were acceptingme and not treating medifferently. My uncle evengavemepocketmoneytobuy

snacks at school – they soldcucumber and watermelonnot sweets and crisps like inMingora.One day at school there

wasaparents’dayandprize-giving ceremony, and all theboys were encouraged tomake speeches. Some of thegirlsalsotookpart,butnotinpublic. Insteadwespoke intoa microphone in ourclassrooms and our voices

were then projected into themain hall. But Iwas used tospeaking in public so I cameout and in front of all theboys I recited one naat, apoem in which I praised theProphet. Then I asked theteacher if I could read somemore poetry. I read a poemabout working hard toachieve your heart’s desires.‘A diamond must be cutmany times before it yields

even a tiny jewel,’ I said.After that I spoke of mynamesake, Malalai ofMaiwand, who had strengthand power equal to hundredsand thousands of brave menbecause her few lines ofpoetrychangedeverythingsotheBritishweredefeated.People in the audience

seemed surprised and Iwondered whether theythought Iwasshowingoffor

whether they were askingthemselves why I wasn’twearingaveil.Itwas nice beingwithmy

cousins but I missed mybooks. I kept thinking ofmyschool bag at home withcopies of Oliver Twist andRomeo and Juliet waiting tobe read and the Ugly BettyDVDs on the shelf.But nowwe were living our owndrama. We had been so

happy, then something verybad had come into our livesandwewerenowwaitingforour happy ending. When Icomplained about my booksmy brothers whined abouttheirchickens.We’d heard on the radio

that the army had started thebattle forMingora.Theyhadparachuted in soldiers andthere had been hand-to-handfighting in the streets. The

Talibanwereusinghotelsandgovernment buildings asbunkers. After four days themilitary took three squaresincluding Green Chowk,where the Taliban used todisplay the beheaded bodiesof their victims. Then theycaptured the airport and in aweektheyhadtakenbackthecity.We continued to worry

aboutmyfather.InShanglait

was hard to find a mobilephone signal. We had toclimbontoahugeboulder ina field, and even then werarelyhadmore thanonebarof reception so we hardlyever spoke to him. But afterwe had been in Shangla forabout six weeks, my fathersaid we could travel toPeshawar,wherehehadbeenstaying in one room withthreefriends.

It was very emotional tosee him again. Then, acomplete family once more,we travelled down toIslamabad, where we stayedwith the family of Shiza, theladywho had called us fromStanford. While we werethere we heard thatAmbassador RichardHolbrooke, the Americanenvoy to Pakistan andAfghanistan, was holding a

meeting in the Serena Hotelabout the conflict, and myfather and I managed to getinside.We almost missed it as I

hadn’t set the alarm properlyso my father was barelyspeaking to me. Holbrookewas a big gruff man with ared face but people said hehad helped bring peace toBosnia. Isatnext tohimandheaskedmehowoldIwas.‘I

am twelve,’ I replied, tryingto look as tall as possible.‘Respected Ambassador, Irequest you, please help usgirls to get an education,’ Isaid.He laughed. ‘You already

havelotsofproblemsandweare doing lots for you,’ hereplied. ‘We have pledgedbillions of dollars ineconomic aid; we areworking with your

government on providingelectricity, gas . . . but yourcountry faces a lot ofproblems.’I did an interview with a

radiostationcalledPower99.They liked it verymuch andtoldustheyhadaguesthousein Abbottabad where wecouldallgo.Westayedtherefor a week and to my joy Iheard Moniba was also inAbbottabad, as was one of

our teachers and anotherfriend.Moniba and I hadnotspokensinceour fighton thelast day before becomingIDPs.Wearrangedtomeetina park, and I brought herPepsiandbiscuits.‘Itwasallyour fault,’ she told me. Iagreed. I didn’t mind; I justwantedtobefriends.Ourweekattheguesthouse

soon ended and we went toHaripur, where one of my

aunts lived. Itwasour fourthcity in two months. I knewwewerebetteroff thanthosewho lived in the camps,queuing for food and waterfor hours under the hot sun,butImissedmyvalley.Itwasthere I spent my twelfthbirthday. Nobodyremembered.Evenmy fatherforgot, he was so busyhopping about. I was upsetandrecalledhowdifferentmy

eleventhbirthdayhadbeen. Ihad shared a cake with myfriends. There were balloonsandIhadmadethesamewishI was making onmy twelfthbirthday, but this time therewas no cake and there werenocandlestoblowout.Onceagain I wished for peace inourvalley.

PARTTHREE

ThreeGirls,ThreeBullets

SirdepalowarategakegdaPradaywatandepakinishtabalakhtona

OWayfarer!Restyourheadonthe

stonycobblestoneItisaforeignland–notthecityofyourkings!

16

TheValleyofSorrows

IT ALL SEEMED like a baddream. We had been awayfrom our valley for almostthreemonthsandaswedrove

backpastChurchill’sPicket,pastthe

ancient ruins on the hill andthe giant Buddhist stupa, wesawthewideSwatRiverandmy father began to weep.Swat seemed to be undercomplete military control.Thevehiclewewere in evenhad to pass through anexplosives check before wecould head up the MalakandPass. Once we got over the

other side and down into thevalley it seemed there werearmycheckpointseverywhereand soldiers had made nestsfor theirmachine guns on somanyoftherooftops.As we drove through

villages we saw buildings inruins and burned-outvehicles.Itmademethinkofold war movies or the videogames my brother Khushalloves to play. When we

reached Mingora we wereshocked. The army andTaliban had fought street tostreet and almost every wallwas pockmarked with bulletholes. There was the rubbleof blown-up buildings whichthe Taliban had used ashideouts, and piles ofwreckage, twisted metal andsmashed-up signs. Most ofthe shops had heavy metalshutters;thosethatdidn’thad

been looted. The city wassilent and emptied of peopleand traffic as if aplaguehaddescended. The strangestsight of all was the busstation. Usually it’s acompleteconfusionofFlyingCoaches and rickshaws, butnow it was completelydeserted.Weevensawplantsgrowing up through thecracksinthepaving.Wehadneverseenourcitylikethis.

At least there was no signoftheTaliban.It was 24 July 2009, a

weekafterourprimeministerhad announced that theTalibanhadbeenclearedout.He promised that the gassupplyhadbeenrestoredandthat the banks werereopening, and called on thepeople of Swat to return. Intheendasmanyashalfofits1.8 million population had

leftourvalley.Fromwhatwecould see, most of themweren’tconvinceditwassafetoreturn.Aswedrewclose tohome

we all fell silent, even mylittle brother, Atal thechatterbox. Our home wasnearCircuitHouse, the armyheadquarters, so we wereworried it might have beendestroyed in the shelling.We’d also heard that many

homes had been looted. Weheld our breath as my fatherunlocked the gate. The firstthingwe sawwas that in thethreemonthswe’dbeenawaythe garden had become ajungle.My brothers immediately

rushed off to check on theirpetchickens.Theycamebackcrying. All that remained ofthe chickens was a pile offeathersandthebonesoftheir

small bodies entangled as iftheyhaddied in an embrace.Theyhadstarvedtodeath.I felt so sad for my

brothersbutIhadtocheckonsomethingofmyown.Tomyjoy I found my school bagstill packed with my books,and I gave thanks that myprayers had been answeredandthattheyweresafe.Itookoutmybooksonebyoneandjust stared at them. Maths,

physics, Urdu, English,Pashto, chemistry, biology,Islamiyat, Pakistan studies.Finally I would be able toreturntoschoolwithoutfear.ThenIwentandsatonmy

bed.Iwasoverwhelmed.We were lucky our house

had not been broken into.FourorfiveofthehousesonourstreethadbeenlootedandTVs and gold jewellery hadbeen taken. Safina’s mother

next door had deposited hergold in a bank vault forsafekeepingandeventhathadbeenlooted.My father was anxious to

check on the school. I wentwith him.We found that thebuilding opposite the girls’school had been hit by amissile but the school itselflooked intact. For somereason my father’s keyswouldnotwork sowe found

a boy who climbed over thewall and opened it from theinside. We ran up the stepsanticipatingtheworst.‘Someone has been in

here,’my father said as soonas we entered the courtyard.There were cigarette stubsand empty foodwrappers allover the floor. Chairs hadbeen upended and the spacewas a mess. My father hadtaken down the Khushal

School sign and left it in thecourtyard. It was leaningagainst the wall and Iscreamed as we lifted it.Underneath were the rottingheadsofgoats. It looked likethe remains of someone’sdinner.Then we went into the

classrooms. Anti-Talibanslogans were scrawled allover thewalls. Someone hadwritten army zindabad (Long

live the army) on awhiteboard in permanentmarker. Now we knew whohad been living there. Onesoldier had even writtencorny love poems in one ofmyclassmate’sdiaries.Bulletcasingslitteredthefloor.Thesoldiers had made a hole inthe wall through which youcould see the city below.Maybe theyhadeven shot atpeople through that hole. I

felt sorry that our preciousschool had become abattlefield.While we were looking

around we heard someonebanging on the doordownstairs. ‘Don’t open it,Malala!’myfatherordered.In his office my father

found a letter left by thearmy. It blamed citizens likeusforallowingtheTalibantocontrol Swat. ‘We have lost

somanyofthepreciouslivesofoursoldiersandthisisduetoyournegligence.LonglivePakArmy,’heread.‘This is typical,’ he said.

‘WepeopleofSwatwerefirstseduced by the Taliban, thenkilled by them and nowblamed for them. Seduced,killedandblamed.’Insomewaysthearmydid

notseemverydifferenttothemilitants. One of our

neighbours told us he hadeven seen them leaving thebodiesofdeadTalibaninthestreets for all to see. Nowtheirhelicoptersflewinpairsoverhead like big blackbuzzinginsects,andwhenwewalkedhomewestayedcloseto thewallsso theywouldn’tseeus.Weheardthatthousandsof

people had been arrestedincluding boys as young as

eight who had beenbrainwashed to train forsuicide bombing missions.The army was sending themto a special camp for jihadistode-radicalise them.Oneofthe people arrested was ourold Urdu teacher who hadrefusedtoteachgirlsandhadinstead gone to helpFazlullah’s men collect anddestroyCDsandDVDs.Fazlullah himself was still

at large. The army haddestroyed his headquarters inImamDeri and then claimedtohavehimsurroundedinthemountains of Peochar. Thenthey said he was badlyinjured and that they had hisspokesman,MuslimKhan, incustody. Later the storychanged and they reportedthat Fazlullah had escapedinto Afghanistan and was intheprovinceofKunar.Some

peoplesaidthatFazlullahhadbeen captured but that thearmy and the ISI couldn’tagreeonwhattodowithhim.The army had wanted toimprison him, but theintelligence service hadprevailed and taken him toBajaur so that he could slipacross the border toAfghanistan.Muslim Khan and another

commander called Mehmud

seemed to be the onlymembers of the Talibanleadership who were incustody– all theotherswerestillfree.AslongasFazlullahwas still around I was afraidthe Taliban would regroupand return to power. Isometimes had nightmares,but at least his radiobroadcastshadstopped.My father’s friend Ahmad

Shah called it a ‘controlled

peace, not a durable peace’.Butgraduallypeoplereturnedto thevalleybecauseSwat isbeautiful andwe cannot beartobeawayfromitforlong.Ourschoolbellrangagainforthe first timeon1August. Itwas wonderful to hear thatsound and run through thedoorway and up the steps aswe used to. I was overjoyedtoseeallmyoldfriends.Wehadsomanystoriesfromour

timeasIDPs.Mostofushadstayedwith friends or familybut some had been in thecamps. We knew we werelucky. Many children had tohave their classes in tentsbecause the Taliban haddestroyed their schools. Andone of my friends, Sundus,had lost her father, who hadbeenkilledinanexplosion.It seemed like everyone

knew I had written the BBC

diary. Some thought myfatherhaddone it formebutMadam Maryam, ourprincipal, told them, ‘No.Malala is not just a goodspeaker but also a goodwriter.’That summer there was onlyone topic of conversation inmy class. Shiza Shahid, ourfriend from Islamabad, hadfinished her studies inStanford and invited twenty-

seven girls from theKhushalSchooltospendafewdaysinthe capital seeing the sightsand takingpart inworkshopstohelpusgetoverthetraumaof living under the Taliban.Those from my class wereme, Moniba, Malka-e-Noor,Rida, Karishma and Sundus,and we were chaperoned bymy mother and MadamMaryam.We left for the capital on

Independence Day, 14August,andtravelledbybus,everyone brimming withexcitement.Most of the girlshad only ever left the valleywhenwe became IDPs. Thiswas different and verymuchlike the holidays we readaboutinnovels.Westayedina guesthouse and did lots ofworkshopsonhowtotellourstories so people outsidewould knowwhatwas going

on inourvalleyandhelpus.Right from the first session Ithink Shiza was surprisedhow strong-willed and vocalweallwere. ‘It’sa roomfullof Malalas!’ she told myfather.We also had fun doing

things like going to the parkandlisteningtomusic,whichmightseemordinaryformostpeoplebutwhichinSwathadbecome acts of political

protest. And we saw thesights. We visited the FaisalMosque at the base of theMargalla Hills, which wasbuilt by the Saudis formillions of rupees. It is hugeand white and looks like ashimmering tent suspendedbetween minarets. We wenton our first ever visit to thetheatretoseeanEnglishplaycalled Tom, Dick and Harryandhadartclasses.Weateat

restaurants and had our firstvisit to aMcDonald’s. Therewere lots of firsts although Ihad to miss a meal in aChinese restaurant because Iwas on a TV show calledCapital Talk. To this day Istill haven’t got to try duckpancakes!Islamabad was totally

different to Swat. It was asdifferent for us as Islamabadis to New York. Shiza

introducedus towomenwhowerelawyersanddoctorsandalso activists, which showedus that women could doimportant jobs yet still keeptheir culture and traditions.Wesawwomeninthestreetswithout purdah, their headscompletely uncovered. Istopped wearing my shawlovermyhead in someof themeetings, thinking I hadbecomeamoderngirl.LaterI

realised that simply havingyour head uncovered isn’twhatmakesyoumodern.We were there one week

andpredictablyMonibaandIquarrelled. She saw megossiping with a girl in theyear above and told me,‘Now you are with ReshamandIamwithRida.’Shiza wanted to introduce

us to influential people. Inour country of course this

oftenmeansthemilitary.Oneof our meetings was withMajor General Athar Abbas,the chief spokesman for thearmy and its head of publicrelations. We drove toIslamabad’s twin city ofRawalpindi to see him in hisoffice. Our eyes widenedwhen we saw that the armyheadquarters was so muchneaterthantherestofthecitywith perfect green lawns and

blossomingflowers.Eventhetrees were all the same sizewith the trunkspaintedwhiteto exactly halfway up – wedidn’t know why. Inside theHQ we saw offices withbanks of televisions, menmonitoring every channel,and one officer showed myfather a thick file of cuttingswhich contained everymention of the army in thatday’spapers.Hewasamazed.

Thearmyseemedmuchmoreeffective at PR than ourpoliticians.We were taken into a hall

towaitforthegeneral.Onthewallswerephotographsofallour army chiefs, the mostpowerfulmen in our countryincluding dictators likeMusharraf and scary Zia. Aservant with white glovesbrought us tea and biscuitsand small meat samosas that

melted in ourmouths.WhenGeneralAbbascameinweallstoodup.He began by telling us

about the military operationin Swat, which he presentedas a victory. He said 128soldiers and 1,600 terroristshad been killed in theoperation.Afterhefinishedwecould

ask questions. We had beentold to prepare questions in

advanceandIhadmadealistof seven or eight. Shiza hadlaughedandsaidhewouldn’tbeable toanswersomany. Isat in the front row andwasthe first to be called on. Iasked, ‘Two or threemonthsagoyoutoldusFazlullahandhis deputy were shot andinjured, and then you saidthey were in Swat andsometimesyousaythey’reinAfghanistan. How did they

get there? If you have somuch information,why can’tyoucatchthem?’Hisreplywentonforabout

ten to fifteen minutes and Icouldn’t work out what hisanswer was! Then I askedabout reconstruction. ‘Thearmy must do something forthe future of the valley, notjust focus on the militaryoperation,’Isaid.Moniba asked something

similar.‘Whowillreconstructall these buildings andschools?’ she wanted toknow.The general replied in a

verymilitaryway. ‘After theoperation, first we will haverecovery, then rehabilitation,thenholdandtransfertocivilauthorities.’Allofusgirlsmadeitclear

that we wanted to see theTalibanbroughttojustice,but

we weren’t very convincedthiswouldhappen.Afterwards General Abbas

gave some of us his visitingcard and told us to contacthim if we ever neededanything.On the lastdayweallhad

to give a speech at theIslamabad Club about ourexperiences in the valleyunder Taliban rule. WhenMoniba spoke she couldn’t

control her tears. Sooneveryone was weeping. Wehad enjoyed a glimpse of adifferentlifeinIslamabad.InmyspeechItoldtheaudiencethat until I had watched theEnglish play I had no ideathere were so many talentedpeople in Pakistan. ‘Nowwerealise we don’t need towatch Indian movies,’ Ijoked.We’dhadawonderfultime, and when we got back

to Swat I felt so hopefulabout the future I planted amango seed in the gardenduringRamadanastheyareafavourite fruit to eat afterbreakingthefast.But my father had a big

problem.Whilewe had beenIDPs and for all the monthstheschoolhadbeenclosedhehadcollectednofees,buttheteachers still expected to bepaid. Altogether that would

be over one million rupees.All the private schools werein the sameboat.Oneschoolgaveitsteacherssalariesforamonth,butmostdidn’tknowwhat to do as they couldn’taffordtopay.Theteachersatthe Khushal Schooldemanded something. Theyhad their own expenses, andoneof them,MissHera,wasabout togetmarried andhadbeen relying on her salary to

helppayfortheceremony.My father was in a fix.

Then we rememberedGeneral Abbas and hisvisiting card. It was becauseofthearmyoperationtoexpelthe Taliban that we had allhad to leave and foundourselves in this situationnow.SoMadamMaryamandI wrote an email to GeneralAbbas explaining thesituation. He was very kind

and sent us 1,100,000 rupeesso my father could payeveryone threemonths’ backpay. The teachers were sohappy. Most had neverreceived so much money atonce. Miss Hera called myfather in tears, grateful thather wedding could go aheadasplanned.This didn’t meanwewent

easy on the army. We werevery unhappy about the

army’s failure to capture theTaliban leadership, and myfatherandIcontinuedtogivelots of interviews. We wereoften joined by my father’sfriend Zahid Khan, a fellowmember of the Swat QaumiJirga. He was also thepresident of the All SwatHotelsAssociation,sohewasparticularly eager for life togo back to normal so thattouristscouldreturn.Likemy

fatherhewasveryoutspokenand had been threatened too.OnenightinNovember2009he had had a very narrowescape. Zahid Khan wasreturning tohishome fromameetingwitharmyofficialsatCircuit House late at nightwhen he was ambushed.Fortunately, many of hisfamily live in the same areaand theyexchanged firewiththeattackers, forcing themto

flee.Thenon1December2009

therewas a suicide attackona well-known local ANPpolitician andmember of theKhyber Pakhtunkhwaassembly, Dr Shamsher AliKhan. He had been greetingfriends and constituents forEid at his hujra, just a milefrom Imam Deri whereFazlullah’s headquarters hadbeen, when the bomb went

off.DrShamsherhadbeenanoutspoken critic of theTaliban.He died on the spotand nine other people wereinjured. People said thebomber was about eighteenyears old. The police foundhislegsandotherpartsofhisbody.A couple of weeks after

that our school was asked totakepartintheDistrictChildAssembly Swat, which had

been set up by the charityUNICEF and by the KhpalKor (My Home) Foundationfor orphans. Sixty studentsfrom all over Swat had beenchosen as members. Theywere mostly boys althougheleven girls from my schoolwentalong.Thefirstmeetingwas in a hall with lots ofpoliticians and activists. Weheld an election for speakerand Iwon! It was strange to

stand up there on the stageand have people address measMadamSpeaker,butitfeltgood to have our voicesheard. The assembly waselectedforayearandwemetalmost every month. Wepassed nine resolutionscalling for an end to childlabourandasking forhelp tosend the disabled and streetchildren to school, aswellasfor the reconstruction of all

the schools destroyed by theTaliban.Once theresolutionswere agreed, they were sentto officials and a handfulwereevenactedon.Moniba,AyeshaandIalso

started learning aboutjournalism from a Britishorganisation called theInstitute for War and PeaceReporting, which ran aproject called Open MindsPakistan. It was fun learning

howtoreportissuesproperly.I had become interested injournalism after seeing howmyownwordscouldmakeadifference and also fromwatching the Ugly BettyDVDs about life at anAmerican magazine. Thiswasabitdifferent–whenwewrote about subjects close toour hearts these were topicslike extremism and theTaliban rather than clothes

andhairstyles.Alltoosoonitwasanother

yearof exams. I beatMalka-e-Noor for first place againalthough it was close. Ourheadmistress had tried topersuade her to be a schoolprefect but she said shecouldn’t do anything thatmight distract her from herstudies.‘Youshouldbemorelike Malala and do otherthings,’saidMadamMaryam.

‘It’sjustasimportantasyoureducation. Work isn’teverything.’ But I couldn’tblameher.She reallywantedto please her parents,particularlyhermother.Itwasn’t thesameSwatas

before – maybe it neverwould be – but it wasreturning to normal. Evensome of the dancers of BanrBazaar had moved back,although they were mostly

making DVDs to sell, ratherthan performing live. Weenjoyed peace festivals withmusic and dancing, unheardof under the Taliban. Myfather organised one of thefestivals in Marghazar andinvited thosewhohadhostedtheIDPsinthelowerdistrictsas a thank you. There wasmusicallnightlong.Things often seemed to

happen around my birthday,

and around the time I turnedthirteen in July2010 the raincame. We normally don’thave monsoons in Swat andat first we were happy,thinkingtherainwouldmeana good harvest. But it wasrelentless and so heavy thatyou couldn’t even see theperson standing in front ofyou. Environmentalists hadwarned that our mountainshadbeenstrippedof treesby

the Taliban and timbersmugglers. Soon muddyfloods were raging down thevalleys, sweeping awayeverythingintheirwake.We were in school when

the floods started and weresent home. But there was somuch water that the bridgeacross the dirty stream wassubmergedsowehad to findanotherway.Thenextbridgewe came to was also

submerged but the waterwasn’t too deep so wesplashed our way across. Itsmelt foul.Wewerewet andfilthy by the time we gothome.Thenextdayweheardthat

the school had been flooded.It took days for the water todrain away and when wereturned we could see chest-high tidemarkson thewalls.There was mud, mud, mud

everywhere. Our desks andchairs were covered with it.The classrooms smeltdisgusting. There was somuchdamage that it costmyfather90,000rupeestorepair– equivalent to the monthlyfeesforninetystudents.It was the same story

throughout Pakistan. Themighty Indus River, whichflows from the Himalayasdown through KPK and

Punjab to Karachi and theArabianSea,andofwhichweare soproud,had turned intoa raging torrent and burst itsbanks. Roads, crops andentire villages were washedaway. Around 2,000 peopledrowned and 14 millionpeople were affected. Manyof them lost their homes and7,000schoolsweredestroyed.It was the worst flood inliving memory. The head of

the United Nations, Ban Ki-moon, called it a ‘slow-motion tsunami’. We readthat more lives had beenaffected and more damagehadbeencausedbythefloodsthan the Asian tsunami, our2005 earthquake, HurricaneKatrina and the Haitiearthquakecombined.Swatwasoneoftheplaces

most affected. Thirty-four ofour forty-two bridges had

been washed away, cuttingoff much of the valley.Electric pylons had beensmashed into pieces so wehadnopower.Ourownstreetwasonahillsowewereabitbetter protected from theoverflowing river, but weshivered at the sound of it, agrowling, heavy-breathingdragon devouring everythingin its path. The riversidehotels and restaurants where

tourists used to eat trout andenjoy the views were alldestroyed. The tourist areaswere the hardest hit parts ofSwat.Hill station resorts likeMalam Jabba, Madyan andBahrain were devastated,their hotels and bazaars inruins.We soon heard from our

relatives that the damage inShangla was unimaginable.Themain road to our village

from Alpuri, the capital ofShangla, had been washedaway, and entire villagesweresubmerged.ManyofthehousesonthehillyterracesofKarshat, Shahpur andBarkana had been taken bymudslides. My mother’sfamily home, where UncleFaiz Mohammad lived, wasstill standing but the road itstoodonhadvanished.People had desperately

tried to protect what littlethey owned, moving theiranimalstohigherground,butthe floods saturated the corntheyhadharvested,destroyedthe orchards and drownedmany of the buffaloes. Thevillagerswere helpless.Theyhad no power, as all theirmakeshift hydroelectricprojectshadbeensmashedtopieces. They had no cleanwateras the riverwasbrown

withwreckageanddebris.Sostrong was the force of thewater that even concretebuildingshadbeenreducedtorubble. The school, hospitaland electricity station alongthemain roadwere all razedtotheground.No one could understand

how this had happened.Peoplehad livedby the riverin Swat for 3,000 years andalwaysseenitasour lifeline,

notathreat,andourvalleyasa haven from the outsideworld. Now we had become‘the valley of sorrows’, saidmycousinSultanRome.Firstthe earthquake, then theTaliban, then the militaryoperationandnow,justaswewere starting to rebuild,devastating floods arrived towash all our work away.People were desperatelyworried that the Taliban

would take advantage of thechaosandreturntothevalley.Myfathersentfoodandaid

to Shangla using moneycollected by friends and theSwat Association of PrivateSchools.OurfriendShizaandsome of the activists we hadmet in Islamabad came toMingora and distributed lotsofmoney.Butjustlikeduringtheearthquake, itwasmainlyvolunteers from Islamic

groups who were the first toarriveinthemoreremoteandisolatedareaswithaid.Manysaid the floods were anotherreproof from God for themusic and dancing we hadenjoyed at the recentfestivals.Theconsolationthistime,however,wasthattherewas no radio to spread thismessage!Whileallthissufferingwas

going on, while people were

losing their loved ones, theirhomes and their livelihoods,our president, Asif Zardari,wasonholidayatachateauinFrance.‘Iamconfused,Aba,’I told my father. ‘What’sstopping each and everypolitician from doing goodthings?Why would they notwantourpeopletobesafe,tohavefoodandelectricity?’After the Islamic groups

themainhelp came from the

army.Notjustourarmy.TheAmericans also senthelicopters, which madesome people suspicious.Onetheory was that thedevastation had been createdby the Americans usingsomething called HAARP(High Frequency ActiveAuroral Research Program)technology, which causeshugewaves under the ocean,thusfloodingour land.Then,

under the pretext of bringinginaid,theycouldlegitimatelyenterPakistan and spyonalloursecrets.Evenwhentherainsfinally

ceased life was still verydifficult. We had no cleanwater and no electricity. InAugustwe had our first caseof cholera in Mingora andsoon there was a tent ofpatients outside the hospital.Becausewewerecutofffrom

supplyroutes,whatlittlefoodwas available was extremelyexpensive. It was the peachandonionseasonandfarmerswere desperate to save theirharvests.Manyofthemmadehazardousjourneysacrossthechurning, swollen river onboatsmadefromrubbertyresto try to bring their produceto market. When we foundpeaches for sale we were sohappy.

Therewaslessforeignhelpthantheremighthavebeenatanother time. The richcountries of the West weresuffering from an economiccrisis,andPresidentZardari’stravels around Europe hadmade them less sympathetic.Foreign governments pointedout that most of ourpoliticians weren’t payingany income tax, so it was abitmuch to ask hard-pressed

taxpayers in their owncountries to contribute.Foreign aid agencies werealsoworried about the safetyof their staff after a Talibanspokesperson demanded thatthe Pakistan governmentreject help from Christiansand Jews. No one doubtedthey were serious. Theprevious October, the WorldFood Programme office inIslamabad had been bombed

and five aid workers werekilled.In Swat we began to see

more signs that the Talibanhad never really left. Twomore schoolswere blown upandthreeforeignaidworkersfrom a Christian group werekidnappedastheyreturnedtotheir base in Mingora andthen murdered. We receivedother shocking news. Myfather’sfriendDrMohammad

Farooq,thevicechancellorofSwat University, had beenkilled by two gunmen whoburst into his office. DrFarooq was an Islamicscholar and former memberof the Jamaat-e-Islami party,and as one of the biggestvoices against Talibanisationhe had even issued a fatwaagainstsuicideattacks.We felt frustrated and

scared once again.Whenwe

were IDPs I had thoughtabout becoming a politicianandnowIknew thatwas therightchoice.Ourcountryhadso many crises and no realleaderstotacklethem.

17

PrayingtoBeTall

WHEN I WAS thirteen Istopped growing. I hadalways looked older than Iwas but suddenly all my

friendswere taller thanme. Iwas one of the three shortestgirls in my class of thirty. Ifelt embarrassed when I waswithmy friends. Every nightIprayedtoAllahtobetaller.I measured myself on mybedroomwallwitharuleranda pencil. Every morning Iwould stand against it tocheckifIhadgrown.Butthepencilmarkstayedstubbornlyat five feet. I even promised

AllahthatifIcouldgrowjustatinybittallerIwouldofferahundred raakat nafl, extravoluntary prayers on top ofthefivedailyones.I was speaking at a lot of

events but because I was soshort it wasn’t easy to beauthoritative. Sometimes Icould hardly see over thelectern. I did not like high-heeled shoes but I started towearthem.

Oneofthegirlsinmyclassdid not return to school thatyear. She had been marriedoff as soon as she enteredpuberty. Shewas big for heragebutwasstillonlythirteen.A while later we heard thatshehadtwochildren.Inclass,when we were recitinghydrocarbon formulae duringour chemistry lessons, Iwould daydream about whatitwouldbeliketostopgoing

to school and instead startlookingafterahusband.We had begun to think

aboutotherthingsbesidestheTaliban,butitwasn’tpossibleto forget completely. Ourarmy,whichalreadyhadalotof strange side businesses,like factories makingcornflakesandfertilisers,hadstarted producing soapoperas. People acrossPakistan were glued to a

series on prime-time TVcalled Beyond the Call ofDuty,whichwassupposed toconsist of real-life stories ofsoldiers battling militants inSwat.Over a hundred soldiers

hadbeenkilledinthemilitaryoperation and 900 injured,and they wanted to showthemselves as heroes. Butthough their sacrifice wassupposed to have restored

government control,wewerestill waiting for the rule oflaw.Most afternoonswhen Icamehomefromschooltherewerewomen at our house intears. Hundreds of men hadgone missing during themilitary campaign,presumably picked up by thearmyorISI,butnoonewouldsay.Thewomencouldnotgetinformation;theydidn’tknowif their husbands and sons

were dead or alive. Some ofthem were in desperatesituationsastheyhadnowayto support themselves. Awoman can only remarry ifherhusbandisdeclareddead,notmissing.My mother gave them tea

andfoodbutthatwasn’twhythey came. They wanted myfather’s help. Because of hisrole as spokesman for theSwatQaumiJirga,heactedas

akindof liaisonbetween thepeopleandthearmy.‘I justwant toknow ifmy

husband is dead or not,’pleaded one lady I met. ‘IftheykilledhimthenIcanputthechildren inanorphanage.ButnowI’mneitherawidownorawife.’Anotherladytoldmehersonwasmissing.Thewomensaid themissingmenhadnotcollaboratedwith theTaliban; maybe they had

giventhemaglassofwaterorsomebreadwhenthey’dbeenordered to do so. Yet theseinnocentmenwerebeingheldwhile the Taliban leaderswentfree.Therewasa teacher inour

school who lived just a ten-minutewalk fromour house.Her brother had been pickedup by the army, put in legirons and tortured, and thenkeptinafridgeuntilhedied.

He’d had nothing to dowiththe Taliban. He was just asimple shopkeeper.Afterwards the armyapologised to her and saidthey’d been confused by hisname and picked up thewrongperson.Itwasn’t just poorwomen

who came to our house.Oneday a rich businessmanarrived from Muscat in theGulf. He told my father that

his brother and five or sixnephewshadall disappeared,and he wanted to know ifthey had been killed orwerebeing held so he knewwhethertofindnewhusbandsfor theirwives.One of themwasamaulanaandmyfathermanagedtogethimfreed.Thiswasn’t justhappening

inSwat.WeheardtherewerethousandsofmissingalloverPakistan. Many people

protestedoutside courthousesor put up posters of theirmissingbutgotnowhere.Meanwhile our courts werebusy with another issue. InPakistan we have somethingcalled the Blasphemy Law,which protects the HolyQuran from desecration.Under General Zia’sIslamisation campaign, thelaw was made much stricterso that anyone who ‘defiles

the sacred name of the HolyProphet’ can be punished bydeathorlifeimprisonment.One day in November

2010therewasanewsreportabout a Christian womancalled Asia Bibi who hadbeen sentenced to death byhanging. She was a poormother of five who pickedfruit for a living in a villagein Punjab. One hot day shehad fetched water for her

fellow workers but some ofthem refused to drink it,saying that the water was‘unclean’ because she was aChristian. They believed thatas Muslims they would bedefiled by drinkingwith her.One of them was herneighbour, who was angrybecause she said Asia Bibi’sgoat had damaged her watertrough.Theyhadendedupinan argument, and of course

just as in our arguments atschool there were differentversions of who said what.One version was that theytriedtopersuadeAsiaBibitoconvert to Islam. She repliedthat Christ had died on thecross for the sins ofChristiansandaskedwhattheProphetMohammadhaddoneforMuslims.Oneof thefruitpickers reported her to thelocalimam,whoinformedthe

police.Shespentmorethanayear in jail before the casewent to court and she wassentencedtodeath.Since Musharraf had

allowed satellite television,wenowhadlotsofchannels.Suddenly we could witnessthese events on television.There was outrage round theworld and all the talk showscovered the case.One of thefewpeoplewhospokeoutfor

AsiaBibiinPakistanwasthegovernor of Punjab, SalmanTaseer. He himself had beenapoliticalprisoneraswellasacloseallyofBenazir.Lateron he became a wealthymedia mogul. He went tovisitAsiaBibiinjailandsaidthat President Zardari shouldpardon her. He called theBlasphemy Law a ‘blacklaw’, a phrase which wasrepeated by some of our TV

anchors to stir things up.Then some imams at FridayprayersinthelargestmosqueinRawalpindicondemnedthegovernor.Acoupleofdayslater,on4

January2011,SalmanTaseerwas gunned down by one ofhis own bodyguards afterlunch in an area offashionable coffee bars inIslamabad.Themanshothimtwenty-six times. He later

said that he had done it forGod after hearing the Fridayprayers in Rawalpindi. Wewere shocked by how manypeople praised the killer.When he appeared in courteven lawyers showered himwith rose petals. Meanwhilethe imam at the lategovernor’smosquerefusedtoperform his funeral prayersand the president did notattendhisfuneral.

Our country was goingcrazy. How was it possiblethatwewerenowgarlandingmurderers?Shortlyafterthatmyfather

got another death threat. Hehad spoken at an event tocommemorate the thirdanniversary of the bombingof the Haji Baba HighSchool. At the event myfather had spokenpassionately.‘Fazlullahisthe

chief of all devils!’ heshouted.‘Whyhasn’thebeencaught?’ Afterwards peopletold him to be very careful.Then an anonymous lettercame to our house addressedto my father. It started with‘Asalaamualaikum’– ‘Peacebe upon you’ – but itwasn’tpeaceful at all. It went on,‘You are the son of areligious cleric but you arenot a good Muslim. The

mujahideen will find youwherever you go.’Whenmyfather received the letter heseemed worried for a coupleof weeks, but he refused togiveuphisactivitiesandwassoon distracted by otherthings.

*In those days it seemed likeeveryone was talking aboutAmerica. Where once weused toblameouroldenemy

India for everything, now itwas the US. Everyonecomplained about the droneattackswhichwerehappeningin the FATA almost everyweek. We heard lots ofcivilians were being killed.Then a CIA agent calledRaymond Davis shot andkilledtwomeninLahorewhohad approached his car on amotorbike. He said they hadattempted to rob him. The

Americans claimed he wasnot CIA but an ordinarydiplomat, which madeeveryone very suspicious.Evenweschoolchildrenknowthat ordinary diplomats don’tdrive around in unmarkedcarscarryingGlockpistols.Our media claimed Davis

waspartofavastsecretarmythat the CIA had sent toPakistan because they didn’ttrust our intelligence

agencies. He was said to bespying on a militant groupcalled Lashkar-e-Taiba basedinLahorethathadhelpedourpeople a lot during theearthquake and floods. Theywerethoughttobebehindtheterrible Mumbai massacre of2008. The group’s mainobjective was to liberateKashmir’s Muslims fromIndian rule, but they hadrecently also become active

inAfghanistan.Other peoplesaid Davis was really spyingonournuclearweapons.Raymond Davis quickly

became the most famousAmerican in Pakistan. Therewere protests all over thecountry.PeopleimaginedourbazaarswerefullofRaymondDavises, gatheringintelligence to send back totheStates.Thenthewidowofone of the men Davis had

murderedtookratpoisonandkilled herself, despairing ofreceivingjustice.It tookweeks of back and

forth between WashingtonandIslamabad,orratherarmyheadquarters in Rawalpindi,before the case was finallyresolved.What they did waslike our traditional jirgas –the Americans paid ‘bloodmoney’ amounting to $2.3million and Davis was

quickly spirited out of courtand out of the country.Pakistan then demanded thatthe CIA send homemany ofits contractors and stoppedapproving visas. The wholeaffairleftalotofbadfeeling,particularly because on 17March, the day after Daviswas released, a drone attackon a tribal council in NorthWaziristan killed about fortypeople.Theattack seemed to

send the message that theCIAcoulddoasitpleasedinourcountry.One Monday I was about tomeasure myself against thewall to see if I hadmiraculously grown in thenight when I heard loudvoicesnextdoor.Myfather’sfriendshadarrivedwithnewsthat was hard to believe.During the night Americanspecial forces called Navy

SealshadcarriedoutaraidinAbbottabad,oneoftheplaceswe’dstayedasIDPs,andhadfound and killed Osama binLaden.Hehadbeenlivinginalargewalledcompoundlessthanamilefromourmilitaryacademy. We couldn’tbelieve the army had beenoblivious to bin Laden’swhereabouts.Thenewspaperssaid that the cadets even didtheir training in the field

alongside his house. Thecompound had twelve-foot-high walls topped withbarbedwire.BinLaden livedon the top floor with hisyoungest wife, a Yemeniwoman named Amal. Twoother wives and his elevenchildren lived below them.An American senator saidthat the only thing missingfrom bin Laden’s hideawaywasa‘neonsign’.

In truth, lots of people inPashtun areas live in walledcompounds because ofpurdah and privacy, so thehouse wasn’t really unusual.What was odd was that theresidents never went out andthe house had no phone orInternet connections. Theirfood was brought in by twobrotherswhoalsolivedinthecompound with their wives.Theyactedascouriersforbin

Laden.Oneof thewiveswasfromSwat!The Seals had shot bin

Laden in the head and hisbody had been flown out byhelicopter. It didn’t sound asthoughhehadputupafight.The two brothers and one ofbin Laden’s grown-up sonshad also been killed, but binLaden’s wives and otherchildrenhadbeentiedupandleft behind and were then

taken into Pakistani custody.The Americans dumped binLaden’s body at sea.President Obama was veryhappy, and on TV wewatchedbigcelebrationstakeplace outside the WhiteHouse.At first we assumed our

government had known andbeen involved in theAmerican operation. But wesoon found out that the

Americanshadgone italone.This didn’t sit well with ourpeople.Weweresupposedtobe allies and we had lostmoresoldiersintheirWaronTerror than they had. Theyhad entered the country atnight, flying low and usingspecial quiet helicopters, andhad blocked our radar withelectronic interference. Theyhad only announced theirmission to the army chief of

staff,GeneralAshfaqKayani,and President Zardari afterthe event. Most of the armyleadershiplearnedaboutitonTV.The Americans said they

hadnochoicebuttodoitlikethat because no one reallyknewwhich side the ISIwason and someone might havetipped off bin Laden beforethey reached him. Thedirector of the CIA said

Pakistanwas‘either involvedorincompetent.Neitherplaceisagoodplacetobe.’My father said it was ashameful day. ‘How could anotorious terrorist be hidingin Pakistan and remainundetected for so manyyears?’heasked.Otherswereaskingthesamething.Youcouldseewhyanyone

would think our intelligenceservicemusthaveknownbin

Laden’s location. ISI is ahugeorganisationwithagentseverywhere. How could hehave lived so close to thecapital – just sixty milesaway? And for so long!Maybe thebestplace tohideis in plain sight, but he hadbeen living in that housesince the 2005 earthquake.Two of his children wereeven born in the Abbottabadhospital. And he’d been in

Pakistan for more than nineyears. Before Abbottabadhe’d been in Haripur andbefore that hidden away inour own Swat Valley, wherehe met Khalid SheikhMohammad, the mastermindof9/11.The way bin Laden was

foundwaslikesomethingoutofthespymoviesmybrotherKhushal likes. To avoiddetection he used human

couriers rather than phonecalls or emails. But theAmericans had discoveredone of his couriers, trackedthe number plate of his carand followed it fromPeshawar to Abbottabad.After that theymonitored thehouse with a kind of giantdrone that has X-ray vision,which spotted a very tallbearded man pacing roundthe compound. They called

himthePacer.People were intrigued by

the new details that cameevery day, but they seemedangrier at the Americanincursionthanat thefact thatthe world’s biggest terroristhad been living on our soil.Some newspapers ran storiessaying that the AmericanshadactuallykilledbinLadenyearsbeforethisandkepthisbody in a freezer. The story

was that they had thenplanted the body inAbbottabad and faked theraidtoembarrassPakistan.We started to receive text

messagesaskingustorallyinthe streets and show oursupport of the army. ‘Wewere there for you in 1948,1965 and 1971,’ said onemessage, referring to ourthree wars with India. ‘Bewith us now when we have

been stabbed in the back.’But there were also textmessageswhich ridiculed thearmy. People asked how wecouldbespending$6billionayear on the military (seventimes more than we werespending on education), iffour American helicopterscould justsneak inunderourradar?Andiftheycoulddoit,whatwas to stop the Indiansnext door? ‘Please don’t

honk, the army is sleeping,’said one text, and ‘Second-handPakistaniradarforsale...can’tdetectUShelicoptersbut gets cable TV just fine,’saidanother.General Kayani and

GeneralAhmadShujaPasha,theheadofISI,werecalledtotestify in parliament,something that had neverhappened. Our country hadbeen humiliated and we

wantedtoknowwhy.We also learned that

American politicians werefurious that bin Laden hadbeen living under our noseswhen all along they hadimagined he was hiding in acave. They complained thattheyhadgivenus$20billionover an eight-year period tocooperate and it wasquestionable which side wewereon.Sometimesitfeltas

though it was all about themoney.Mostofithadgonetothe army; ordinary peoplereceivednothing.

*A few months after that, inOctober 2011 my father toldmehe had received an emailinforming him I was one offive nominees for theinternational peace prize ofKidsRights, a children’sadvocacy group based in

Amsterdam. My name hadbeen put forward byArchbishop Desmond TutufromSouthAfrica.Hewas agreatheroofmyfatherforhisfight against apartheid. MyfatherwasdisappointedwhenIdidn’twinbutIpointedouttohimthatallIhaddonewasspeakout;wedidn’t have anorganisation doing practicalthingsliketheawardwinnershad.

Shortly after that I wasinvited by the chief ministerofPunjab,ShahbazSharif, tospeak in Lahore at aneducation gala. He wasbuilding a network of newschools he calls DaanishSchools and giving freelaptops to students, even ifthey did have his picture ontheir screens when youswitched them on. Tomotivate students in all

provinceshewasgivingcashawardstogirlsandboyswhoscoredwell in their exams. Iwas presented with a chequefor half a million rupees,about $4,500, for mycampaignforgirls’rights.Iworepinktothegalaand

for the first time talkedpublicly about how we haddefied the Taliban edict andcarried on going to schoolsecretly. ‘I know the

importance of educationbecause my pens and bookswere taken from me byforce,’Isaid.‘ButthegirlsofSwatarenotafraidofanyone.We have continued with oureducation.’ThenIwasinclassoneday

when my classmates said,‘You have won a big prizeand half a million rupees!’My father told me thegovernment had awardedme

Pakistan’s first everNationalPeace Prize. I couldn’tbelieve it. So manyjournalists thronged to theschool that day that it turnedintoanewsstudio.The ceremony was on 20

December 2011 at the primeminister’s official residence,oneofthebigwhitemansionson the hill at the end ofConstitution Avenue which Ihad seen on my trip to

Islamabad. By then I wasused tomeetingpoliticians. Iwas not nervous though myfather tried to intimidate meby saying Prime MinisterGilanicamefromafamilyofsaints. After the PMpresentedmewith the awardand cheque, I presented himwithalonglistofdemands. Itold him that we wanted ourschools rebuilt and a girls’universityinSwat.Iknewhe

would not take my demandsseriously so I didn’t pushveryhard.Ithought,OnedayI will be a politician and dothesethingsmyself.It was decided that the

prize should be awardedannually to children undereighteen years old and benamedtheMalalaPrizeinmyhonour. I noticed my fatherwasnotveryhappywiththis.LikemostPashtunsheisabit

superstitious. In Pakistan wedon’t have a culture ofhonouring people while theyarealive,onlythedead,sohethoughtitwasabadomen.I know my mother didn’t

like the awards because shefeared I would become atarget as I was becomingmorewellknown.Sheherselfwouldneverappearinpublic.She refused even to bephotographed. She is a very

traditionalwomanand this isour centuries-old culture.Were she to break thattradition, men and womenwould talk against her,particularly those in our ownfamily. She never said sheregretted the workmy fatherand I had undertaken, butwhen I won prizes, she said,‘I don’twant awards, Iwantmy daughter. I wouldn’texchange a single eyelash of

my daughter for the wholeworld.’My father argued that all

he had ever wanted was tocreate a school in whichchildren could learn.Wehadbeen left with no choice buttogetinvolvedinpoliticsandcampaign for education. ‘Myonlyambition,’hesaid,‘istoeducate my children and mynationasmuchas I amable.Butwhenhalfofyourleaders

tell lies and the other half isnegotiating with the Taliban,there is nowhere to go. Onehastospeakout.’When I returned home I

was greeted with the newsthat there was a group ofjournalists who wanted tointerview me at school andthat I should wear a niceoutfit. First I thought ofwearing a very beautifuldress, but then I decided to

wearsomethingmoremodestfor the interviewas Iwantedpeople to focus on mymessage and notmy clothes.When I arrived at school Isaw all my friends haddressed up. ‘Surprise!’ theyshouted when I walked in.They had collected moneyandorganised aparty formewith a big white cake onwhich was written SUCCESSFOREVERinchocolateicing.It

was wonderful that myfriendswantedtoshareinmysuccess. I knew that any ofthe girls in my class couldhave achieved what I hadachievediftheyhadhadtheirparents’support.‘Now you can get back to

school work,’ said MadamMaryam as we finished offthecake.‘ExamsinMarch!’Buttheyearendedonasad

note.FivedaysafterIgotthe

award, Aunt Babo, mymother’s eldest sister, diedsuddenly. She wasn’t evenfifty years old. She wasdiabetic and had seen a TVadvert foradoctor inLahorewith some miracle treatmentand persuaded my uncle totake her there. We don’tknow what the doctorinjectedherwithbutshewentinto shock and died. Myfather said the doctor was a

charlatan and this was whyweneededtokeepstrugglingagainstignorance.I had amassed a lot of

moneybytheendofthatyear– half a million rupees eachfrom the prime minister, thechief minister of Punjab, thechief minister of our stateKhyberPakhtunkhwaandtheSindh government. MajorGeneral Ghulam Qamar, thelocal army commander, also

gave our school 100,000rupees to build a sciencelaboratory and a library. Butmy fight wasn’t over. I wasreminded of our historylessons, inwhichwe learnedabout the loot or bounty anarmy enjoyswhen a battle iswon. I began to see theawards and recognition justlike that. They were littlejewels without muchmeaning. I needed to

concentrate on winning thewar.Myfatherusedsomeofthe

money to buyme a newbedandcabinetandpayfortoothimplantsformymotherandapieceof land inShangla.Wedecided to spend the rest ofthe money on people whoneededhelp.Iwantedtostartaneducationfoundation.Thishad been on my mind eversince I’d seen the children

working on the rubbishmountain. I still could notshake the image of the blackrats Ihadseen there,and thegirlwithmattedhairwhohadbeensortingrubbish.Wehelda conference of twenty-onegirls and made our priorityeducation for every girl inSwat with a particular focusonstreetchildrenandthoseinchildlabour.As we crossed the

MalakandPassIsawayounggirl selling oranges. Shewasscratching marks on a pieceof paper with a pencil toaccount for the oranges shehadsoldasshecouldnotreadorwrite.Itookaphotoofherand vowed I would doeverything in my power tohelp educate girls just likeher. This was the war I wasgoingtofight.

18

TheWomanandtheSea

AUNT NAJMA WAS in tears.She had never seen the seabefore. My family and I sat

on the rocks, gazing acrossthe water, breathing in thesalt tang of theArabian Sea.It was such a big expanse,surely no one could knowwhere it ended. At thatmoment I was very happy.‘OnedayIwant tocross thissea,’Isaid.‘What is she saying?’

asked my aunt as if I weretalking about somethingimpossible. I was still trying

togetmyheadroundthefactthatshehadbeenlivingintheseaside city of Karachi forthirtyyearsandyethadneveractually laid eyes on theocean. Her husband wouldnottakehertothebeach,andeven if she had somehowslipped out of the house, shewould not have been able tofollow the signs to the seabecauseshecouldnotread.I sat on the rocks and

thought about the fact thatacross the water were landswhere women were free. InPakistanwehadhadawomanprime minister and inIslamabad I had met thoseimpressive working women,yetthefactwasthatwewereacountrywherealmostallthewomen depend entirely onmen. My headmistressMaryam was a strong,educated woman but in our

society she could not live onher own and come to work.She had to be living with ahusband,brotherorparents.In Pakistan when women

say they want independence,people think this means wedon’t want to obey ourfathers,brothersorhusbands.But it does notmean that. Itmeans we want to makedecisions for ourselves. Wewant to be free to go to

school or to go to work.Nowhere is it written in theQuran that a woman shouldbe dependent on aman. Theword has not come downfrom the heavens to tell usthat every woman shouldlistentoaman.‘You are a million miles

away, Jani,’ said my fatherinterrupting my thoughts.‘What are you dreamingabout?’

‘Just about crossingoceans,Aba’,Ireplied.‘Forget all that!’ shouted

my brother Atal. ‘We’re atthebeachandIwanttogoforacamelride!’It was January 2012 and wewere in Karachi as guests ofGeo TV after the Sindhgovernment announced theywere renaming a girls’secondary school onMissionRoad in my honour. My

brother Khushal was now atschool in Abbottabad, so itwas justme,my parents andAtal.WeflewtoKarachi,anditwasthefirsttimeanyofushadeverbeenonaplane.Thejourney was just two hours,which I found incredible. Itwould have taken us at leasttwodaysbybus.Ontheplanewe noticed that some peoplecould not find their seatsbecause they could not read

letters and numbers. I had awindow seat and could seethe deserts andmountains ofour land below me. As weheadedsouththelandbecamemore parched. I was alreadymissing the green of Swat. Icould see why, when ourpeoplegotoKarachitowork,theyalwayswanttobeburiedinthecoolofourvalley.Drivingfromtheairport to

the hostel, I was amazed by

the number of people andhouses and cars. Karachi isone of the biggest cities onearth. Itwas strange to thinkitwas just a port of 300,000people when Pakistan wascreated. Jinnah lived thereandmade it our first capital,and it was soon flooded bymillions of Muslim refugeesfrom India known asmohajirs, which means‘immigrants’, who spoke

Urdu. Today it has aroundtwenty million people. It’sactually the largest Pashtuncityintheworld,eventhoughit’s far from our lands;between five and sevenmillion Pashtuns have gonetheretowork.Unfortunately,Karachihas

also become a very violentcity and there is alwaysfightingbetweenthemohajirsand Pashtuns. The mohajir

areaswesawallseemedveryorganised and neat whereasthe Pashtun areas were dirtyand chaotic. The mohajirsalmost all support a partycalledtheMQMledbyAltafHussain,wholivesinexileinLondon and communicateswith his people by Skype.TheMQMisaveryorganisedmovement, and the mohajircommunity sticks together.By contrast we Pashtuns are

verydivided,somefollowingImran Khan because he isPashtun, a khan and a greatcricketer, some MaulanaFazlur Rehman because hispartyJUIisIslamic,somethesecular ANP because it’s aPashtun nationalist party andsome the PPP of BenazirBhutto or the PML(N) ofNawazSharif.We went to the Sindh

assembly, where I was

applauded by all themembers. Then we went tovisit some schools includingtheonethatwasbeingnamedafter me. I made a speechabout the importance ofeducation and also talkedabout Benazir Bhutto as thiswas her city. ‘We must allworktogetherfortherightsofgirls,’ I said. The childrensang for me and I waspresented with a painting of

me looking up at the sky. Itwas both odd and wonderfulto see my name on a schooljust like my namesakeMalalai of Maiwind, afterwhom so many schools inAfghanistanarenamed.Inthenext school holidays myfatherandIplannedtogoandtalktoparentsandchildreninthedistanthillyareasofSwatabout the importance oflearning to read and write.

‘Wewillbelikepreachersofeducation,’Isaid.Later that day we visited

my aunt and uncle. Theylived in a very small houseand so at last my fatherunderstood why they hadrefused to take him in whenhewasastudent.Onthewaywe passed through Aashiqane-Rasool square and wereshocked to see a picture ofthe murderer of Governor

SalmanTaseerdecoratedwithgarlands of rose petals asthough he were a saint. Myfatherwasangry.‘Inacityoftwentymillionpeopleistherenotonepersonwhowill takethisdown?’There was one important

placewehadtoincludeinourvisit to Karachi besides ouroutingstotheseaorthehugebazaars, where my motherbought lots of clothes. We

needed to visit themausoleum of our founderand great leader MohammadAli Jinnah. This is a verypeaceful building of whitemarbleandsomehowseemedseparate from the hustle andbustle of the city. It feltsacred to us.Benazirwas onher way there to make herfirst speech on her return toPakistan when her bus wasblownup.

The guard explained thatthe tomb in the main roomunderagiantchandelierfromChina did not containJinnah’sbody.Thereal tombis on the floor below, wherehe lies alongside his sisterFatima,whodiedmuchlater.Next to it is the tomb of ourfirst prime minister, LiaquatAli Khan, who wasassassinated.Afterwards we went into

the small museum at theback, which had displays ofthe special white bow tiesJinnah used to order fromParis, his three-piece suitstailored in London, his golfclubsanda special travellingbox with drawers for twelvepairs of shoes including hisfavourite two-tone brogues.Thewallswere coveredwithphotographs.IntheonesfromtheearlydaysofPakistanyou

couldeasilyseefromhisthinsunken face that Jinnah wasdying.Hisskinlookedpaper-thin. But at the time it waskept a secret. Jinnah smokedfifty cigarettes a day. Hisbody was riddled with TBand lung cancer when LordMountbatten, the last Britishviceroy of India, agreed thatIndia would be divided atindependence. Afterwards hesaidthathadheknownJinnah

was dying he would havedelayedandtherewouldhavebeen no Pakistan. As it was,Jinnah died in September1948 just over a year later.Then,a littlemorethanthreeyears after that, our firstprime minister was killed.Right from the startwewereanunluckycountry.Some of Jinnah’s most

famous speeches weredisplayed.Therewas theone

about people of all religionsbeing free to worship in thenew Pakistan. And anotherwhere he had spoken aboutthe important roleofwomen.Iwantedtoseepicturesofthewomen in his life. But hiswife died young and was aParsee, and their onlydaughterDinastayedinIndiaand married a Parsee, whichdidn’tsitverywellinthenewMuslim homeland. Now she

lives in New York. So mostof the pictures I found wereofhissisterFatima.It was hard to visit that

placeandreadthosespeecheswithout thinking that Jinnahwould be very disappointedin Pakistan. He wouldprobablysaythatthiswasnotthe country he had wanted.He wished us to beindependent,tobetolerant,tobe kind to each other. He

wanted everyone to be freewhatevertheirbeliefs.‘Would ithavebeenbetter

if we had not becomeindependent but stayed partof India?’ I askedmy father.It seemed to me that beforePakistan there was endlessfighting between Hindus andMuslims.Thenevenwhenwegot our own country therewas still fighting, but thistimeitwasbetweenmohajirs

and Pashtuns and betweenSunnis and Shias. Instead ofcelebrating each other, ourfourprovincesstruggletogetalong. Sindhis often talk ofseparationand inBaluchistanthereisanongoingwarwhichgets talked about very littlebecause it is so remote. Didall this fighting mean weneeded to divide our countryyetagain?Whenwe left themuseum

some young men with flagswereprotestingoutside.Theytold us they were Seraikispeakers from southernPunjabandwanted theirownprovince.There seemed to be so

many things about whichpeople were fighting. IfChristians, Hindus or Jewsare really our enemies, as somany say, why are weMuslims fighting with each

other? Our people havebecome misguided. Theythinktheirgreatestconcernisdefending Islam and arebeingledastraybythoselikethe Taliban who deliberatelymisinterpret the Quran. Weshould focus on practicalissues. We have so manypeopleinourcountrywhoareilliterate. And many womenhave no education at all.Welive inaplacewhere schools

are blown up. We have noreliable electricity supply.Not a single day passeswithout thekillingofat leastonePakistani.OnedayaladycalledShehlaAnjum turned up at ourhostel. She was a Pakistanijournalist living in Alaskaandwanted tomeetme aftershehadseenthedocumentaryabout us on the New YorkTimes website. She chatted

withmeforawhilethenwithmy father. I noticed she hadtears in her eyes. Then sheasked my father, ‘Did youknow, Ziauddin, that theTaliban have threatened thisinnocent girl?’ We didn’tknow what she was talkingabout so she went on theInternet and showed us thatthe Taliban had that dayissued threats against twowomen – Shad Begum, an

activist in Dir, and me,Malala. ‘These two arespreading secularism andshould be killed,’ it said. Ididn’t take it seriously asthere are so many things ontheInternetandI thoughtwewould have heard fromelsewhereifitwerereal.That evening my father

received a call from thefamilywhohadbeen sharingourhomeforthelasteighteen

months.Theirprevioushomehadamudroofwhichleakedin the rain and we had twospare rooms so they stayedwithusforanominalrentandtheir children went to ourschool for free. They hadthree children, and we likedthemlivingwithusasweallplayed cops and robbers ontheroof.Theytoldmyfatherthat the police had turned upatthehouseanddemandedto

know whether we hadreceived any threats. Whenmy father heard this, hecalled the deputysuperintendent, who askedhim the same thing. Myfatherasked,‘Why,haveyouanyinformation?’Theofficerasked to seemy fatherwhenwewerebackinSwat.After that my father was

restless and could not enjoyKarachi. I could see my

mother and father were bothveryupset.Iknewmymotherwas still mourning my auntand they had been feelinguneasyaboutmereceivingsomany awards, but it seemedto be about more than that.‘Why are you like this?’ Iasked. ‘You’reworriedaboutsomething but you’re nottellingus.’Then they told me about

the call from home and that

they were taking the threatsseriously. I don’t knowwhy,but hearing I was beingtargeteddidnotworryme. Itseemed to me that everyoneknows theywill dieoneday.My feeling was that nobodycan stop death; it doesn’tmatterifitcomesfromatalibor cancer. So I should dowhateverIwanttodo.‘Maybeweshouldstopour

campaigning, Jani, and go

into hibernation for a time,’saidmyfather.‘How can we do that?’ I

replied. ‘You were the onewho said if we believe insomething greater than ourlives, then our voices willonlymultiply even if we aredead. We can’t disown ourcampaign!’People were asking me to

speakatevents.Howcould Irefuse, saying there was a

security problem? Wecouldn’t do that, especiallynot as proud Pashtuns. Myfather always says thatheroism is in the PashtunDNA.Still, it was with a heavy

heart that we returned toSwat. When my father wenttothepolicetheyshowedhima file on me. They told himthat my national andinternational profile meant I

had attracted attention anddeaththreatsfromtheTalibanand that I needed protection.They offered us guards butmy father was reluctant.ManyeldersinSwathadbeenkilled despite havingbodyguards and the Punjabgovernor had been killed byhis own bodyguard. He alsothought armed guards wouldalarm the parents of thestudents at school, and he

didn’t want to put others atrisk.Whenhehadhadthreatsbefore he always said, ‘LetthemkillmebutI’llbekilledalone.’He suggested sending me

to boarding school inAbbottabad likeKhushal,butI didn’t want to go. He alsomet the local army colonel,who said being in college inAbbottabad would not reallybeany safer and that as long

as I kept a low profile wewould be OK in Swat. SowhenthegovernmentofKPKoffered to make me a peaceambassador,myfathersaiditwasbettertorefuse.At home I started bolting

themaingateofourhouseatnight.‘Shesmellsthethreat,’mymothertoldmyfather.Hewas very unhappy. He kepttelling me to draw thecurtainsinmyroomatnight,

butIwouldnot.‘Aba, thisisaverystrange

situation,’ I told him. ‘Whenthere was Talibanisation wewere safe; now there are noTalibanweareunsafe.’‘Yes, Malala,’ he replied.

‘Now the Talibanisation isespecially for us, for thoselikeyouandmewhocontinuetospeakout.TherestofSwatisOK.The rickshawdrivers,the shopkeepers are all safe.

This is Talibanisation forparticular people, andwe areamongthem.’There was another

downside to receiving thoseawards– Iwasmissing a lotofschool.After theexamsinMarch thecup thatwent intomy new cabinet was forsecondplace.

19

APrivateTalibanisation

‘LET’S PRETEND IT’S aTwilight movie and thatwe’revampiresintheforest,’

IsaidtoMoniba.Wewereona school trip toMarghazar, abeautiful green valley wherethe air is cool, and there is atall mountain and a crystal-clear river where we wereplanning to have a picnic.NearbywastheWhitePalaceHotel, which used to be thewali’ssummerresidence.It was April 2012, the

monthafterourexamssowewere all feeling relaxed. We

wereagroupofaboutseventygirls. Our teachers and myparents were there too. Myfather had hired three FlyingCoachesbutwecouldnotallfit in, so five of us – me,Moniba and three other girls–wereinthedyna,theschoolvan. It wasn’t verycomfortable, especiallybecause we also had giantpots of chicken and rice onthefloorforthepicnic,butit

wasonlyhalfanhour’sdrive.Wehadfun,singingsongsonthe way there. Moniba waslooking very beautiful, herskin porcelain-pale. ‘Whatskin cream are you using?’ Iaskedher.‘The same one you’re

using,’shereplied.I knew that could not be

true. ‘No. Look at my darkskinandlookatyours!’We visited the White

Palace and saw where theQueen had slept and thegardens of beautiful flowers.Sadly we could not see thewali’s room as it had beendamagedbythefloods.Weranaround forawhile

in thegreen forest, then tooksomephotographsandwadedinto the river and splashedeach other with water. Thedrops sparkled in the sun.There was a waterfall down

the cliff and for a while wesat on the rocks and listenedto it. Then Moniba startedsplashingmeagain.‘Don’t!Idon’twant toget

myclotheswet!’ I pleaded. Iwalked off with two othergirls she didn’t like. Theother girls stirred things up,whatwe call ‘puttingmasalaon the situation’. It was arecipe for another argumentbetween Moniba and me.

That put me in a bad mood,butIcheeredupwhenwegotto the top of the cliff, wherelunch was being prepared.Usman Bhai Jan, our driver,made us laugh as usual.MadamMaryamhadbroughtherbabyboyandHannah,hertwo-year-old, who lookedlike a little doll but was fullofmischief.Lunch was a disaster.

When the school assistants

put the pans on the fire toheat up the chicken curry,they panicked that there wasnotenoughfoodforsomanygirls and added water fromthe stream. We said it was‘theworstlunchever’.Itwasso watery that one girl said,‘Theskycouldbeseeninthesoupycurry.’Like on all our trips my

fathergotusalltostandonarock and talk about our

impressionsofthedaybeforewe left.This time all anyonetalkedaboutwashowbadthefood was. My father wasembarrassed and for once,shortofwords.The next morning a schoolworkercamewithmilk,breadandeggstoourhouseforourbreakfast. My father alwaysanswered thedooraswomenmust stay inside. The mantold him the shopkeeper had

given him a photocopiedletter.Whenmyfatherreadit,he

went pale. ‘By God, this isterrible propaganda againstour school!’ he told mymother.Hereaditout.

DearMuslimbrothersThereisaschool,theKhushalSchool,whichisrunbyanNGO[NGOshaveaverybadreputationamongreligiouspeopleinourcountrysothiswasawaytoinvitepeople’swrath]andisacentreofvulgarityand

obscenity.ItisaHadithoftheHolyProphetthatifyouseesomethingbadorevilyoushouldstopitwithyourownhand.Ifyouareunabletodothatthenyoushouldtellothersaboutit,andifyoucan’tdothatyoushouldthinkabouthowbaditisinyourheart.IhavenopersonalquarrelwiththeprincipalbutIamtellingyouwhatIslamsays.Thisschoolisacentreofvulgarityandobscenityandtheytakegirlsforpicnicstodifferentresorts.Ifyoudon’tstopityouwillhavetoanswertoGodonDoomsday.Goandaskthe

manageroftheWhitePalaceHotelandhewilltellyouwhatthesegirlsdid...

He put down the piece ofpaper. ‘It has no signature.Anonymous.’Wesatstunned.‘They know no one will

ask the manager,’ said myfather. ‘People will justimagine something terriblewenton.’‘We know what happened

there. The girls did nothingbad,’ my mother reassuredhim.Myfathercalledmycousin

Khanjee to find out howwidely the letters had beendistributed. He called backwith bad news – they hadbeen left everywhere, thoughmost shopkeepers hadignored them and thrownthem away. There were alsogiant posters pasted on the

front of themosquewith thesameaccusations.At school my classmates

were terrified. ‘Sir, they aresaying very bad things aboutour school,’ they said to myfather.‘Whatwillourparentssay?’My father gathered all the

girlsintothecourtyard.‘Whyare you afraid?’ he asked.‘DidyoudoanythingagainstIslam? Did you do anything

immoral? No. You justsplashed water and tookpictures, so don’t be scared.This is thepropagandaof thefollowers of MullahFazlullah. Down with them!You have the right to enjoygreenery and waterfalls andlandscapejustasboysdo.’Myfatherspokelikealion,

butIcouldseeinhishearthewasworriedandscared.Onlyone person came and

withdrew his sister from theschool,butweknewthatwasnottheendofit.Shortlyafterthatweweretoldamanwhohad completed a peace walkfrom Dera Ismail Khan wascoming throughMingoraandwewantedtowelcomehim.Iwas on theway tomeet himwith my parents when wewere approached by a shortman who was franticallytalking on two different

phones. ‘Don’t go thatway,’he urged. ‘There is a suicidebomber over there!’ We’dpromised to meet the peacewalker, so we went by adifferent route, placed agarland round his neck, thenleftquicklyforhome.Allthroughthatspringand

summer odd things kepthappening.Strangerscametothe house asking questionsabout my family. My father

said they were from theintelligence services. Thevisits became more frequentaftermy father and the SwatQaumiJirgaheldameetinginour school to protest againstarmy plans for the people ofMingora and our communitydefence committees toconduct night patrols.’Thearmysaythereispeace,’saidmy father. ‘So why do weneed flag marches and night

patrols?’Then our school hosted a

painting competition for thechildren of Mingorasponsored by my father’sfriend who ran an NGO forwomen’s rights.The pictureswere supposed to show theequality of the sexes orhighlight discriminationagainstwomen.Thatmorningtwomenfromtheintelligenceservicescametoourschoolto

seemyfather.‘Whatisgoingon in your school?’ theydemanded.‘This is a school,’ he

replied. ‘There’s a paintingcompetition just as we havedebating competitions,cookery competitions andessay contests.’ Themen gotvery angry and so did myfather. ‘Everyone knows meandwhatIdo!’hesaid.‘Whydon’t you do your real work

and find Fazlullah and thosewhosehandsareredwiththebloodofSwat?’That Ramadan a friend of

myfather’s inKarachicalledWakeelKhansentclothesforthepoor,whichhewantedusto distribute. We went to abig hall to hand them out.Before we had even started,intelligence agents came andasked, ‘What are you doing?Whobroughttheseoutfits?’

On12JulyI turnedfourteen,whichinIslammeansyouarean adult. With my birthdaycame the news that theTaliban had killed the ownerof the Swat ContinentalHotel, who was on a peacecommittee. He was on hiswayfromhometohishotelinMingora Bazaar when theyambushedhiminafield.Once again people started

worrying that the Taliban

were creeping back. Butwhereasin2008–9thereweremany threats to all sorts ofpeople, this time the threatswere specific to those whospokeagainstmilitantsorthehigh-handedbehaviourof thearmy.‘The Taliban is not an

organised force like weimagine,’ said my father’sfriend Hidayatullah whenthey discussed it. ‘It’s a

mentality, and this mentalityis everywhere in Pakistan.Someone who is againstAmerica,againstthePakistanestablishment, againstEnglish law, he has beeninfectedbytheTaliban.’It was late in the evening

of 3 August whenmy fatherreceived an alarming phonecall from a Geo TVcorrespondent calledMehboob. He was the

nephewofmyfather’s friendZahidKhan, the hotel ownerwho had been attacked in2009.PeopleusedtosaybothZahid Khan and my fatherwereontheTalibanradarandbothwouldbekilled;theonlything they didn’t know waswhich would be killed first.Mehboob told us that hisunclehadbeenonhiswaytoisha prayers, the last prayersof the day, at themosque on

thestreetnearhishousewhenhewasshotintheface.When he heard the news

my father said the earth fellawayfromhisfeet.‘ItwasasifIhadbeenshot,’hesaid.‘Iwassureitwasmyturnnext.’Wepleadedwithmyfather

not togo to thehospitalas itwas very late and the peoplewhohadattackedZahidKhanmightbewaitingforhim.Buthe said not to go would be

cowardly.Hewas offered anescort by some fellowpolitical activists but hethought that it would be toolate to go if he waited forthem.Sohecalledmycousinto take him. My motherbegantopray.Whenhegottothehospital

onlyoneothermemberofthejirga committee was there.Zahid Khan was bleeding somuch it was as if his white

beardwas bathed in red.Buthe had been lucky. A manhad fired at him three timesfrom close range with apistol, but Zahid Khan hadmanaged to grab his hand soonly the first bullet struck.Strangely itwent throughhisneck and out through hisnose. Later he said heremembered a small clean-shaven man just standingthere smiling, not even

wearing a mask. Thendarkness overcame him as ifhe had fallen into a blackhole. The irony was thatZahidKhanhadonlyrecentlystartedtowalktothemosqueagain because he thought itwassafe.After praying for his

friend,myfathertalkedtothemedia. ‘Wedon’t understandwhyhe’sbeenattackedwhenthey claim there’s peace,’ he

said. ‘It’s a big question forthearmyandadministration.’Peoplewarnedmyfatherto

leave the hospital. ‘Ziauddin,it’smidnightandyou’rehere!Don’t be stupid!’ they said.‘Youareasvulnerableandaswanted a target as he is.Don’ttakeanymorerisks!’Finally Zahid Khan was

transferred toPeshawar tobeoperated on and my fathercamehome.Ihadnotgoneto

sleep because I was soworried. After that I double-checked all the locks everynight.Athomeourphonedidnot

stop ringing with peoplecalling to warnmy father hecould be the next target.Hidayatullah was one of thefirst to call. ‘For God’s sakebe careful,’ he warned. ‘Itcould have been you. Theyare shooting jirga members

one by one. You are thespokesman – how can theypossiblyletyoulive?’My father was convinced

the Taliban would hunt himdown and kill him, but heagain refused security fromthe police. ‘If you go aroundwith a lot of security theTaliban will useKalashnikovs or suicidebombers and more peoplewill be killed,’ he said. ‘At

leastI’llbekilledalone.’NorwouldheleaveSwat.‘Wherecan I go?’ he asked mymother. ‘I cannot leave thearea. I am president of theGlobal Peace Council,the spokesperson of thecouncil of elders, thepresident of the SwatAssociation of PrivateSchools, director of myschool and head of myfamily.’

Hisonlyprecautionwastochange his routine. One dayhe would go to the primaryschool first, another day tothegirls’school,thenextdaytotheboys’school.Inoticedwherever he went he wouldlook up and down the streetfourorfivetimes.Despitetherisks,myfather

and his friends continued tobe very active, holdingprotests and press

conferences.‘WhywasZahidKhan attacked if there’speace? Who attacked him?’theydemanded.‘Sincewe’vecome back from being IDPswe haven’t seen any attacksonarmyandpolice.Theonlytargets now are peace-buildersandcivilians.’Thelocalarmycommander

was not happy. ‘I tell youthere are no terrorists inMingora,’ he insisted. ‘Our

reports say so.’ He claimedthat Zahid Khan had beenshotbecauseofadisputeoverproperty.ZahidKhanwasinhospital

for twelvedays thenathomerecuperatingforamonthafterhaving plastic surgery torepair his nose. But herefused to be silent. Ifanything he became moreoutspoken, particularlyagainst the intelligence

agencies, as he wasconvinced they were behindtheTaliban.Hewroteopinionpieces in newspapers sayingthat the conflict in Swat hadbeen manufactured. ‘I knowwho targeted me. What weneedtoknowiswhoimposedthese militants on us,’ hewrote.He demanded that thechief justice set up a judicialcommission to investigatewho had brought theTaliban

intoourvalley.He drew a sketch of his

attacker and said the manshould be stopped beforeshootinganyoneelse.Butthepolice did nothing to findhim.After the threats against memy mother didn’t like mewalking anywhere andinsisted I get a rickshaw toschoolandtakethebushomeeven though it was only a

five-minute walk. The busdropped me at the stepsleading up to our street. Agroup of boys from ourneighbourhood used to hanground there.Sometimes therewasaboycalledHaroonwiththem, who was a year olderthan me and used to live onour street. We had playedtogetheraschildrenand laterhe told me he was in lovewith me. But then a pretty

cousin came to staywithourneighbour Safina and he fellin love with her instead.When she said she wasn’tinterested he turned hisattention back to me. Afterthat they moved to anotherstreet and we moved intotheir house. Then Haroonwent away to army cadetcollege.But he came back for the

holidays,andonedaywhenI

returnedhomefromschoolhewas hanging around on thestreet.Hefollowedme to thehouse and put a note insideourgatewhereIwouldseeit.I told a small girl to fetch itforme.Hehadwritten,‘Nowyou have become verypopular, I still love you andknow you love me. This ismynumber,callme.’Igavethenotetomyfather

and he was angry. He called

Haroon and told him hewould tell his father. Thatwas the last time I saw him.After that the boys stoppedcoming toour street, butoneofthesmallboyswhoplayedwith Atal would call outsuggestively, ‘How isHaroon?’ whenever I passedby.Igotsofedupwithitthatone day I told Atal to bringthe boy inside. I shouted athim so angrily that he

stopped.I told Moniba what had

happened once we werefriendsagain.Shewasalwaysvery careful aboutinteractions with boysbecauseherbrotherswatchedeverything. ‘Sometimes Ithink it’s easier to be aTwilight vampire than a girlinSwat,’ I sighed.But reallyIwishedthatbeinghassledbya boy was my biggest

problem.

20

WhoisMalala?

ONE MORNING IN latesummerwhenmy fatherwasgetting ready to go to schoolhenoticedthatthepaintingof

me looking at the skywhichwe had been given by theschoolinKarachihadshiftedin the night. He loved thatpaintingandhadhungitoverhis bed. Seeing it crookeddisturbed him. ‘Please put itstraight,’heaskedmymotherinanunusuallysharptone.Thatsameweekourmaths

teacherMissShaziaarrivedatschool in a hysterical state.She toldmyfather thatshe’d

had a nightmare in which Icame to school with my legbadly burned and she hadtriedtoprotectit.Shebeggedhimtogivesomecookedricetothepoor,aswebelievethatifyougiverice,evenantsandbirds will eat the bits thatdroptothefloorandwillprayforus.Myfathergavemoneyinstead and she wasdistraught,saying thatwasn’tthesame.

We laughed at MissShazia’s premonition, butthen I started having baddreams too. I didn’t sayanything to my parents butwhenever I went out I wasafraid that Talibanwith gunswouldleapoutatmeorthrowacid inmy face, as they haddone to women inAfghanistan. I wasparticularly scared of thesteps leadingup toour street

where the boys used to hangout. Sometimes I thought Iheard footstepsbehindmeorimaginedfiguresslippingintotheshadows.Unlike my father, I took

precautions.AtnightIwouldwait until everyone wasasleep – my mother, myfather,mybrothers, theotherfamily in our house and anyguests we had from ourvillage–thenI’dcheckevery

single door and window. I’dgooutsideandmakesurethefrontgatewaslocked.ThenIwould check all the rooms,onebyone.MyroomwasatthefrontwithlotsofwindowsandIkeptthecurtainsopen.Iwanted to be able to seeeverything, thoughmy fathertoldme not to. ‘If theyweregoing to kill me they wouldhavedone it in2009,’ I said.ButIworriedsomeonewould

put a ladder against thehouse, climb over the walland break in through awindow.Then I’d pray. At night I

used to pray a lot. TheTaliban think we are notMuslims but we are. Webelieve in God more thanthey do and we trust him toprotect us. I used to say theAyat al-Kursi, the Verse ofthe Throne from the second

surah of the Quran, theChapteroftheCow.Thisisavery special verse and webelievethatifyousayitthreetimesatnightyourhomewillbe safe from shayatin ordevils.When you say it fivetimesyourstreetwillbesafe,and seven times will protectthewhole area. So I’d say itseven times or even more.Then I’dpray toGod, ‘Blessus. First our father and

family, then our street, thenour whole mohalla, then allSwat.’Then I’d say, ‘No, allMuslims.’Then,‘No,notjustMuslims; bless all humanbeings.’The time of year I prayed

most was during exams. Itwas the one time when myfriends and I did all fiveprayersadaylikemymotherwas always trying to get meto do. I found it particularly

hardintheafternoon,whenIdidn’t want to be draggedaway from the TV. At examtime I prayed to Allah forhigh marks though ourteachers used to warn us,‘Godwon’tgiveyoumarksifyou don’t work hard. Godshowersuswithhisblessingsbutheishonestaswell.’So I studied hard too.

Usually I liked exams as achance to showwhat I could

do. But when they cameround in October 2012 I feltunderpressure.Ididnotwantto come second to Malka-e-NooragainasIhadinMarch.Then she had beaten me bynotjustoneortwomarks,theusual difference between us,butbyfivemarks!Ihadbeentaking extra lessons with SirAmjad who ran the boys’school. The night before theexams began I stayed up

studyinguntilthreeo’clockinthe morning and reread anentiretextbook.The first paper, on

Monday, 8 October, wasphysics. I love physicsbecause it is about truth, aworld determined byprinciples and laws – nomessing around or twistingthings like in politics,particularly those in mycountry.Aswewaitedforthe

signal to start the exam, Irecitedholyversestomyself.I completed the paper but Iknew I’d made a mistakefillingintheblanks.Iwassocross with myself I almostcried.Itwasjustonequestionworth only one mark, but itmademe feel that somethingdevastating was going tohappen.When I got home that

afternoon I was sleepy, but

the next day was PakistanStudies, a difficult paper forme. I was worried aboutlosing evenmoremarks so Imademyselfcoffeewithmilkto drive away the devils ofsleep.Whenmymothercameshe tried it and liked it anddranktherest.Icouldnottellher, ‘Bhabi, please stop it,that’s my coffee.’ But therewasnomorecoffeeleftinthecupboard. Once again I

stayed up late, memorisingthetextbookaboutthehistoryofourindependence.In themorningmyparents

came to my room as usualand woke me up. I don’trememberasingleschooldayonwhich Iwokeupearlybymyself.Mymothermadeourusualbreakfastofsugary tea,chapatisandfriedegg.Weallhad breakfast together – me,my mother, my father,

Khushal and Atal. It was abigdayformymotherasshewasgoingtostartlessonsthatafternoontolearntoreadandwritewithMissUlfat,myoldteacherfromkindergarten.My father started teasing

Atal, who was eight by thenand cheekier than ever.‘Look, Atal, when Malala isprime minister, you will behersecretary,’hesaid.Atal got very cross. ‘No,

no,no!’hesaid. ‘I’mno lessthanMalala. I will be primeminister and she will be mysecretary.’ All the bantermeant I ended up being solateIonlyhadtimetoeathalfmy egg and no time to clearup.ThePakistanStudiespaper

went better than I thought itwould. There were questionsabouthowJinnahhadcreatedour country as the first

Muslim homeland and alsoabout the national tragedy ofhow Bangladesh came intobeing.Itwasstrangetothinkthat Bangladesh was oncepartofPakistandespitebeinga thousand miles away. Ianswered all the questionsand was confident I’d donewell. I was happy when theexamwas over, chatting andgossipingwithmy friends aswe waited for Sher

Mohammad Baba, a schoolassistant, to call for uswhenthebusarrived.Thebusdidtwotripsevery

day,andthatdaywetookthesecondone.WelikedstayingonatschoolandMonibasaid,‘As we’re tired after theexam, let’s stay and chatbefore going home.’ I wasrelieved that the PakistanStudies exam had gone wellso Iagreed. Ihadnoworries

that day. I was hungry butbecause we were fifteen wecouldnolongergooutsidetothestreet, so Igotoneof thesmall girls to buyme a corncob.Iatealittlebitofitthengave it to another girl tofinish.At twelve o’clock Baba

called us over theloudspeaker.Weallrandownthe steps. The other girls allcovered their faces before

emerging from the door andclimbed into the back of thebus.Iworemyscarfovermyheadbutneverovermyface.IaskedUsmanBhaiJanto

tell us a jokewhilewewerewaiting for two teachers toarrive.Hehasacollectionofextremelyfunnystories.Thatdayinsteadofastoryhedidamagic trick tomakeapebbledisappear.‘Showushowyoudidit!’weallclamoured,but

hewouldn’t.When everyone was ready

he took Miss Rubi and acouple of small children inthe front cab with him.Another little girl cried,saying she wanted to ridethere too. Usman Bhai Jansaid no, there was no room;shewouldhavetostayinthebackwithus.But I felt sorryforherandpersuadedhim toletherinthecab.

Atal had been told by mymothertorideonthebuswithme, so he walked over fromthe primary school. He likedto hang off the tailboard attheback,whichmadeUsmanBhai Jan cross as it wasdangerous. That day UsmanBhaiJanhadhadenoughandrefusedtolethim.‘Sitinside,Atal Khan, or I won’t takeyou!’ he said. Atal had atantrum and refused so he

walked home in a huff withsomeofhisfriends.UsmanBhaiJanstartedthe

dyna andwewere off. Iwastalking to Moniba, my wise,nice friend. Some girls weresinging, I was drummingrhythms with my fingers ontheseat.Moniba and I liked to sit

near the open back so wecouldseeout.Atthattimeofday Haji Baba Road was

always a jumble of colouredrickshaws,peopleonfootandmen on scooters, allzigzagging and honking. Anice-cream boy on a redtricycle painted with red andwhite nuclear missiles rodeupbehindwavingatus,untilateachershooedhimaway.Aman was chopping offchickens’ heads, the blooddripping onto the street. Idrummed my fingers. Chop,

chop, chop. Drip, drip, drip.Funny, when I was little wealways said Swatis were sopeace-loving it was hard tofind a man to slaughter achicken.The air smelt of diesel,

bread and kebab mixed withthe stink from the streamwhere people still dumpedtheir rubbish andwere nevergoing to stop despite all myfather’scampaigning.Butwe

wereusedtoit.Besides,soonthe winter would be here,bringing the snow, whichwould cleanse and quieteneverything.Thebusturnedrightoffthe

main road at the armycheckpoint.Onakioskwasaposter of crazy-eyed menwith beards and caps orturbans under big letterssayingwanted terrorists. Thepicture at the top of a man

withablackturbanandbeardwas Fazlullah. More thanthree years had passed sincethemilitaryoperationtodrivethe Taliban out of Swat hadbegun. We were grateful tothe army but couldn’tunderstand why they werestill everywhere, inmachine-gun nests on roofs andmanning checkpoints. Evento enter our valley peopleneededofficialpermission.

The road up the small hillisusuallybusyasitisashortcut but that day it wasstrangely quiet. ‘Where areall the people?’ I askedMoniba. All the girls weresinging and chatting and ourvoicesbouncedaroundinsidethebus.Around that time my

mother was probably justgoing through the doorwayinto our school for her first

lesson since she had leftschoolatagesix.I didn’t see the twoyoung

men step out into the roadandbringthevantoasuddenhalt. I didn’t get a chance toanswer their question, ‘Whois Malala?’ or I would haveexplained to them why theyshould let us girls go toschool as well as their ownsistersanddaughters.The last thing I remember

is that I was thinking abouttherevisionIneededtodoforthe next day. The sounds inmy headwere not the crack,crack, crack of three bullets,but the chop, chop, chop,drip, drip, drip of the mansevering the heads ofchickens, and them droppinginto the dirty street, one byone.

PARTFOUR

BetweenLifeandDeath

KhaireybawaleydartanakramTooratopakaworanaweywadankorona

GunsofDarkness!WhywouldInot

curseyou?Youturnedlove-filledhomesintobrokendebris

21

‘God,Ientrusthertoyou’

ASSOONASUsmanBhaiJanrealised what had happenedhe drove the dyna to Swat

CentralHospitalattopspeed.The other girls were

screaming and crying. I waslying on Moniba’s lap,bleeding from my head andleft ear.We had only gone ashort waywhen a policemanstopped the van and startedasking questions, wastingprecious time. One girl feltmy neck for a pulse. ‘She’salive!’sheshouted.‘Wemustget her to hospital. Leave us

aloneandcatchthemanwhodidthis!’Mingoraseemed likeabig

town to us but it’s really asmall place and the newsspread quickly. My fatherwas at the Swat Press Clubfor a meeting of theAssociation of PrivateSchoolsandhadjustgoneonstage to give a speech whenhis mobile rang. Herecognised thenumberas the

Khushal School and passedthe phone to his friendAhmad Shah to answer.‘Your school bus has beenfired on,’ he whisperedurgentlytomyfather.The colour drained from

my father’s face. Heimmediately thought,Malalacouldbeonthatbus!Thenhetried to reassure himself,thinking itmight be a boy, ajealousloverwhohadfireda

pistol in the air to shame hisbeloved. He was at animportant gathering of about400principalswhohadcomefromall overSwat toprotestagainst plans by thegovernment to impose acentral regulatory authority.As president of theirassociation,my father felt hecouldn’t let all those peopledown so he delivered hisspeech as planned. But there

were beads of sweat on hisforehead and for once therewas no need for anyone tosignaltohimtowinditup.Assoonashehadfinished,

myfatherdidnotwaittotakequestions from the audienceand instead rushed off to thehospital with Ahmad Shahandanotherfriend,Riaz,whohad a car. The hospital wasonlyfiveminutesaway.Theyarrived to find crowds

gathered outside andphotographers and TVcameras. Then he knew forcertain that I was there. Myfather’s heart sank. Hepushed through the peopleand ran through the cameraflashes into the hospital.Inside I was lying on atrolley, a bandage over myhead,myeyesclosed,myhairspreadout.‘My daughter, you aremy

brave daughter, my beautifuldaughter,’ he said over andover,kissingmyforeheadandcheeks and nose. He didn’tknowwhyhewasspeakingtome in English. I thinksomehowIknewhewasthereeven though my eyes wereclosed.Myfathersaidlater,‘Ican’t explain it. I felt sheresponded.’ Someone said Ihad smiled.But tomy fatheritwasnotasmile,justasmall

beautifulmoment because heknew he had not lostme forever.Seeingmelikethatwastheworst thing that had everhappenedtohim.Allchildrenare special to their parents,but to my father I was hisuniverse. I had been hiscomrade in arms for so long,first secretly as Gul Makai,then quite openly as Malala.He had always believed thatif the Taliban came for

anyone, itwould be for him,notme. He said he felt as ifhe had been hit by athunderbolt. ‘Theywanted tokilltwobirdswithonestone.Kill Malala and silence meforever.’Hewas very afraid but he

didn’tcry.Therewerepeopleeverywhere. All theprincipals from the meetinghadarrivedatthehospitalandthere were scores of media

and activists; it seemed thewhole townwas there. ‘PrayforMalala,’hetoldthem.Thedoctors reassured him thatthey had done a CT scanwhich showed that the bullethad not gone near my brain.They cleaned and bandagedthewound.‘O Ziauddin! What have

they done?’MadamMaryamburst through the doors. Shehad not been at school that

day but at home nursing herbaby when she received aphone call from her brother-in-lawcheckingshewassafe.Alarmed,sheswitchedontheTVandsawtheheadlinethattherehadbeena shootingonthe Khushal School bus. Assoonas sheheard Ihadbeenshot she called her husband.Hebroughthertothehospitalonthebackofhismotorbike,something very rare for a

respectable Pashtun woman.‘Malala,Malala.Doyouhearme?’shecalled.Igrunted.Maryam tried to find out

more about what was goingon. A doctor she knew toldher the bullet had passedthroughmyforehead,notmybrain,andthatIwassafe.Shealso saw the two otherKhushal girls who had beenshot. Shazia had been hit

twice, in the left collarboneand palm, and had beenbrought to the hospital withme. Kainat had not realisedshewashurttostartwithandhad gone home, thendiscovered she had beengrazed by a bullet at the topofherrightarmsoherfamilyhadbroughtherin.My father knew he should

goandcheckonthembutdidnotwanttoleavemybedside

for aminute.His phone keptringing.ThechiefministerofKPKwasthefirstpersonwhocalled. ‘Don’tworry,wewillsort everything out,’ he said.‘Lady Reading Hospital inPeshawar is expecting you.’Butitwasthearmywhotookcharge. At 3 p.m. the localcommander arrived andannouncedtheyweresendinganarmyhelicoptertotakemeand my father to Peshawar.

Therewasn’ttimetofetchmymother so Maryam insistedshewould go too as Imightneed a woman’s help.Maryam’s family was nothappy about this as she wasstill nursing her baby boy,whohadrecentlyundergoneasmall operation. But she islikemysecondmother.When I was put in the

ambulance my father wasafraid the Taliban would

attackagain.Itseemedtohimthateveryonemustknowwhowas inside. The helipad wasonly a mile away, a five-minute drive, but he wasscared thewholeway.Whenwe got there the helicopterhad not arrived, and wewaited for what to him feltlike hours inside theambulance. Finally it landedandIwastakenonboardwithmy father, my cousin

Khanjee, Ahmad Shah andMaryam. None of them hadeverbeenonahelicopter.Asit took off we flew over anarmy sports gala withpatriotic music poundingfrom speakers. To hear themsinging about their love ofcountrygavemyfatherabadtaste. He normally likedsinging along, but a patrioticsong hardly seemedappropriate when here was a

fifteen-year-old girl shot inthe head, an almost deaddaughter.Downbelow,mymotherwaswatchingfromtheroofofourhouse.WhensheheardthatIhadbeenhurtshewashavingher reading lessonwithMissUlfat and struggling to learnwords like ‘book’ and‘apple’.Thenewsatfirstwasmuddled and she initiallybelieved I’d been in an

accident and had injured myfoot. She rushed home andtold my grandmother, whowas staying with us at thetime. She begged mygrandmother to start prayingimmediately. We believeAllah listensmore closely tothe white-haired. My motherthen noticed my half-eatenegg from breakfast. Therewere pictures of meeverywhere receiving the

awards she had disapprovedof.Shesobbedasshe lookedat them. All around wasMalala,Malala.Soonthehousewasfullof

women. In our culture, ifsomeonedieswomencometothehomeofthedeceasedandthementothehujra–notjustfamily and close friends buteveryone from theneighbourhood.Mymotherwasastonished

to see all the people. She saton a prayer mat and recitedfrom theQuran. She told thewomen, ‘Don’t cry – pray!’Thenmybrothersrushedintothe room. Atal, who hadwalked home from school,had turned on the televisionand seen the news that I hadbeen shot. He had calledKhushal, and together theyjoined the weeping. Thephone did not stop ringing.

People reassured my motherthatalthoughIhadbeenshotinthehead,thebullethadjustskimmed my forehead. Mymotherwasveryconfusedbyall the different stories, firstthatmyfoothadbeeninjured,then that I had been shot inthehead.ShethoughtIwouldthink it strange that shehadn’t come to me, butpeopletoldhernottogoasIwaseitherdeadorabouttobe

moved. One of my father’sfriendsphonedher to tellherI was being taken toPeshawar by helicopter andsheshouldcomebyroad.Theworst moment for her waswhen someone came to thehouse with my front doorkeys, which had been foundatthesceneoftheshooting.‘Idon’t want keys, I want mydaughter!’ my mother cried.‘What use are keys without

Malala?’Thentheyheardthesoundofthehelicopter.Thehelipadwasjustamile

from our house and all thewomenrusheduptotheroof.‘It must be Malala!’ theysaid. As they watched thehelicopter fly overhead, mymother tookher scarfoffherhead, an extremely raregestureforaPashtunwoman,and lifted it up to the sky,holding it inbothhandsas if

it was an offering. ‘God, Ientrust her to You,’ she saidto the heavens. ‘We didn’taccept securityguards–Youare our protector. She wasunderYourcareandYouareboundtogiveherback.’Inside the helicopter I wasvomiting blood. My fatherwas horrified, thinking thismeantIhadinternalbleeding.Hewasstarting to losehope.ButthenMaryamnoticedme

tryingtowipemymouthwithmy scarf. ‘Look, she isresponding!’shesaid.‘That’sanexcellentsign.’When we landed in

Peshawar,theyassumedwe’dbe taken to Lady ReadingHospital, where there was avery good neurosurgeoncalled Dr Mumtaz who hadbeen recommended. Insteadtheywerealarmedtobetakento CMH, the Combined

Military Hospital. CMH is alargesprawlingbrickhospitalwith600bedsanddatesfromBritish rule. There was a lotof construction going on tobuild a new tower block.Peshawar is the gateway totheFATAandsincethearmywentintothoseareasin2004to take on the militants, thehospital had been very busytendingwoundedsoldiersandvictims of the frequent

suicide bombs in and aroundthe city. As in much of ourcountry, there were concreteblocks and checkpoints allaround CMH to protect itfromsuicidebombers.I was rushed to the

IntensiveCareUnit,which isinaseparatebuilding.Abovethe nurses’ station the clockshowed it was just after 5p.m. I was wheeled into aglass-walled isolation unit

andanurseputmeonadrip.In the next room was asoldier who had beenhorrificallyburned inanIEDattack and had a leg blownoff. A young man came inand introduced himself asColonel Junaid, aneurosurgeon. My fatherbecameevenmoredisturbed.Hedidn’tthinkhelookedlikea doctor; he seemed soyoung. ‘Is she your

daughter?’ asked thecolonel.Maryam pretended to be mymothersoshecouldcomein.Colonel Junaid examined

me. I was conscious andrestless but not speaking oraware of anything, my eyesfluttering. The colonelstitchedthewoundabovemyleftbrowwherethebullethadentered,buthewas surprisednot to see any bullet in thescan. ‘If there is an entry

there has to be an exit,’ hesaid. He palpated my spineand located the bullet lyingnext to my left shoulderblade. ‘She must have beenstoopingsoherneckwasbentwhenshewasshot,’hesaid.They took me for another

CT scan. Then the colonelcalled my father into hisoffice,wherehehadthescansup on a screen. He told himthat the scan in Swat had

been done from only oneangle, but this new scanshowed the injury was moreserious. ‘Look,Ziauddin,’ hesaid.‘TheCTscanshowsthebullet went very close to thebrain.’ He said particles ofbone had damaged the brainmembrane. ‘We can pray toGod. Let’s wait and see,’ hesaid. ‘We’re not going tooperateatthisstage.’My father became more

agitated. In Swat the doctorshad told him this wassomething simple, now itseemedveryserious.Andifitwasseriouswhyweren’ttheyoperating? He feltuncomfortable in a militaryhospital. In our country,where the army has seizedpowersomany times,peopleareoftenwaryofthemilitary,particularly those fromSwat,where the armyhad taken so

long to act against theTaliban. One of my father’sfriends called him and said,‘Get her moved from thathospital. We don’t want herto become shaheed millat [amartyr of the nation] likeLiaquatAliKhan.’Myfatherdidn’tknowwhattodo.‘I’m confused,’ he told

ColonelJunaid. ‘Whyarewehere?Ithoughtwe’dgotothecivilhospital.’Thenheasked,

‘Please, can you bring in DrMumtaz?’‘How would that look?’

replied Colonel Junaid whowas, not surprisingly,offended.Afterwards, we found out

that despite his youthfulappearance he had been aneurosurgeon for thirteenyears and was the mostexperienced and decoratedneurosurgeoninthePakistani

army. He had joined themilitary as a doctor becauseof their superior facilities,following in the footsteps ofhis uncle, who was also anarmy neurosurgeon. ThePeshawar CMH was on thefront line of the war on theTalibanandJunaiddealtwithgunshot wounds and blastsevery day. ‘I’ve treatedthousands of Malalas,’ helatersaid.

Butmyfatherdidn’tknowthat at the time and becameverydepressed.‘Dowhateveryou think,’ he said. ‘You’rethedoctor.’Thenextfewhourswerea

wait-and-see time, the nursesmonitoringmy heartbeat andvital signs. Occasionally Imadealowgruntandmovedmyhandorflutteredmyeyes.Then Maryam would say,‘Malala, Malala.’ Once my

eyes completely opened. ‘Inever noticed before howbeautiful her eyes are,’ saidMaryam. I was restless andkepttryingtogetthemonitoroffmyfinger.‘Don’tdothat,’Maryamsaid.‘Miss, don’t tellmeoff,’ I

whispered as if we were atschool.MadamMaryamwasastrictheadmistress.Late in the evening my

mothercamewithAtal.They

had made the four-hourjourney by road, driven bymy father’s friendMohammad Farooq. Beforeshe arrived Maryam hadcalled to warn her, ‘Whenyou see Malala don’t cry orshout.Shecanhearyouevenif you think she can’t.’ Myfatheralsocalledherandtoldher to prepare for the worst.Hewantedtoprotecther.When my mother arrived

they hugged and held backtears. ‘Here isAtal,’ she toldme. ‘He has come to seeyou.’Atalwasoverwhelmedand

criedalot.‘Mama,’hewept,‘Malalaishurtsobadly.’My mother was in a state

of shock and could notunderstand why the doctorswerenotoperatingtoremovethe bullet. ‘My bravedaughter, my beautiful

daughter,’shecried.Atalwasmaking so much noise thateventually an orderly tookthemtothehospital’smilitaryhostel,wheretheywerebeingputup.My father was bewildered

by all the people gatheredoutside – politicians,government dignitaries,provincial ministers – whohad come to show theirsympathy.Even thegovernor

was there;hegavemy father100,000 rupees for mytreatment. In our society ifsomeone dies, you feel veryhonoured if one dignitarycomestoyourhome.Butnowhe was irritated. He felt allthese people were justwaiting for me to die whenthey had done nothing toprotectme.Later, while they were

eating,AtalturnedontheTV.

Myfatherimmediatelyturneditoff.Hecouldn’tfaceseeingnews of my attack at thatmoment.When he left theroom Maryam switched itback on. Every channel wasshowingfootageofmewithacommentary of prayers andmoving poems as if I haddied. ‘My Malala, myMalala,’ my mother wailedandMaryamjoinedher.Around midnight Colonel

Junaid asked to meet myfather outside the ICU.‘Ziauddin, Malala’s brain isswelling.’ My father didn’tunderstand what this meant.The doctor told him I hadstarted to deteriorate; myconsciousness was fading,and I had again beenvomiting blood. ColonelJunaid ordered a third CTscan. This showed that mybrain was swelling

dangerously.‘But I thought the bullet

hadn’tenteredherbrain,’saidmyfather.Colonel Junaid explained

thatabonehadfracturedandsplinters had gone into mybrain, creating a shock andcausingittoswell.Heneededto remove some of my skullto give the brain space toexpand, otherwise thepressure would become

unbearable. ‘We need tooperate now to give her achance,’hesaid.‘Ifwedon’t,shemaydie.Idon’twantyouto look back and regret nottakingaction.’Cutting away some of my

skull sounded very drastic tomyfather.‘Willshesurvive?’heaskeddesperately,butwasgivenlittlereassuranceatthatstage.Itwas a brave decision by

Colonel Junaid, whosesuperiorswerenot convincedandwerebeing toldbyotherpeople that I should be sentabroad.Itwasadecisionthatwould save my life. Myfather told him to go ahead,and Colonel Junaid said hewouldbringinDrMumtaztohelp.Myfather’shandshookas he signed the consentpapers. There in black andwhite were the words ‘the

patientmaydie’.They started the operation

around 1.30 a.m.Mymotherand father sat outside theoperating theatre. ‘O God,please make Malala well,’prayed my father. He madebargainswithGod.‘EvenifIhave to live in the deserts ofthe Sahara, I need her eyesopen; Iwon’t be able to livewithout her. O God, let megivetherestofmylifetoher;

I have lived enough. Even ifshe is injured, just let hersurvive.’Eventually my mother

interruptedhim.‘Godisnotamiser,’shesaid.‘Hewillgiveme backmy daughter as shewas.’Shebeganprayingwiththe Holy Quran in her hand,standing facing the wall,reciting verses over and overforhours.‘Ihadneverseensomeone

prayinglikeher,’saidMadamMaryam. ‘I was sure Godwouldanswersuchprayers.’Myfathertriednottothink

aboutthepastandwhetherhehadbeenwrongtoencourageme to speak out andcampaign.Inside the theatre Colonel

Junaidused a saw to removean eight-to-ten-centimetresquare from the upper-leftpart ofmy skull somybrain

had the space to swell. Hethen cut into thesubcutaneous tissue on theleftofmystomachandplacedthe piece of bone inside topreserve it. Then he did atracheotomy as he wasworried the swelling wasblockingmy airway.He alsoremovedclots frommybrainand the bullet from myshoulderblade.Afteralltheseprocedures I was put on a

ventilator.Theoperationtookalmostfivehours.Despite my mother’s

prayers, my father thoughtninety per cent of the peoplewaiting outside were justwaiting for the news of mydeath. Some of them, hisfriends and sympathisers,were very upset, but he feltthat others were jealous ofourhighprofileandbelievedwehadgotwhatwascoming

tous.My father was taking a

shortbreakfromtheintensityof the operating theatre andwas standing outside when anurse approached him. ‘Areyou Malala’s father?’ Onceagainmy father’s heart sank.The nurse took him into aroom.He thought she was going

to say, ‘We’re sorry, I’mafraidwe have lost her.’But

once insidehewas told, ‘Weneed someone to get bloodfromthebloodbank.’Hewasrelievedbutbaffled.AmItheonlypersonwhocanfetchit?he wondered. One of hisfriendswentinstead.It was about 5.30 a.m.

when the surgeons cameout.Amongotherthings,theytoldmy father that they hadremovedapieceof skullandput it inmyabdomen. Inour

culture doctors don’t explainthingstopatientsorrelatives,andmy fatheraskedhumbly,‘If you don’t mind, I have astupid question. Will shesurvive–whatdoyouthink?’‘Inmedicine two plus two

does not always make four,’replied Colonel Junaid. ‘Wedidourjob–weremovedthepiece of skull.Nowwemustwait.’‘I have another stupid

question,’ said my father.‘Whataboutthisbone?Whatwillyoudowithit?’‘After three months we

will put it back,’ replied DrMumtaz. ‘It’s very simple,justlikethis.’Heclappedhishands.Thenextmorningthenews

was good. I had moved myarms.Thenthreetopsurgeonsfrom the province came toexamine me. They said

Colonel Junaid and DrMumtaz had done a splendidjob, and the operation hadgone very well, but I shouldnow be put into an inducedcoma because if I regainedconsciousnesstherewouldbepressureonthebrain.While I was hovering

between life and death, theTaliban issued a statementassuming responsibility forshooting me but denying it

wasbecauseofmycampaignforeducation.‘Wecarriedoutthisattack,andanybodywhospeaks against us will beattacked in the same way,’said Ehsanullah Ehsan, aspokesman for the TTP.‘Malala has been targetedbecauseofherpioneerroleinpreachingsecularism...Shewas young but she waspromotingWesternculture inPashtun areas. She was pro-

West; she was speakingagainst the Taliban; she wascalling President Obama heridol.’My father knew what he

was referring to.After Iwonthe National Peace Prize theyearbefore,IhaddonemanyTV interviews and in one ofthem I had been asked toname my favouritepoliticians. I had chosenKhan Abdul Ghaffar Khan,

BenazirBhuttoandPresidentBarack Obama. I had readabout Obama and admiredhimbecauseasayoungblackmanfromastrugglingfamilyhehadachievedhisambitionsanddreams.ButtheimageofAmerica in Pakistan hadbecome of one of drones,secret raids on our territoryandRaymondDavis.A Taliban spokesman said

thatFazlullahhadorderedthe

attack at a meeting twomonthsearlier. ‘Anyonewhosides with the governmentagainst us will die at ourhands,’ he said. ‘You willsee. Other important peoplewill soon become victims.’He added they had used twolocal Swati men who hadcollected information aboutme and my route to schooland had deliberately carriedout the attack near an army

checkpoint to show theycouldstrikeanywhere.Thatfirstmorning,justafewhours after my operation,therewassuddenlyaflurryofactivity, people neateningtheir uniforms and clearingup.ThenGeneralKayani,thearmy chief, swept in. ‘Thenation’sprayersarewithyouand your daughter,’ he toldmyfather. IhadmetGeneralKayani when he came to

Swatforabigmeetingat theend of 2009 after thecampaignagainsttheTaliban.‘I am happy you did a

splendid job,’ I had said atthat meeting. ‘Now you justneed tocatchFazlullah.’Thehall filled with applause andGeneral Kayani came overandputhishandonmyheadlikeafather.Colonel Junaid gave the

general a briefing on the

surgery and the proposedtreatment plan, and GeneralKayani told him he shouldsend the CT scans abroad tothe best experts for advice.Afterhisvisitnooneelsewasallowed at my bedsidebecause of the risk ofinfection. But many keptcoming: Imran Khan, thecricketer-turned-politician;Mian Iftikhar Hussein, theprovincial information

minister and outspoken criticof the Taliban, whose onlyson had been shot dead bythem; and the chief ministerofourprovince,HaiderHoti,withwhomIhadappearedontalk-show discussions. Noneofthemwasallowedin.‘Rest assured Malala will

not die,’ Hoti told people.‘Shestillhaslotstodo.’Then around 3 p.m. in the

afternoon twoBritishdoctors

arrived by helicopter fromRawalpindi.Dr JavidKayaniandDr FionaReynoldswerefromhospitalsinBirminghamand happened to be inPakistanadvisingthearmyonhow to set up the country’sfirst liver transplantprogramme. Our country isfullofshockingstatistics,notjustoneducation,andoneofthem is that one in sevenchildren in Pakistan gets

hepatitis, largely because ofdirty needles, and many dieof liver disease. GeneralKayani was determined tochangethis,andthearmyhadonce again stepped in wherethe civilians had failed. Hehadaskedthedoctorstobriefhim on their progress beforeflyinghome,whichhappenedtobe themorningafter Ihadbeenshot.Whentheywentinto see him he had two

televisionson,onetunedtoalocalchannelinUrduandtheothertoSkyNewsinEnglish,withnewsofmyshooting.The army chief and the

doctor were not relateddespitesharingasurnamebutknew each other well so thegeneral toldDr Javid hewasworried about the conflictingreports he was receiving andaskedhimtoassessmebeforeflying back to the UK. Dr

Javid, who is an emergencycare consultant at QueenElizabeth Hospital, agreed,butaskedtotakeDrFionaasshe is from BirminghamChildren’s Hospital and aspecialist in children’sintensive care. She wasnervous about going toPeshawar,whichhasbecomea no-go area for foreigners,butwhensheheardthatIwasa campaigner for girls’

education she was happy tohelp as she herself had beenlucky to go to a good schoolandtraintobecomeadoctor.Colonel Junaid and the

hospital director were notpleased to see them. Therewas some argument until DrJavid made it clear who hadsentthem.TheBritishdoctorswere not happy with whatthey found. First they turnedon a tap towash their hands

and discovered there was nowater. Then Dr Fionachecked the machines andlevels and mutteredsomething to Dr Javid. Sheasked when my bloodpressure had last beenchecked. ‘Two hours ago,’came the reply. She said itneeded to be checked all thetime and asked a nurse whytherewasnoarterialline.Shealso complained that my

carbon dioxide level was fartoolow.My father was glad he

didn’thearwhatshehadtoldDr Javid.Shehad said Iwas‘salvageable’– Ihadhad therightsurgeryattherighttime–butmychancesofrecoverywerenowbeingcompromisedby the aftercare. Afterneurosurgeryit isessential tomonitor breathing and gasexchange,andCO2levelsare

supposed to be kept in thenormalrange.That’swhatallthe tubes andmachinesweremonitoring. Dr Javid said itwas ‘like flying an aircraft –you can only do it using therightinstruments’,andevenifthe hospital had them theyweren’t being used properly.Then they left in theirhelicopter because it isdangerous to be in Peshawarafterdark.

Among the visitors whocameandwerenotallowedinwas Rehman Malik, theinterior minister. He hadbrought with him a passportfor me. My father thankedhim but he was very upset.Thatnightwhenhewentbackto the army hostel, he tookthe passport from his pocketand gave it to my mother.‘This isMalala’s, but I don’tknow whether it’s to go

abroador to theheavens,’hesaid.Theybothcried.Intheirbubble inside the hospitalthey did not realise that mystory had travelled all roundthe world and that peoplewerecallingformetobesentabroadfortreatment.My condition was

deteriorating and my fathernow rarely picked up hiscalls.Oneof thefewhetookwas from theparentsofArfa

Karim, a child computergenius from Punjab withwhom I had spoken duringforums. She had become theyoungest Microsoft-certifiedprofessional in the world attheageofnineforherskillatprogramming and had evenbeen invited to meet BillGates in Silicon Valley. Buttragically she had died thatJanuary of a heart attackfollowinganepilepticfit.She

was just sixteen, one yearolder than me. When herfathercalled,myfathercried.‘Tell me how can one livewithout daughters,’ hesobbed.

22

JourneyintotheUnknown

IWAS SHOTON a Tuesday atlunchtime. By Thursdaymorning my father was so

convinced that I would diethat he told my uncle FaizMohammad that the villageshouldstartpreparingformyfuneral.Ihadbeenputintoaninducedcoma,myvitalsignswere deteriorating, my faceand body were swollen andmykidneysandlungsfailing.Myfatherlatertoldmethatitwas terrifying to see meconnected to all the tubes inthat small glass cubicle. As

far as he could see, I wasmedically dead. He wasdevastated. ‘It’s too early,she’s only 15,’ he keptthinking. ‘Isher life tobe soshort?’My mother was still

praying – she had barelyslept. Faiz Mohammad hadtoldher she should recite theSurahof theHaj, thechapterof the Quran aboutpilgrimage, and she recited

overandoveragainthesametwelve verses (58–70) aboutthe all-powerfulness of God.She toldmy father she felt Iwould live but he could notseehow.WhenColonelJunaidcame

to check on me, my fatheragain asked him, ‘Will shesurvive?’‘Do you believe in God?’

thedoctoraskedhim.‘Yes,’ said my father.

Colonel Junaid seemed to beamanofgreatspiritualdepth.His advice was to appeal toGod and that He wouldanswerourprayers.Late on Wednesday night

two military doctors whowereintensivecarespecialistshad arrived by road fromIslamabad. They had beensent byGeneralKayani afterthe British doctors hadreportedback tohimthat if I

was left inPeshawarIwouldsufferbraindamageormighteven die because of thequality of the care and thehigh risk of infection. Theywanted to move me butsuggested that in themeantime a top doctor bebrought in. But it seemedtheyweretoolate.The hospital staff had

madenoneofthechangesDrFionahadrecommended,and

myconditionhaddeterioratedas the night went on.Infection had set in. OnThursdaymorningoneof thespecialists, Brigadier Aslam,called Dr Fiona. ‘Malala isnowverysick,’hetoldher.Ihad developed somethingcalled disseminatedintravascular coagulation(DIC),whichmeantmybloodwas not clotting, my bloodpressure was very low and

my blood acid had risen. Iwasn’t passing urine anymore so my kidneys werefailing and my lactate levelshad risen. It seemed thateverything that could gowrong, had. Dr Fiona wasabout to leave for the airportto fly back toBirmingham –her bags were already at theairport – butwhen she heardthenews, sheoffered tohelpand two nurses from her

hospital in Birminghamstayedonwithher.She arrived back in

Peshawar at lunchtime onThursday.She toldmyfatherthatIwastobeairliftedtoanarmy hospital in Rawalpindiwhich had the best intensivecare. He couldn’t see how achildsosickcouldfly,butDrFiona assured him that shedidthisall the timesonot toworry. He asked her if there

was any hope for me. ‘Hadthere been no hope I wouldnotbehere,’ she replied.Myfather says that in thatmoment he could not holdbackhistears.Laterthatdayanursecame

and put drops in my eyes.‘Look, Khaista,’ said mymother. ‘Dr Fiona is rightbecause the nurses put eyedrops inMalala’s eyes.Theywouldn’tputdropsinifthere

was no chance.’ One of theothergirlswhohadbeenshot,Shazia, had been moved tothe same hospital and Fionawent to check on her. Shetold my father that Shaziawasfineandhadbeggedher,‘LookafterMalala!’We were taken to the

helipad by ambulance underhighsecuritywithmotorcycleoutriders and flashing bluelights.The helicopter flight

was one hour and fifteenminutes. Dr Fiona hardly satdown; she was so busy thewhole way with all thedifferent equipment that itlooked tomy father as if shewasfightingwithit.Shewasdoing what she had beendoing for years. Half herwork in theUKwasmovingcritically ill children, theother half was treating theminintensivecare.Butshehad

neverbeeninasituationquitelike this. Not only wasPeshawar dangerous forWesternersbutaftergooglingme she realised this was noordinary case. ‘If anythinghadhappenedtoher itwouldhave been blamed on thewhite woman,’ she saidafterwards. ‘If she’d died Iwould have killed Pakistan’sMotherTeresa.’As soon as we landed in

Rawalpindiweweretakenbyambulance with anothermilitary escort to a hospitalcalled the Armed ForcesInstitute of Cardiology. Myfather was alarmed – howwouldtheyknowhowtodealwith head wounds? But DrFiona assured him it had thebestintensivecareinPakistanwith state-of-the-artequipmentandBritish-traineddoctors.Herownnursesfrom

Birmingham were therewaiting and had explained tothe cardiology nurses thespecific procedures fordealing with headinjuries.They spent the nextthree hours with me,swapping my antibiotics andmybloodlinesasIseemedtobereactingbadlytothebloodtransfusions.FinallytheysaidIwasstable.The hospital had been put

oncompletelockdown.Therewas an entire battalion ofsoldiers guarding it and evensnipers on the rooftops. Noone was allowed in; doctorshad to wear uniforms;patientscouldonlybevisitedby close relatives, all ofwhom underwent strictsecurity checks. An armymajor was assigned to myparents and followed themeverywhere.

My father was scared andmy uncle kept saying, ‘Bevery careful – some of thesepeople might be secretagents.’Myfamilywasgiventhree rooms in the officers’hostel. Everyone’s mobilephonewasconfiscated,whichthey said was for securityreasons but may have alsobeentostopmyfathertalkingto the media. Any time myparents wanted to take the

shortwalk from thehostel tothe hospital they first had tobe cleared via walkie-talkie,which took at least half anhour. They were evenguarded as they crossed thehostellawntothedininghall.No visitors could get in –evenwhenthePrimeMinistercame to see me he was notallowed inside. The securityseemed astonishing, but overthe last three years the

Taliban had managed toinfiltrate and attack even themost highly guardedmilitaryinstallations – the naval baseatMehran, the air force basein Kamra and the armyheadquarters just down theroad.Wewereall at risk froma

Talibanattack.Myfatherwastold that even my brotherswouldnotbe spared.Hewasvery concerned because at

thattimeKhushalwasstillinMingora, although later hewas brought down toRawalpindi to join them.There were no computers orInternet in the hostel but afriendly cook, YaseemMama, used to bring myfamily the newspapers andwhatever they needed.Yaseem told them he feltproudtopreparemyfamily’sfood. They were so touched

by his kindness that theysharedourstorywithhim.Hewanted to nourish themwithfoodandease theirsuffering.They had no appetite so hewouldtrytotemptthemwithever more delicious dishes,custards and sweets. Onemealtime Khushal said thatthe dining table felt emptywith only the four of them.They felt incompletewithoutme.

Itwas in one ofYaseem’snewspapers that my fatherreadforthefirsttimesomeofthe incredible internationalreaction to my shooting. Itseemed like thewholeworldwas outraged. Ban Ki-moon,the UN Secretary General,called it ‘a heinous andcowardly act’. PresidentObama described theshooting as ‘reprehensibleand disgusting and tragic’.

But some of the reaction inPakistanwas not so positive.While somepapersdescribedme as a ‘peace icon’, otherscarried the usual conspiracytheories, some bloggers evenquestioning if I had reallybeenshot.Allsortsofstoriesweremadeup,particularlyinthe Urdu press, such as onethat claimed I had criticisedthegrowingofbeards.Oneofthemostvocalpeopleagainst

me was a female MP calledDr Raheela Qazi from thereligious Jamaate-Islamiparty. She called me anAmericanstoogeandshoweda photograph of me sittingnext to Ambassador RichardHolbrookeasevidenceofme‘hobnobbingwithUSmilitaryauthority’!Dr Fiona was a great

comfort to us. My motherspeaks only Pashto so

couldn’t understand anythingshe said, but Fiona wouldgesture with a thumbs-upwhen she came out of myroom and say ‘Good.’ Shebecame a messenger for myparents, not only a doctor.She would sit with thempatiently andwould then askmy father to explain everydetail to my mother. Myfather was astonished andpleased – in our country few

doctors bother explaininganything to an illiteratewoman. They heard thatoffers were pouring in fromoverseastotreatmeincludingfrom America, where a tophospitalcalledJohnsHopkinshad offered free treatment.Individual Americans alsooffered to help, includingSenator John Kerry, a richmanwhohadvisitedPakistanmany times, and Gabrielle

Giffords, a congresswomanwho had been shot in thehead while meetingconstituents at a shoppingmall in Arizona. There wereoffers too from Germany,Singapore, the UAE andBritain.Nobody consulted my

mother and father on whatshould happen to me. Alldecisions were made by thearmy. General Kayani asked

DrJavidwhether Ishouldbesentabroadornot.Thearmychief was spending asurprisingamountofhistimeon the issue –Dr Javid saysthey spent six hoursdiscussingme! Perhapsmorethan any politician heunderstood the politicalimplications if I did notsurvive. He was hoping tobuild a political consensusbehind launching an all-out

attack on the Taliban. Butalsothoseclosetohimsayheis a compassionate man. Hisown father was just anordinary soldier and diedyoung, leaving him as theeldestsonofeight tosupporthis entire family. When hebecame army chief the firstthingGeneralKayanididwasimprovehousing,foodrationsand education for ordinarysoldiersratherthanofficers.

DrFionasaid itwas likelyI would have a speechimpedimentandaweakrightarmandrightleg,soIwouldneed extensive rehabilitationfacilities, which Pakistandidn’thave.‘Ifyou’reseriousabout getting the bestoutcome possible, take heroverseas,’sheadvised.General Kayani was

adamant that the Americansshould not be involved

because of the ongoing badrelations between the twocountries after the RaymondDavis episode and the binLaden raid as well as thekilling of some PakistanisoldiersataborderpostbyaUS helicopter. Dr Javidsuggested Great OrmondStreet in London, andspecialist hospitals inEdinburgh and Glasgow.‘Whynotyourownhospital?’

GeneralKayaniasked.Dr Javid had known this

wascoming.QueenElizabethHospital in Birmingham isknown for treating Britishsoldiers wounded inAfghanistan and Iraq. Itslocationoutside thecentreofthe city also offered privacy.He called his boss KevinBolger, the hospital’s chiefoperating officer.He quicklyagreed it was the right thing

todo,althoughafterwardshesaid, ‘None of us everimaginedhowmuchitwouldtake over the hospital.’Movingme–aforeignminor– to the Queen ElizabethHospital was not a simpleexercise, and Bolger soonfound himself tangled in thehoopsofBritishandPakistanibureaucracy.Meanwhiletimewas ticking away. Althoughmy condition had been

stabilised it was felt that Ineeded to be moved withinforty-eight hours, seventy-twoatthemost.Finally the go-ahead was

given and the doctors had toface the problem of how Iwas to be moved and whowould pay for it. Dr Javidsuggested taking up an offerfrom the Royal Air Force asthey were used totransporting wounded

soldiers from Afghanistan,but General Kayani refused.HecalledDrJavidforalate-night meeting at his house –thegeneralkeepslatehours–andexplained,chain-smokingasusual,thathedidnotwantanyforeignmilitaryinvolved.Therewerealreadytoomanyconspiracy theories floatingaround about my shooting,people saying I was a CIAagentandsuchthings,andthe

army chief did not want tofurtherfuelthem.ThisleftDrJavid in a difficult position.The British government hadofferedassistancebutneededa formal request from thePakistangovernment.Butmygovernment was reluctant toask for fear of loss of face.Fortunately at this point theruling family of the UnitedArab Emirates stepped in.Theyofferedtheirprivatejet,

which had its own on-boardhospital. I was to be flownout of Pakistan for the firsttime in my life in the earlyhours of Monday, 15October.Myparentshadno ideaof

any of these negotiationsthoughtheyknewdiscussionswere underway tomovemeoverseas. Naturally theyassumed thatwherever Iwassent, they would accompany

me.Mymother and brothershad no passports ordocumentation. On Sundayafternoon my father wasinformedbythecolonelthatIwould be leaving the nextmorningfortheUKandonlyhewastoaccompanyme,notmy mother or my brothers.He was told there was aproblem arranging theirpassportsandthatforsecurityreasons he should not even

tell the rest ofmy family hewasgoing.My father shares

everything with my motherand there was no way hewould keep such a thingsecret. He told her the newswith a heavy heart. MymotherwassittingwithuncleFaiz Mohammad, who wasfuriousandworriedaboutherandmybrothers’security.‘Ifshe’s on her own with two

boys in Mingora, anythingcouldhappentothem!’My father called the

colonel. ‘Ihave informedmyfamily and they are veryunhappy. I cannot leavethem.’ This caused a bigproblem because I was aminor so couldn’t be sentalone and many people gotinvolved to try and convincemy father to come with me,includingColonel Junaid,Dr

Javid and Dr Fiona. Myfather does not respond welltobeingpushedandremainedfirmeventhoughitwasclearthat by now he was creatinghavoc. He explained to DrJavid,‘Mydaughterisnowinsafehandsandgoingtoasafecountry.Ican’tleavemywifeandsonsalonehere.Theyareatrisk.Whathashappenedtomy daughter has happenedand now she is in God’s

hands. I am a father – mysonsareasimportanttomeasmydaughter.’Dr Javid asked to see my

father privately. ‘Are yousure this is the only reasonyou are not coming?’ heasked. He wanted to makesure no one was pressuringhim.‘My wife told me, “You

can’t leave us,”’ my fathersaid. The doctor put a hand

onhisshoulderandreassuredmy father that I would betaken care of and he couldtrust him. ‘Isn’t it a miracleyou all happened to be herewhenMalalawas shot?’ saidmyfather.‘It ismy beliefGod sends

the solution first and theproblem later,’ replied DrJavid.My father then signed an

‘in loco parentis’ document

making Dr Fiona myguardian for the trip to theUK.Myfatherwasintearsashe gave hermypassport andtookherhand.‘Fiona, I trust you. Please

takecareofmydaughter.’Thenmymotherandfather

came to my bedside to saygoodbye. It was around 11p.m. when they saw me forthe last time in Pakistan. Icould not speak, my eyes

wereshutanditwasonlymybreath that reassured them Iwas still alive. My mothercried, but my father tried tocomfort her as he felt I wasnowout of danger.All thosedeadlines they’d given at thebeginning – when they saidthe next twenty-four hourswere dangerous, forty-eightwere crucial, seventy-twowerecritical–hadallpassedwithout incident. The

swelling had gone down andmy blood levels hadimproved. My family trustedthat Dr Fiona and Dr Javidwould give me the bestpossiblecare.When my family went

backtotheirroomssleepwasslow in coming. Just aftermidnightsomeoneknockedattheir door. It was one of thecolonelswhohadearliertriedto convince my father to

leave mymother behind andtravel to theUK.He toldmyfather that he absolutely hadto travel with me or I mightnotbetakenatall.‘I told you last night the

issue was resolved,’ myfather replied. ‘Why did youwakeme?I’mnotleavingmyfamily.’Once again, another

official was called to talk tohim. ‘Youmust go. You are

her parent, and if you don’taccompany her she may notbe accepted into the hospitalintheUK,’hesaid.‘What’sdone isdone,’my

father insisted. ‘I am notchanging my mind. We willallfollowinafewdayswhenthedocumentsaresortedout.’The colonel then said,

‘Let’s go to the hospital asthere are other documents tosign.’

My father becamesuspicious. It was aftermidnight and he was scared.He didn’t want to go alonewiththeofficialsandinsistedmy mother come too. Myfatherwassoworriedthatforthewhole timehe repeated averseoftheHolyQuranoverand over. It was from thestory of Yunus who isswallowedbyawhalelikethestory of Jonah in the Bible.

Thisversewasrecitedbytheprophet Yunus when he wasinthetummyofthewhale.Itreassures us that there is away out of even the worsttroubleanddangerifwekeepfaith.When they got to the

hospital the colonel told myfather that if I was to beallowedtoflytotheUKthenthere were other documentsthat needed to be signed. It

was simple. My father hadfelt so uncomfortable andscaredbecauseofthesecrecyof all the arrangements, themen in uniform everywhereand the vulnerability of ourfamily, that he had panickedandblowntheincidentoutofproportion. The wholeepisodehadbeenamatterofbotchedbureaucracy.When my parents finally

got back to the hostel it was

with a very heavy heart.Myfather did not want me tocome round in a strangecountry without my familythere. He was worried abouthowconfusedIwouldbe.Mylastmemorywouldbeof theschool bus, and he wasdistraught that I would feelabandonedbythem.Iwastakenawayat5a.m.

onMonday,15Octoberunderarmed escort. The roads to

the airport had been closedandthereweresnipersontherooftops of the buildingslining the route. The UAEplanewaswaiting. I am tolditistheheightofluxurywitha plush double bed, sixteenfirst-class seats and a mini-hospital at the back staffedwithEuropeannursesledbyaGerman doctor. I am justsorry I wasn’t conscious toenjoy it. The plane flew to

AbuDhabiforrefuellingthenheaded on to Birmingham,where it landed in the lateafternoon.In the hostel my parents

waited. They assumed theirpassports and visas werebeing processed and theywouldjoinmeinafewdays.Buttheyheardnothing.Theyhad no phone and no accesstoacomputertocheckonmyprogress. The wait felt

endless.

PARTFIVE

ASecondLife

WatanzamazadawatanyamKadawatandaparamramkhushalayama!

IamapatriotandIlovemycountryAndforthatIwouldgladlysacrifice

all

23

‘TheGirlShotintheHead,Birmingham’

IWOKE UP on 16October, aweekaftertheshooting.Iwasthousandsofmilesawayfrom

homewithatubeinmynecktohelpmebreatheandunableto speak. I was on the wayback to critical care afteranother CT scan, and flittedbetween consciousness andsleepuntilIwokeproperly.The first thing I thought

when I came round was,ThankGodI’mnotdead.ButI had no ideawhere Iwas. Iknew I was not in myhomeland. The nurses and

doctors were speakingEnglish though they seemedto all be from differentcountries. I was speaking tothem but no one could hearmebecauseofthetubeinmyneck. To start with my lefteye was very blurry andeveryone had two noses andfour eyes. All sorts ofquestions flew through mywaking brain:Where was I?Who had brought me there?

Whereweremyparents?Wasmy father alive? I wasterrified.Dr Javid, who was there

when I was brought round,says he will never forget thelook of fear andbewildermentonmyface.Hespoke to me in Urdu. Theonly thing I knew was thatAllah had blessedmewith anew life. A nice lady in aheadscarf held my hand and

said, ‘Asalaamu alaikum,’which is our traditionalMuslim greeting. Then shestartedsayingprayersinUrduand reciting verses of theQuran.ShetoldmehernamewasRehannaandshewastheMuslim chaplain. Her voicewas soft and herwordsweresoothing,andIdriftedbacktosleep.IdreamedIwasn’treallyin

hospital.

When I woke again thenextday Inoticed Iwas inastrange green room with nowindows and very brightlights. It was an intensivecare cubicle in the QueenElizabeth Hospital.Everything was very cleanand shiny, not like thehospitalinMingora.A nurse gave me a pencil

and a pad. I couldn’t writeproperly.Thewordscameout

wrong. Iwanted towritemyfather’s phone number. Icouldn’t space letters. DrJavidbroughtmeanalphabetboard so I could point to theletters.ThefirstwordsIspeltout were ‘father’ and‘country’.ThenursetoldmeIwasinBirmingham,butIhadnoideawherethatwas.Onlylater did they bring me anatlas so I could see itwas inEngland. I didn’t knowwhat

had happened. The nursesweren’t telling me anything.Even my name. Was I stillMalala?My head was aching so

muchthateventheinjectionsthey gave me couldn’t stopthe pain. My left ear keptbleedingandmylefthandfeltfunny. Nurses and doctorskept coming in and out. Thenurses asked me questionsandtoldmetoblinktwicefor

yes.Noonetoldmewhatwasgoingonorwhohadbroughtme to the hospital. I thoughttheydidn’tknowthemselves.I could feel that the left sideof my face wasn’t workingproperly. If I looked at thenursesordoctorsfortoolongmy left eyewatered. I didn’tseem tobeable tohear frommy left ear and my jawwouldn’t move properly. Igesturedtopeopletostandon

myright.ThenakindladycalledDr

Fiona came and gave me awhite teddy bear. She said Ishould call it Junaid and shewould explain why later. Ididn’t knowwho Junaidwasso I named it Lily. She alsobrought me a pink exercisebooktowritein.Thefirsttwoquestionsmypenwrotewere,‘Why have I no father?’ and‘My father has no money.

Whowillpayforallthis?’‘Your father is safe,’ she

replied. ‘He is in Pakistan.Don’tworryaboutpayment.’I repeated the questions to

anyonewhocamein.Theyallsaid the same.But Iwas notconvinced.Ihadnoideawhathad happened to me and Ididn’t trust anyone. If myfather was fine, why wasn’thehere?Ithoughtmyparentsdidn’tknowwhereIwasand

couldbe searching forme inthe chowks and bazaars ofMingora. I didn’t believemyparentsweresafe.Thosefirstdaysmymindkeptdriftinginand out of a dream world. Ikept having flashbacks tolying on a bed with menaroundme,somanythatyoucouldn’t count, and asking,‘Where is my father?’ Ithought I had been shot butwasn’t sure – were these

dreamsormemories?I was obsessed by how

much this must be costing.The money from the awardshad almost all gone on theschool and buying a plot oflandinourvillageinShangla.Whenever I saw the doctorstalking to one another Ithought they were saying,‘Malala doesn’t have anymoney.Malala can’t pay forher treatment.’ One of the

doctors was a Polish manwho always looked sad. Ithought hewas the owner ofthehospitalandwasunhappybecause I couldn’t pay. So Igestured at a nurse for paperand wrote, ‘Why are yousad?’ He replied, ‘No, I amnot sad.’ ‘Who will pay?’ Iwrote. ‘We don’t have anymoney.’ ‘Don’t worry, yourgovernment will pay,’ hesaid. Afterwards he always

smiledwhenhesawme.I always think about

solutions to problems so Ithought maybe I could godown to the reception of thehospital and ask for a phonetocallmymotherandfather.Butmybrainwastellingme,Youdon’t have themoney topay for the call nor do youknow thecountrycode. ThenI thought, I need to go outand start working to earn

money so I can buy a phoneandcallmy fathersowecanallbetogetheragain.Everything was so mixed

up inmymind. I thought theteddy bear Dr Fiona hadgivenmewas green and hadbeen swapped with a whiteone. ‘Where’s the greenteddy?’ I kept asking, eventhough I was told over andover there was no greenteddy. The green was

probably the glow of thewalls in the intensive careunit but I’m still convincedtherewasagreenteddy.I kept forgetting English

words.Onenotetothenurseswas ‘a wire to clean myteeth’. It felt like somethingwasstuckbetweenthemandImeant floss. Actually mytongue was numb and myteeth were fine. The onlything that calmed me was

when Rehanna came. Shesaid healing prayers and Istarted moving my lips tosome of them and mouthing‘Amin’(ourwordfor‘amen’)attheend.Thetelevisionwaskept off, except once whentheyletmewatchMasterchefwhich I used to watch inMingora and loved buteverything was blurred. Itwas only later I learned thatpeople were not allowed to

bring in newspapers or tellme anything as the doctorswere worried it couldtraumatiseme.I was terrified that my

father could be dead. ThenFiona brought in a Pakistaninewspaper from the weekbefore which had aphotograph of my fathertalking to General Kayaniwith a shawled figure sittingat the back next to my

brother. I could just see herfeet. ‘That’s my mother!’ Iwrote.Later that day Dr Javid

came in with his mobilephone. ‘We’re going to callyour parents,’ he said. Myeyes shone with excitement.‘You won’t cry, you won’tweep,’ he instructed me. Hewas gruff but very kind, likehehadknownmeforever.‘Iwill giveyou themobile and

be strong.’ I nodded. Hedialledthenumber,spokeandthengavemethephone.There was my father’s

voice.Icouldn’t talkbecauseofthetubeinmyneck.ButIwas so happy to hear him. Icouldn’tsmilebecauseofmyface,butitwasasiftherewasa smile inside. ‘I’ll comesoon,’ he promised. ‘Nowhave a rest and in two dayswe will be there.’ Later he

toldmethatDrJavidhadalsoorderedhimnottocryasthatwould make us all sadder.The doctor wanted us to bestrongforeachother.Thecalldid not last long becausemyparents did not want to tireme out. My mother blessedmewithprayers.I still presumed that the

reason they weren’t with mewasbecausemyfatherdidn’thavethemoneytopayformy

treatment.That’swhyhewasstill in Pakistan, to sell ourland in the village and alsoour school.Butour landwassmall and I knew our schoolbuildingsandourhousewererented,sowhatcouldhesell?Perhaps he was asking richpeopleforaloan.

*Even after the call, myparents were not completelyreassured. They hadn’t

actually heard my voice andwere still cut off from theoutside world. People whovisited them were bringingconflicting reports. One ofthose visitors was MajorGeneralGhulamQamar,headof military operations inSwat. ‘There is good newscomingfromtheUK,’hetoldmy father. ‘We are veryhappy our daughter hassurvived.’ He said ‘our’

because now I was seen asthedaughterofthenation.Thegeneral toldmyfather

that they were carrying outdoor-to-door searchesthroughout Swat andmonitoring the borders. Hesaid they knew that thepeople who had targeted mecamefromagangof twenty-two Taliban men and thattheywerethesamegangwhohadattackedZahidKhan,my

father’s friendwho had beenshottwomonthsearlier.Myfathersaidnothingbut

he was outraged. The armyhadbeensayingforagesthatthere were no Taliban inMingora and that they hadclearedthemallout.Nowthisgeneral was telling him thattherehadbeentwenty-twoofthem inour town for at leasttwo months. The army hadalsoinsistedZahidKhanwas

shot ina familyfeudandnotby the Taliban. Now theywere saying I had beentargeted by the sameTalibanas him.My father wanted tosay, ‘You knew there wereTaliban in the valley for twomonths. You knew theywanted to kill my daughterand you didn’t stop them?’But he realised it would gethimnowhere.The general hadn’t

finished. He told my fatherthat although it was goodnews that I had regainedconsciousness there was aproblem with my eyesight.Myfatherwasconfused.Howcould the officer haveinformation he didn’t? Hewas worried that I would beblind. He imagined hisbeloved daughter, her faceshining, walking around inlifelong darkness asking,

‘Aba,whereamI?’Soawfulwasthisnewsthathecouldn’ttell my mother, even thoughhe is usually hopeless atkeeping secrets, particularlyfromher.InsteadhetoldGod,‘This is unacceptable. I willgive her one of my owneyes.’ But then he wasworried that at forty-threeyearsoldhisowneyesmightnot be very good. He hardlyslept that night. The next

morning he asked the majorin charge of security if hecould borrow his phone tocall Colonel Junaid. ‘I haveheard thatMalala can’t see,’myfathertoldhimindistress.‘That’s nonsense,’ he

replied. ‘If she can read andwrite, how can she not see?Dr Fiona has kept meupdated, and one of the firstnotesMalalawrotewastoaskaboutyou.’

FarawayinBirmingham,notonly could I see but I wasasking foramirror. ‘Mirror,’Iwrote in the pink diary – Iwanted to see my face andhair.Thenursesbroughtmeasmall white mirror which Istill have. When I sawmyself, I was distraught.Mylong hair, which I used tospendagesstyling,hadgone,and the left side ofmy headhadnoneatall.‘Nowmyhair

issmall,’Iwroteinthebook.I thought theTalibanhadcutit off. In fact the Pakistanidoctors had shaved my headwith nomercy.My facewasdistorted like someone hadpulled it down on one side,and there was a scar to thesideofmylefteye.

‘Hwo did this to me?’ Iwrote, my letters stillscrambled. ‘What happenedtome?’

Ialsowrote‘Stoplights’asthebrightlightsweremakingmyheadache.‘Something bad happened

toyou,’saidDrFiona.‘Was I shot? Was my

fathershot?’Iwrote.ShetoldmethatIhadbeen

shot on the school bus. Shesaidtwoofmyfriendsonthebushadalsobeen shot,but Ididn’t recognise their names.She explained that the bullet

had entered through the sideof my left eye where therewasascar, travelledeighteeninches down to my leftshoulderandstoppedthere.Itcouldhave takenoutmyeyeorgoneintomybrain.ItwasamiracleIwasalive.Ifeltnothing,maybejusta

bit satisfied. ‘So they did it.’My only regret was that Ihadn’thadachance to speakto thembefore they shotme.

Nowthey’dneverhearwhatIhadtosay.Ididn’teventhinkasinglebadthoughtaboutthemanwhoshotme–Ihadnothoughts of revenge – I justwanted togoback toSwat. Iwantedtogohome.Afterthatimagesstartedto

swimaroundinmyheadbutIwasn’tsurewhatwasadreamand what was reality. Thestory I remember of beingshot is quite different from

what really happened. I wasinanotherschoolbuswithmyfatherandfriendsandanothergirl called Gul. We were onourwayhomewhensuddenlytwoTalibanappeareddressedin black. One of them put aguntomyheadandthesmallbullet that came out of itentered my body. In thisdreamhealsoshotmyfather.Then everything is dark, I’mlyingonastretcherandthere

is a crowd of men, a lot ofmen, and my eyes aresearching for my father.Finally I see him and try totalktohimbutIcan’tgetthewords out. Other times I amin a lot of places, in JinnahMarket in Islamabad, inCheena Bazaar, and I amshot. I evendreamed that thedoctorswereTaliban.As I grew more alert, I

wanted more details. People

coming in were not allowedto bring their phones, butDrFiona always had her iPhonewith her because she is anemergency doctor.When sheput it down, I grabbed it tosearch for my name onGoogle. It was hard as mydouble vision meant I kepttyping in thewrong letters. Ialso wanted to check myemail, but I couldn’trememberthepassword.

On the fifth day I got myvoicebackbutitsoundedlikesomeoneelse.WhenRehannacame in we talked about theshooting from an Islamicperspective. ‘They shot atme,’Itoldher.‘Yes, that’s right,’ she

replied. ‘Toomanypeople inthe Muslim world can’tbelieveaMuslimcandosucha thing,’ she said. ‘Mymother, for example, would

say they can’t be Muslims.Some people call themselvesMuslimsbut theiractionsarenotIslamic.’Wetalkedabouthow things happen fordifferent reasons, thishappened to me, and howeducationforfemalesnotjustmales is one of our Islamicrights. Iwas speaking up formyrightasaMuslimwomantobeabletogotoschool.

*

Once I gotmy voice back, Italked to my parents on DrJavid’s phone. Iwasworriedaboutsoundingstrange.‘DoIsound different?’ I askedmyfather.‘No,’ he said. ‘You sound

thesameandyourvoicewillonlygetbetter.AreyouOK?’heasked.‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘but this

headacheissosevere,Ican’tbearthepain.’

My father got reallyworried. I think he ended upwith a bigger headache thanme. In all the calls after thathe would ask, ‘Is theheadache increasing ordecreasing?’AfterthatIjustsaidtohim,

‘I’m OK.’ I didn’t want toupset him and didn’tcomplain even when theytookthestaplesfrommyheadandgavemebiginjectionsin

my neck. ‘When are youcoming?’Ikeptasking.By then they had been

stuckinthearmyhostelatthehospital in Rawalpindi for aweek with no news aboutwhen they might come toBirmingham.Mymotherwassodesperate thatshe toldmyfather,‘Ifthereisnonewsbytomorrow I will go on ahunger strike.’Later thatdaymy father went to see the

major in charge of securityand told him. The majorlooked alarmed. Within tenminutes my father was toldarrangementswouldbemadefor them to move toIslamabad later that day.Surely there they couldarrangeeverything?When my father returned

tomymother he said to her,‘You are a greatwoman.Allalong I thoughtMalala and I

werethecampaignersbutyoureallyknowhowtoprotest!’They were moved to

KashmirHouseinIslamabad,a hostel for members ofparliament. Securitywas stillso tight that whenmy fatheraskedforabarbertogivehimashave,apolicemansatwiththem all the way through sothe man wouldn’t cut histhroat.Atleastnowtheyhadtheir

phones back and we couldspeakmoreeasily.Eachtime,DrJavidwouldcallmyfatherin advance to tell him whattime he could speak to meandtomakesurehewasfree.But when the doctor calledthelinewasusuallybusy.Myfatherisalwaysonthephone!I rattled off my mother’seleven-digit mobile numberand Dr Javid lookedastonished.Heknewthenthat

mymemorywasfine.Butmyparentswere still indarknessabout why they weren’tflying to me. Dr Javid wasalso baffled as to why theyweren’t coming. When theysaid they didn’t know, hemadea call and then assuredthem the problem was notwiththearmybuttheciviliangovernment.Later they would discover

that, rather than dowhatever

it took to get my parents onthefirstplanetoBirminghamtojointheirsickdaughter,theinterior minister RehmanMalikwashopingtoflywiththem so they could have ajoint press conference at thehospital, and it was takingsome time to make thearrangements.Healsowantedtomake sure they didn’t askfor political asylum inBritain, which would be

embarrassing for hisgovernment. Eventually heasked my parents outright ifthis was their plan. It wasfunnybecausemymotherhadnoideawhatasylumwasandmy father had never eventhoughtabout it– therewereotherthingsonhismind.Whenmyparentsmovedto

Kashmir House they werevisited by Sonia Shahid, themother of Shiza, our friend

who had arranged the trip toIslamabad for all usKhushalSchool girls. She hadassumedtheyhadgonetotheUK with me, and when shefound out they were still inPakistan, she was horrified.Theysaid theyhadbeen toldtherewerenoplaneticketstoBirmingham. Sonia broughtthemclothes as they had lefteverything in Swat and gotmy father the number for

PresidentZardari’soffice.Hecalled and left a message.That night the presidentspoke to him and promisedeverything would be sortedout. ‘Iknowwhat it’s like tobekept fromone’schildren,’hesaid,referringtohisyearsinjail.When I heard they would

be in Birmingham in twodaysIhadonerequest.‘Bringmy school bag,’ I pleaded to

myfather.‘Ifyoucan’tgotoSwat to fetch it, nomatter –buy new books for mebecause in March it’s myboard examination.’ OfcourseIwantedtocomefirstin class. I especially wantedmy physics book becausephysics is difficult for me,and I needed to practisenumericalsasmymathsisnotsogoodandtheyarehardformetosolve.

IthoughtI’dbebackhomebyNovember.It ended up being ten daysbefore my parents came.Those ten days I spent inhospitalwithoutthemfeltlikeahundreddays.Itwasboringand Iwasn’t sleepingwell. Istared at the clock in myroom. The changing timereassuredme IwasaliveandIsawforthefirst timeinmylife that I was waking early.

EverymorningIlongedfor7a.m. when the nurses wouldcome. The nurses and DrFionaplayedgameswithme.QEH is not a children’shospitalso theybroughtovera play coordinator withgames.Oneofmy favouriteswas Connect 4. I usuallydrew with Dr Fiona but Icouldbeateveryoneelse.Thenurses and hospital staff feltsorryforme ina far-off land

away from my family andwere very kind, particularlyYma Choudhury, the jollydirector of operations, andJulie Tracy, the head nurse,who would sit and hold myhand.The only thing I had with

mefromPakistanwasabeigeshawl which Colonel Junaidhad given to Dr Fiona as apresent for me so they wentclothes shopping to buy me

things.Theyhadnoideahowconservative Iwas orwhat ateenage girl from the SwatValley would wear. Theywent to Next and BritishHome Stores and came backwith bags of T-shirts,pyjamas,socksandevenbras.YmaaskedmeifIwouldlikeshalwar kamiz and I nodded.‘What’s your favouritecolour?’sheasked.Pinkwas,ofcourse,myreply.

They were worried Iwasn’t eating. But I didn’tlike the hospital food and Iwasworried itwasnothalal.The only things I’d eat therewere the nutritionalmilkshakes. Nurse Juliediscovered I liked CheesyWotsits sobroughtme those.‘What do you like?’ theyasked me. ‘Fried chicken,’ Ireplied.Ymadiscoveredtherewas a halal Kentucky Fried

Chicken at Small Heath sowould go there everyafternoon to buyme chickenand chips.One day she evencookedmeacurry.To keepme occupied they

brought me a DVD player.One of the first movies theygot me was Bend it LikeBeckham, thinking the storyofaSikhgirlchallenginghercultural norms and playingfootballwouldappealtome.I

was shocked when the girlstookofftheirshirtstopractiseinsportsbrasandImade thenursesswitchitoff.Afterthatthey brought cartoons andDisneymovies. Iwatchedallthree Shrek movies and AShark’sTale.Mylefteyewasstill blurry so I covered itwhen Iwatched, andmy leftear would bleed so I had tokeep putting in cotton-woolballs. One day I asked a

nurse, ‘What is this lump?’placing her hand on mytummy.Mystomachwasbigand hard and I didn’t knowwhy.‘It’s thetopofyourskull,’

shereplied.Iwasshocked.After I started to speak I

alsowalkedagainforthefirsttime. I hadn’t felt anyproblemwithmyarmsorlegsin bed apart from my lefthandwhichwasstiffbecause

the bullet had ended up bymy shoulder so I didn’trealise I couldn’t walkproperly. My first few stepswere such hard work it feltlike I’d run a hundredkilometres. The doctors toldme I would be fine; I justneeded lots of physiotherapyto get my muscles workingagain.One day another Fiona

came, Fiona Alexander, who

toldmeshewas inchargeofthe hospital press office. Ithought this was funny. Icouldn’t imagine SwatCentral Hospital having apressoffice.UntilshecameIhad no idea of the attentionI’d attracted. When I wasflown from Pakistan therewas supposed to be a newsblackout, but photographswereleakedfromPakistanofme leaving and saying Iwas

going to the UK, and themedia soon found out mydestination was Birmingham.A Sky News helicopter wassoon circling above, and asmanyas250journalistscameto the hospital from as faraway asAustralia and Japan.Fiona Alexander had spenttwenty years as a journalistherself, and had been editorof the Birmingham Post, sosheknewexactlyhowtofeed

themmaterial and stop themtrying to get in. The hospitalstarted giving daily newsbriefingsonmycondition.People just turned up

wanting to see me –government ministers,diplomats, politicians, evenan envoy from theArchbishop of Canterbury.Mostbroughtbouquets,someof themexquisitelybeautiful.One day Fiona Alexander

brought me a bag of cardsand toys and pictures. ItwasEid ul-Azha, ‘Big Eid’, ourmain religious holiday, so IthoughtmaybesomeMuslimshadsentthem.ThenIsawthepostage dates, from 10October, 11 October, daysbefore, and I realised it wasnothing todowithEid.Theywerefrompeopleallovertheworld wishing me a speedyrecovery, many of them

schoolchildren. I wasastonished and Fionalaughed. ‘You haven’t seenanything yet.’ She told methere were sacks and sacksmore, about 8,000 cards intotal, many just addressed,‘Malala, BirminghamHospital’. One was evenaddressed, ‘The Girl Shot intheHead,Birmingham’,yetithad got there. There wereofferstoadoptmeasifIhad

no family and even amarriageproposal.Rehanna told me that

thousands and millions ofpeople and children aroundthe world had supported meand prayed for me. Then Irealisedthatpeoplehadsavedmylife.Ihadbeensparedfora reason. People had sentother presents too. Therewere boxes and boxes ofchocolatesandteddybearsof

every shape and size. Mostprecious of all perhaps wasthe parcel that came fromBenazir Bhutto’s childrenBilawal and Bakhtawar.Inside were two shawls thathad belonged to their latemother. I buried my nose inthem to try and smell herperfume.LaterIfoundalongblack hair on one of them,which made it even morespecial.

I realisedwhat theTalibanhad done was make mycampaignglobal.WhileIwaslying in that bed waiting totake my first steps in a newworld, Gordon Brown, theUN special envoy foreducation and former primeminister of Britain, hadlaunchedapetitionunder theslogan ‘I am Malala’ todemand no child be deniedschooling by 2015. There

weremessagesfromheadsofstateandministersandmoviestars and one from thegranddaughter of Sir OlafCaroe, the last Britishgovernorofourprovince.Shesaid she was ashamed at notbeing able to read and writePashto although hergrandfather had been fluent.Beyoncé had written me acardandpostedaphotoof iton Facebook, Selena Gomez

had tweeted about me andMadonna had dedicated asong. There was even amessage from my favouriteactress and social activist,Angelina Jolie – I couldn’twaittotellMoniba.I didn’t realise then I

wouldn’tbegoinghome.

24

‘Theyhavesnatchedhersmile’

THEDAYMY parents flew toBirminghamIwasmovedoutof intensive care and into

room4,ward519,whichhadwindows so I could look outand see England for the firsttime. ‘Where are themountains?’ I asked. It wasmisty and rainy so I thoughtmaybe they were hidden. Ididn’tknowthenthatthiswasalandoflittlesun.AllIcouldsee were houses and streets.The houses were red brickand all looked exactly thesame.Everythinglookedvery

calm and organised, and itwasoddtoseepeople’s livesgoing on as if nothing hadhappened.Dr Javid told me my

parents were coming andtilted my bed so that I wassittinguptogreetthemwhentheyarrived.Iwassoexcited.In the sixteendays since thatmorning when I had run outof our house in Mingorashoutinggoodbye,Ihadbeen

infourhospitalsandtravelledthousandsofmiles.Itfeltlikesixteen years. Then the dooropened and there were thefamiliar voices saying ‘Jani’and ‘Pisho’, and they werethere, kissing my hands astheywerefrightenedtotouchme.I couldn’t control myself

andweptasloudlyasIcould.AllthattimealoneinhospitalI hadn’t cried even when I

hadallthoseinjectionsinmyneck or the staples removedfrom my head. But now Icouldnotstop.Myfatherandmotherwerealsoweeping. Itwas as if all the weight hadbeen lifted from my heart. Ifelt that everythingwould befinenow.IwasevenhappytoseemybrotherKhushal, as Ineededsomeonetofightwith.‘WemissedyouMalala’,saidmy brothers, though they

were soonmore interested inall the teddies andgifts.AndKhushal and I were soonfighting again when he tookmylaptoptoplaygameson.I was shocked by my

parents’ appearance. Theywere tired from the longflight from Pakistan but thatwasn’tall–theylookedolderandIcouldseetheybothhadgreyhairs.Theytriedtohideit, but I could see they were

also disturbed by how Ilooked.Before they came in,Dr Javid had warned them,‘Thegirlyouwillseeisonlyten per cent recovered; thereisstillninetypercent togo.’Buttheyhadnoideathathalfmyfacewasnotworkingandthat I couldn’t smile.My lefteyebulged,halfmyhairwasgone andmymouth tilted toone side as if it had beenpulled down so when I tried

tosmileitlookedmorelikeagrimace.Itwasasifmybrainhad forgotten it had a leftface. I also couldn’t hearfromoneside,andIspokeinbaby language as if I was asmallchild.My parents were put in a

hostel in the universityamong all the students. Thepeople in charge of thehospital thought it might bedifficult for them to stay at

the hospital because theywould be besieged byjournalists, and they wantedto protect us at this criticalstage in my recovery. Myparents had very little withthem except the clothes theywere wearing and whatShiza’s mother Sonia hadgiven them because whenthey left Swat on 9 Octoberthey had no idea theywouldn’t be going back.

When they returned to thehostel room, they cried likechildren. I had always beensuchahappychild.Myfatherwould boast to people about‘my heavenly smile andheavenly laughter’. Now helamentedtomymother,‘Thatbeautiful symmetrical face,that bright shining face hasgone; she has lost her smileandlaughter.TheTalibanarevery cruel – they have

snatched her smile,’ headded. ‘You can givesomeone eyes or lungs butyou cannot restore theirsmile.’The problem was a facial

nerve. The doctors were notsure at that point if it wasdamaged and might repairitself, or if it was cut. Ireassured my mother that itdidn’tmattertomeifmyfacewas not symmetrical. Me,

who had always cared aboutmyappearance, howmyhairlooked! But when you seedeath, things change. ‘Itdoesn’tmatterifIcan’tsmileorblinkproperly,’ I toldher,‘I’m still me, Malala. Theimportant thing is God hasgivenmemy life.’Yeteverytimetheycametothehospitaland I laughed or tried tosmile, my mother’s facewould darken as if a shadow

had crossed it. It was like areverse mirror – when therewaslaughteronmyfacetherewasdistressonmymother’s.My father would look

towardsmymother,whohadthisbigquestion inher eyes:Why was Malala like this?Thegirlshehadbrought intothe world and for fifteenyears had been smiling. Oneday my father asked her,‘Pekai, tell me truthfully.

Whatdoyouthink–isitmyfault?’‘No,Khaista,’ she replied.

‘You didn’t sendMalala outthieving or killing or tocommitcrimes.Itwasanoblecause.’Evenso,myfatherworried

that in future every time Ismileditwouldbeareminderoftheshooting.Thatwasnotthe only way they found mechanged.BackinSwatIused

to be a very fragile andsensitivechildwhowouldcryat the slightest thing, but inhospital in Birmingham evenwhen Iwas in terrible pain Ididnotcomplain.The hospital refused to

allow other visitors eventhough they were inundatedby requests, as they wantedme to be able to concentrateon my rehabilitation inprivate. Four days after my

parents arrived a group ofpoliticians came to thehospital from the threecountries that had helpedme– Rehman Malik, Pakistan’sinterior minister, WilliamHague, the British foreignministerandSheikhAbdullahbinZayed,foreignministerofthe UAE. They were notallowed to see me but werebriefed by doctors and metmy father. He was upset by

the ministers’ visit becauseRehman Malik said to him,‘TellMalala she should giveasmiletothenation.’Hedidnot know that that was theonethingIcouldnotdo.Rehman Malik had

revealedthatmyattackerwasa talib called Ataullah Khanwhohesaidhadbeenarrestedin 2009 during the militaryoperation in Swat but freedafter three months. There

were media reports that hehaddone aphysicsdegree atJehanzeb College. Malikclaimed theplan to shootmewas hatched in Afghanistan.He said he had put a $1millionbountyontheheadofAtaullah and promised theywould find him.We doubtedthat,asnoonehaseverbeencaught – not the killer ofBenazir Bhutto, not whoeverwas behind the plane crash

that killed General Zia, nottheassassinofourfirstprimeminister,LiaquatAliKhan.Only two people had been

arrested after my shooting –our poor dear driver UsmanBhai Jan and the schoolaccountant, who had takenthecallfromUsmanBhaiJantosaywhathadhappened.HewasreleasedafterafewdaysbutUsmanBhaiJanwasstillin army custody as they said

they would need him toidentify people. We werevery upset about that. WhyhadtheyarrestedUsmanBhaiJanandnotAtaullah?The United Nations

announced they weredesignating 10 November,onemonthandadayaftertheshooting, Malala Day. Ididn’tpaymuchattentionasIwas preparing for a bigoperation the following day

torepairmyfacialnerve.Thedoctors had done tests withelectrical impulsesand ithadnot responded, so theyconcludeditwascutandtheyneededtooperatesoonormyfacewouldremainparalysed.Thehospitalhadbeengivingregular updates to journalistsabout how I was doing butdidnottellthemaboutthistokeepitprivate.Iwas taken into theatreon

11 November for a surgeoncalledRichardIrvingtocarryout the operation. He hadexplained to me that thisnerve controlled the side ofmy face, and its job was toopen and close my left eye,movemy nose, raisemy lefteyebrowandmakemesmile.Repairingthenervewassuchdelicate work that it tookeight and a half hours. Thesurgeon first cleared my ear

canalof scar tissue andbonefragmentsanddiscoveredthatmy left eardrum wasdamaged. Then he followedthe facial nerve from thetemporalbonewhereitentersthe skull all the way to itsexit,andonthewayremovedmanymorefragmentsofbonewhich had been restrictingmyjawmovement.Hefoundtwo centimetres ofmy nervecompletely missing where it

leaves the skull and reroutedit in front ofmyear from itsnormal passage behind theear,tomakeupforthegap.The operation went well,

though it was a three-monthwaitbeforetheleftsideofmyface started working bit bybit. I had to do facialexercises every day in frontofmysmallmirror.MrIrvingtoldme that after sixmonthsthenervewouldstartworking

though I would never becompletely the same. To mydelightIcouldsoonsmileandwink my eye, and week byweek my parents saw moremovement coming into myface.Though itwasmyface,Icouldseeitwasmyparentswhowerehappiest tohave itback. Afterwards Mr Irvingsaid it was the best outcomehe had seen in twenty yearsoffacialnervesurgery,andit

was86percentrecovered.The other good result was

that finally my headacheslifted and I started readingagain. I began with TheWonderfulWizardofOz,oneofapileofbookssent tomeby Gordon Brown. I lovedreading about Dorothy andhow even though she wastrying to get back home shestopped and helped those inneed like the cowardly lion

and the rusty tin man. Shehad to overcome a lot ofobstacles to get where shewas going, and I thought ifyou want to achieve a goal,there will be hurdles in yourwaybutyoumustcontinue.Iwas so excited by the bookthat I read it quickly andafterwards told my father allabout it. He was very happybecausehe thought if Icouldmemorise and narrate such

detail thenmymemorymustbefine.I knew my parents were

worriedaboutmymemoryasItoldthemIdidn’trememberanything about the shootingandkeptforgettingthenamesof my friends. They weren’tvery subtle. One day myfather asked, ‘Malala, canyou sing us some Pashtotapey?’I sang a verse weliked: ‘When you start your

journey from the end of asnake’stail,/Youwillendupon its head in an ocean ofpoison.’Tousthatreferredtohow the authorities inPakistanhadinitiallyusedthemilitants and now were in amess of their own making.ThenIsaid,‘Actuallythere’satapaIwanttorewrite.’Myfatherlookedintrigued.

Tapey are the centuries-oldcollected wisdom of our

society; you don’t changethem.‘Whichone?’heasked.‘Thisone,’Isaid.

Ifthemencannotwinthebattle,Omycountry,Thenthewomenwillcomeforthandwinyouanhonour.

Iwantedtochangeitto:Whetherthemenarewinningorlosingthebattle,Omycountry,Thewomenarecomingandthewomenwillwinyouanhonour.

He laughed and repeated thestory to everyone, as healwaysdoes.I worked hard in the gym

and with the physiotherapistto get my arms and legsworking properly again andwasrewardedon6Decemberwith my first trip out of thehospital. I told Yma that I

loved nature so she arrangedfor two staff to take me andmy mother on an outing tothe Birmingham BotanicalGardens, not far from thehospital. They didn’t let myfather come as they thoughthe would be recognised,having been in the media alot. Even so I was veryhappy,my first time back inthe outside world, seeingBirminghamandEngland.

They told me to sit in thebackofthecarinthemiddle,not next to awindow,whichwas annoying as Iwanted tosee everything in this newcountry. I didn’t realise theywere trying to protect myhead from any bump. Whenweentered thegardens and Isaw all the green plants andtrees, it was a powerfulreminder of home. I keptsaying, ‘This one is in my

valley,’ and, ‘We also havethisone.’ Iamveryproudofthe beautiful plants of myvalley. It was odd seeing alltheothervisitors,forwhomitwas just a normal day out. IfeltlikeDorothyattheendofher journey.Mymother wasso excited she called myfather.‘ForthefirsttimeIamhappy,’ she said. But it wasicecoldand sowewent intothecaféandhaddelicioustea

andcakes,somethingcalleda‘creamtea’.Two days after that I had

my first visitor from outsidethe family – the president ofPakistan, Asif Zardari. Thehospital did not want him tocome as they knew it wouldmean a media frenzy, but itwasdifficult formyfather torefuse. Not only was MrZardari our head of state buthe had said the government

would pay all my medicalbills, which would end upbeingaround£200,000.Theyhad also rented an apartmentfor my parents in the centreofBirminghamsotheycouldmove out of the hostel. Thevisit was on Saturday, 8December, and the wholethingwas like something outofaJamesBondmovie.There were a lot of

journalists gathered outside

from early on,who naturallyassumed the president wouldbe brought to me in thehospital. Instead I waswrapped up in a big purpleparka with a hood, takendown through the staffentrance and driven to thehospital offices. We droveright past journalists andphotographers, some ofwhom were up in trees, andthey did not even notice.

Then I sat and waited in anoffice, playing a game calledElfBowlingon thecomputerand beating my brother Ataleven though it was the firsttime I had played it. WhenZardari and his party arrivedintwocarstheywerebroughtinthroughtheback.Hecamewith about ten peopleincluding his chief of staff,hismilitary secretaryand thePakistan High Commissioner

in London, who had takenover from Dr Fiona as myofficial guardian in the UKtillmyparentsarrived.The president was first

briefed by doctors not tomention my face. Then hecame in to see me with hisyoungestdaughterAsifa,whoisa fewyearsolder thanme.They brought me a bouquetof flowers. He touched myhead, which is our tradition,

butmyfatherwasworriedasI had nothing but skin, nobonetoprotectmybrain,andmy head beneath the shawlwas concave. Afterwards thepresident sat withmy father,who told him that we werefortunate I had been broughtto the UK. ‘She might havesurvived in Pakistan but shewouldn’t have had therehabilitationandwouldhavebeen disfigured,’ he said.

‘Nowhersmilewillreturn.’Mr Zardari told the high

commissioner to give myfather a post as educationattaché so he would have asalary to live on and adiplomatic passport so hewould not need to seekasylumtostayintheUK.Myfatherwasrelievedashewaswonderinghowhewouldpayfor things.GordonBrown, inhis UN role, had also asked

him to be his adviser, anunpaid position, and thepresident said that was fine;he could be both. After themeetingMrZardaridescribedme to the media as ‘aremarkablegirlandacredittoPakistan’. But still noteveryone in Pakistan was sopositive. Though my fatherhadtriedtokeepitfrommeIknew some people weresayinghehadshotme,orthat

I wasn’t shot at all, and wehadstageditsowecouldliveoverseas.Thenewyearof2013was

a happy one when I wasdischarged from hospital inearly January finally to livewith my family again. ThePakistan High Commissionhad rented two servicedapartments for us in abuilding in a modern squarein the centre ofBirmingham.

The apartments were on thetenthfloor,whichwashigherthananyofushadeverbeenbefore.Iteasedmymother,asaftertheearthquakewhenwewere in a three-storeybuilding she said she wouldnever again live in anapartment block. My fathertold me that when theyarrived she had been soscared that she had said, ‘Iwilldieinthislift!’

Wewere sohappy to be afamily again. My brotherKhushal was as annoying asalways.Theboyswereboredcooped upwaiting forme torecover, away from schoolandtheirfriends,thoughAtalwas excited by everythingnew. I quickly realised Icould treat them how I likedandIwouldn’tgettoldoff.Itwas a cold winter, and as Iwatched the snow falling

outside through the big glasswindowsIwishedIcouldrunaround and chase thesnowflakes like we used toback home. Sometimes wewentforwalkstobuildupmystrengththoughItiredeasily.In the square was a

fountain and a Costa coffeebar with glass walls throughwhichyoucouldseemenandwomen chatting and mixingin a way that would be