Prologue The Day My World Changed T come from a country chat was created at midnight. When I al- most died ie was jus afer midday. ‘One year ago I ef my home for school and never reurned. 1 vas shor by a Taliban bullec and was flown out of Pakistan un- ‘conscious, Some people sy I will never return home, but I believe Firmly in my heart that Iwill. To be tom from the country that you love isnot something o wish on anyone. Now, every morning when T open my eyes, long to see my old ‘00m fll of my things, my clothes al ver the lor, and my school prizes onthe shelves. Instead Tam in a country whichis five hours behind my beloved homeland Pakistan and my home in the Swat Valley. But my country ie centuces behind this one. Here chee is ny convenience you can imagine. Water running from every ep, Ihocorcold as you wits lights a theflck ofa switch, day and night, ‘no need fori lamps ovens to cook an that dont nced anyone to go and feech gs cylinders from the bazar Here everything is so mod- ‘mone can even find food ready cooked in packers ‘When I stad i front of my window and look out, Ise tll | |Dullings, long roads fll of vehicles moving in ord lines, neat green hedges an lawns, and tidy pavements co walk on. close my eyes and for moment I am back in my valley—the hi copped mountains, green waving feds and fesh blue rivers —and my heat smiles when it looks at che people of Swat. My mind transports me back to my school and there Iam reunited with my fieods and teachers. I meet my best fiend Moniba and we sit to ether talking and joking aif had never le. ‘Then I remember Iam in Birmingham, England. “The day when everything changed was Tuesday, 9 Occober 2012. Ie wasnt che best of days to stare with, as it was the middle of school exams, though a a bookish giel I didnt mind chem as such as some of my classmates “That morning we arrived inthe narrow mud lane off Haji Baba Road in our wsual procession of brightly painted rickshaws sput- tering diesel fumes, each one crammed with five or sx gil Since the time of the Taliban ous school has had no sign and the or- rnamented bras door ina white wall across fiom the woodcutcers yard gives no hint of what les beyond. For us girls that doorway was ikea magical entrance to out own, special world. As we skipped dhrough, we est off our headscarves like winds pulfing away clouds co make way for the sun chen ran hacltrskskter up the steps. At the top of the steps was an open couryatd with doors tall the casrooms. We dumped our back ‘acs in our rooms chen gathered for morning assembly under the shy, our backs co the mountain as we toad to attention, One gil commanded, “Anan bach?" or "Stand at ease!” and we clicked out Inels and responded, “All "Then she sid, "Hoo she ar!*on “Ate tention! and we clicked our heals agin. “Alch* 4 Pope “The school was founded by my father before I was born, on the wall above us KHUSHAL scHoot was painted proudly in + and white leters, We went to school six mornings a week, and as was ffcen-year-ld in Year 9, my clases were spent chant- ing chemical equations or studying Urdu grammar; writing stores in English with morals like "Haste makes waste” or drawing di- grams of blood cirulation—most of my classmates wanted t0 be doctors. es hard to imagine that anyone would see that as 2 threat. Yet outside the door to the schoo! lay not only the noise and craziness of Mingora, the main cixy of Swar, but alo those like che Taliban who think gil should nor goto school “That morning had begun like any other, dhough a lede later than usual, It was exam time, 40 school started at nine instead of eight, which was good, as I dont like getting up and can sleep through the croves ofthe cocks and the prayer calls of the ‘muezzin, First my father would try to rouse me. “Time to gec ‘up, Jini Mien” be would say. This means “soulmate” in Pecsan, and he always called me that at the sare of the day. "A few ‘more minutes, Aba, please” Td beg, chen burrow deeper under the quilt Then my mother would come. “Pst, ”she would cal, “This means “cat” and is her name for me, At this point I'l realize the time and shout, "Bhabi, Vm late” In our culture, every man is your “brother” and every woman your “iste.” Thats how we think of each other. When my facher fst brought his wife o school all the teachers referred to her as "may brothers wife,” ot ‘hab. That's how it stayed from then on, We all cll her bhabi ep in the long room at the Font of our hows, and the only furniture was a bed and a cabinet which I had bought with some ‘of the money I had been given as an avard for campaigning forow Malala buiings long roads Fl of vehicles moving in orderly lines, neat green hedges and lawns, and tidy pavements to walk on. I close my yes and fora moment Iam back in my valley—the high snow- topped mountains, green waving feds and fresh blue tivers—and iy heart smiles when i looks atthe people of Swat. My mind transports me back tomy school and there Iam reunited with my fiends and teachers I meet my best eiend Moniba and we si co- tether, talking and joking a if had never lef. “Then [remember Iam in Biemingham, England “The day when everything changed was Tuesday, 9 October 2012. Te wasae the best of days to start with, a it was the middle of| school exams, though as « bookish gil I didat mind chem as such as some of my classmates That morning we arrived inthe narrow mud lane off Haji Baba Road in our usual procession of brightly painted rickshaws sput- «ering diese fumes, each one crammed with fie or ix gil. Since the time ofthe Taliban our school has had no sign and the or- namented brass door in a whicewallacros from the woodcutters yal gives no hin of what lies beyond. Tor us girls that doorway was like a magical entrance to our own, special world. As we skipped through, we east off our headscarves like winds plfing away clouds to make way for the sun then ra balers up the steps. A the top ofthe steps was an open ‘courtyard with doors to all the classrooms. We dumped our back- packs in our rooms then gathered for morning assembly under the sky, our backs to the mountains as we stood to atention. One gir ‘commanded, “Asan bash!” of “Stand a ease” and we clicked out heels and responded, “Allah. "Then she sid, “Hoo se ar!” or “AL tention! and we clicked our heels again. “Allah” 4 Prologue The school was founded by my fuer before I was born, and ‘on the wall above us KHUsttAL scHOOL was painted proutly in re and white lester. We went 0 school six mornings a week, and as Las. fifteen-year-old in Year 9, my clases were spent chant- ing chemical equations or studying Und grammar, writing stores in English with morals ike “Haste makes waste” or drawing di- grams of blood circulation —most of my classmates wanted 10 be doctors, It's ard to imagine that anyone would sce that as a heat. Yer ouside the door to the school lay not only the noise and craziness of Mingora, the main city of Swat, but also those like the Taliban who think girs should not go to schoo “That morning had begun lke any other, chough a lite later than usual, Ie was exam time, so school stared at nine instead of eight, which was good, 2s I dont like geting up and can sleep through the crows of the cocks and the prayer calls of the rmuczan. Ftst my father would try to rouse me. “Time ro get ‘up, Jani Mion" he would say. This means “soulmate” in Persian, and he always called me that at the sarc of the day. "A few ‘more minutes, Aba, please” Td beg, chen burrow deeper under the quilt Then my mother would come. “Pisho, “she would call. “This means “ca” and is her name for me. Ac this point I realize the time and shout, "Bhabi, Vn late!” In our culture, every man is your "brothec" and every woman your “sister” That how we think of each other, When my father fist brought his wife ro schoo, all he eachers refered to her as "my brothers wife,” ot ‘hab, Thats how it stayed from then on. We all cll her Babi 1 slept inthe long room atthe front of our house, and the only furniture was a bed and a cabinet which I had bought with some ‘of the money I had been given as an award for campaigning forO=— tamale peace in our valley and the right for gis to go to school. On some shelves were all the gold-olored plastic cups and trophies 1 had won for coming frst in my cass. Only ewice had I not come top—both times when Twas beaten by my class rival Malla-e- [oot I was determined it would not happen agai. “The school was not far fom my home and I used «0 walks but, since the start of lst year Thad been going with other gies by bus. Iewas a journey of ust five minutes along the stinky stream, past the giant billboard for De. Humayun Hate Transplant In- situ where we joked thar one of our bald male teachers must have gone when he suddenly stated to sprout hair. I liked che bus because I didi get a sweaty as when I walked, and I could chat with my fiends and gosip with Usman Ali the driver, who we called Bhai Jon, ot “Brother” He made us all ugh with his Thad started taking che bus because my mother was scared of sme walking on my own. We had been getting threats all year. Some were in the newspapers, some were notes or messages passed ‘on by people. My mother was wortied about me, but che Taliban had never come fora gil and I was more concerned they would target my father a8 he was always speaking out agninst chem, His cose friend and fellow campaigner Zahid Khan had been shor in the face in August on his way to prayers and I knew everyone was telling my father, “Take cae, you'll be nex” ‘Our steet could not be reached by cat, so coming home T ‘would get off che bus on the road below by the stream and go hough a barred iron gate and up 2 flight of steps. I choughe iF anyone attacked me it would be on those steps. Like my father Tye always been a daydreamer, and sometimes i lesions my mind would dif and Td imagine that onthe way home a cerrovist might Prologue jump out and shoot me on those steps. wondered what I would do. Maybe Fl rake off my shoes and hic him, bur then Fa think iF 1 did that thete would be no difference berween me and a terror- is Fe would be beter plead, “OK, shoot me, bu fst listen to sme. What you are doing is wrong, 'm nor against you personally, just wane every gl to go to school.” wasnt seared, but I had started making sure che gate was locked 2 night and asking God what happens when you de. told ‘my best fiend Moniba everything, Weld lived on the same street ‘when we were lle and been fends since primary schol and we shared everything, Justin Bieber songs and Twilight movies, che beat face lightening creams. Her dream was to be a fashion de- signer although she knew her family would never grt, 9 she told everyone she wanted to be 2 doctor I's hard for gels im our socery to be anything other than teachers or doctors if they can work at al. 1 was diferent —I never hid my desire when I changed fiom wanting to be a doctor to wanting to be an inventor oF @ politician, Moniba always knew if something was wrong, “Dont swotry” [tld her. “The Talan have never come for a smal gi” ‘When our bus was called, we ran down the steps. The other ils all covered their heads before emerging from the door and climbing up into the back. The bus was actually what we call na, a white Toyota TownAce truck with three parallel benches, ‘one along ether side and one in che middle. twas cramped with twenty gis and thes reachers. Iwas siting on the left berween Moniba and a gil from the year below called Shazia Ramzan, Dolding our exam folders to ove chests and our school bags under “our fect. | After that is all» bie hazy. T remember that inside the dyna hhot and sticky. The cooler days were late coming and only——oEOEOEOEOe—ee A Malala the faraway mountains of the Hinds Kush hada fosting of snow: “The back where we sat had no windows, just dick plastic sheet: ing atthe sides which flapped and was too yellowed and dusty to sce through, All we could see was a itl stamp of open sky our of the back and glimpses ofthe sun, at chat time of day a yellow orb Aoating inthe dus that streamed over everything. T remember thatthe bus tened sight of the main oad atthe army checkpoint as always and rounded the corner past the de- sertedcrcker ground. I dont remember any more In my dreams about the shooting my father is also in the bus and he is shot with me, and then there are men everywhere and 1 am searching foe my father. Tn reality what happened was we suddenly stopped. On our left ‘vas the tomb of Sher Moharnmad Khan, the finance minister of the fist rler of Swat, all overgrown with grass, and on our right the snack factory. We must have been less than 200 meters from the checkpoine. “Wecouldst sein front, burayoung bearded man in light-colored clothes had stepped into the road and waved che van down, "ls his the Khushal School bu” he asked our driver. Usman Bhai Jan thought this was « stupid question, as the mame was painted on the side. "Yes," he sid “I need information about some children,” sad che man, "You should go to the of,” sid Usman Bhat Jan. [As he was speaking another young man in white approached the back ofthe van, “Look, is one of those journalists coming to ask for an interview” stid Moniba. Since I'l started speaking at events with my father to campaign fo git education and aginst ‘those like the Taliban who want ro hide us away, journals often ‘came, even foreigners, though not lke this inthe road “The man was wearing 2 peaked cap and looked like a college student. He swung himself onto che tliboard at the back and leaned insight over us "Whois Mallat” he demanded. [No one std anything, bu several of the gils looked at me, 1 vas the only gil with my face not covered. Thats when he lfed up a black pistol later leaned i was a (Cale 45. Some of the gre screamed. Moniba tells me I squeezed ber hand ‘My friends say he fired three shots, one afer another. The ist ‘went through miy Ife eye socket and out under my left shoulder. | slumped forward onto Moniba, blood coming from my left at so the other ewo baller bit the gis next ro me. One bullet went inwo Shazia’ left hand. The third went through her left shoulder and into the upper right arm of Kainat Riz “My fiends later told me the gunman’s hand was shaking ashe fred, By the time we got tothe hospital my long hair and Moniba’ lap were fll of blood. ‘Who is Malla I am Malla and this is my story1 A Daughter Is Born ‘When twas torn people in ou vilge commited wth my mother and nobody congrated my fe Tate at dwn 2th at ur ink ot, We Passe his an aspicons Sgn. My father dn have any moncy fr the hospital o fora tli 02 neighbor helped ac my bith, My paren is cid srs alborn br popped ot ching and sceuning Iwasa gid inland where rifesate fired ineebton of son whe daugh- fe simpy co ters are hidden away behind a curtain, ther role prepare food and pve birt co children For mose Pashtuns i a gloomy day when a daughter is born. My fathers cousin Jeban Sher Khan Yousafiai was one of the few who came ro celebrate any birth and even gave a handsome gift of money. Yer, he brought with him a vase fmily wee of our lan, the Dalokhel Yousafai, going right back to my great-great grandfather and showing only the male line. My father, Ziauddin, ‘is diferent fiom most Pashtun men. He took the tree, drew a line like a lollipop from his name and at the end of ithe wrote, "Malala” His cousin Laughed in astonishment. My father didatcate, He says he looked into my eyes afer I was born and fal in love. He told people, “I know there is something different about this chil.” He even asked frends to throw dried fits, swees and «coins into my ead, something we usually only do for boys 1 was named aiet Malalai of Maiwand, che greatest heroine of Afghanistan. Pasheuns area proud people of many tribes spit be- ‘cen Pakistan and Afghanisan, We live as we have for centuries by a code called Pashrumusth, which obliges us to give hospital iny to all guests and in which the mose important valu is mang, cor honor The wors ching chat can happen to Pashtun is loss of face, Shame is avery terrible thing for a Pasheun man, We have 2 saying, “Without hono, the world counts for nothing.” We fight and feud among ourselves so much that our word For cousin— tarbur—is the sme a8 our word for enemy. But we always come together against outsiders who ery to conquer our lands, Al Pash- tun children grow up with the story of how Malai inspired the [Afghan army to defeat the Brsh in 1880 in one of che biggese battles ofthe Second Anglo-Afghan Wa “Malai was the daughter ofa shepherd in Maiwand, a small town on the dusty plains west of Kandahar, When she was a teenager, both er father and the man she was supposed to marry ‘were among thousands of Afghans fighting against the British oc- cupstion of their county. Malalai went to the bateficld with ‘other women from the village co tend the wounded and take them ‘water She saw thie men wer losing, and when the flag bearer fll, she lifted her white veil up high and marched onto the battlefield in fione ofthe oops "Young love” she shouted, “Ifyou do not fallin the battle of Maiwand then, by God, someone is saving you as a symbol of| shame” Daughters orn ‘Malla was killed under fire, but her words and bravery in- splted che men to turn the batle around. They destroyed an entire brigade, one ofthe worst defeats in che history ofthe Betish amy. “The Afghans were so proud thar dhe last Afghan kg builea Mal- ‘wand victory monument in the center of Kabul. In high school T read some Sheslock Holmes and laughed co see that this was the same bacle where Dr. Watson was wounded before becom ing partner tothe great detective. In Malalai we Pasbans have cour very own Joan of Acc. Many gil schools in Afghanistan are named after her. But my grandfather, who was a teligous scholar and village ceric, did ike ny father giving me thar name, “Ies asad name," be sid, “Kt means gristricken.” “When I was a baby my father wsed to sing me a song written by che famous poct Rahmat Shah Sayel of Peshawar. The lst verse ends, O Malai of Maiwand, ive ance more o mae Pashsuns understand he rng of honor Your poetic words turn worlds around, beg you, se again My father told the story of Malai eo anyone who came to four house. I loved bearing the story and the songs my facher sang to me, and the way my name floated on the wind when people called ic We lived in the most besufal place in all the world. My valley, the Swat Valley, isa heavenly kingdom of mountains gushing ‘waters and crystal-clear lakes. WELCOME TO PARADISE, i¢ SS fn sign as you enter he valley. In olden times Swat was calledVarela Uddyana, which means “garden.” We have feds of wildflowers, orchards of dalicious fra, emerald mines and tives fll of wout People often cll Swat the Switzerland of the East—we even had Pakistanis fit ski resort The rch people of Pakisan came on hol- iay to enjoy our clean air and scenery and our Sufi festivals of| music and dancing. And so did many foreigners, all of whom we called angrezen—"Englih"—wherever they came from. Even the ‘queen of England came, and stayed in the White Palace that was bile feom the sime marble a the Taj Mahal by out king che ise soa or rues, of Swat. Weave special history too. Today Swat is pat ofthe province of Khyber Paeheunkhws, or KPK, as many Pakistanis call t, but ‘Swat used tobe separate fom the rest of Pakistan, We were once a princely state, one of chee with the neighboring lands of Chitral snd Dis In colonial times our kings owed allegiance tothe British but ruled heir oven land. When the British gave India indepee dence in 1947 and divided it, we went with the newly created Pakistan bu stayed autonomous. We used the Pakistani rupee, but the government of Pakistan could only intervene on foreign pol icy. The wal administered justice, kepe the peace berween warring tribes, and collected sshur-—a tax of 10 percent of income—with ‘which he buile roads, hoepitals and schools ‘We were only a hundsed miles from Pakiseans capital Islamabad asthe crow fies, but ie fleas if ie were in another country. The journey took a least five hours by oad over the Malakand Pass, 4 vast bow of mountains where long ago our ancestors led by a preacher called Mullah Saidllah (known by the British as che “Mad Faki) bated Bris forces among the cragay peaks. Among them was Winston Churchill, who wrote a book about it, and we sil cll one of the peaks Churchills Picket even though he was Daughter Ie Born not very complimentary about our people. Arche end ofthe pas isa green-domed shrine where people throw coins to gjve thanks for thei safe arrival. No one I knew had been to Islamabad, Before the troubles ‘ame, most peopl, lke my mothe, bad never been outside Swat. ‘We lived in Mingor, the biggest wown inthe valley, in faethe only cig Te used to be a small place, bt many people had moved in from surrounding villages, making ie ditty and crowded. Ie has hotels, colleges gol course and a famous bazaar for buying our teadtional embroidery, gemstones and anything you can think of “The Marghazar stream loops through it, milky brown from the plastic bags and cubbish thrown into it. Ie is nor ler like the streams in the hilly ates of like the wide River Swar just out- side town, whete people fished for tour and which we visited ‘on boidays. Our house was in Gullads, which means “place of flowers,” but it used to be called Burkara, or “place of the Bud- hist statues” Near our home wae id seatered with mysterious ruins —starus of lions on thei haunches, broken columns, head les figures and, oddest of ll, hundreds of stone umbrellas Idlam came to our valley inthe eleventh cencury when Sultan Mahmiad of Ghani invaded from Afghanistan and became our ruler, but in ancient times Swat was « Buddhise kingdom. The Buddhists had arrived hee in the second cencury and ther kings red the valle for more than 500 years. Chinese explorers wrote stories of how there were 1,400 Buddhise monasteries along the banks ofthe River Swat, and che magical sound of temple bells ‘would rng out across the valley. The temples are long gone, but almost anywhere you go in Swat, amid all che primroses and other ilélowers, you find thie remains. We would oten picnic among, rock carvings ofa smiling fat Buda sing croselegged on a loVa Mala tus lower: There are many stories that Lord Buddha himselfcame here because ic sa place of such peace, and some of his aes are ssid to be buried in the valley in a glanescupa ‘Our Burkara ruins were & magical place co play hide-and-seek, ‘Once some foreign archaeologist arrived to do some work there and told us that in times gone by ie was a place of pilgrimage, full cof beautifl temples domed with gold where Buddhise kings lay ‘buried. My father wrote a pocm, “Ie Relics of Buskara” which ‘summed up perfectly how temple and mosque could exist side by side: "When the voice of uth rss from the minarets, / The Bud- «dha smiles, / And the broken chain of history reconnect” ‘We lived in the shadow of the Hindu Kush mountain, where the men went co shoot ibex and golden cockerels. Our house was fone story and proper concrete. On the let were steps up 0 a Rat roof big enough for us children to play crcker on. Ir was our play- round. Ar dusk my father and his friends often gathered c sit and dink tea there. Sometimes Isat on che roof too, watching the smoke rise from the cooking fret all around and listening t the nightly racket ofthe crickets. ‘Our valley is fl of frie trees on which grow the sweetest figs and pomegranates and peaches, and in our garden we had grapes, ‘guavas and petsimmons, There was 2 plum tee in ou front yard which gave the most delicious fut. I was always a rae between tusand the birds o get co them. The bids loved that ee. Even the ‘woodpeckers Fora long as [can remember my mother has talked to birds, ‘Ac the back ofthe house was a veranda where the women gath- cexed, We knew what ie was ike tobe hungry, so my mother always cooked extra and gave food to poor families, IF there was any et she fed ie co the birds. In Pasheo we love to sing tapae eworline po- ADaugiter Born ems, and a8 she catered the rice she would sing ope: “Dost kill, ‘doves in che garden You kill one and the others wont come.” liked to sit on the roof and watch the mountains and dream. “The highese mountain of all sche pyrami-shaped Moune Elum. “To us is a sacred mountain and so high chat fr always wears 2 necklace of eey clouds. Even in summer it’s frosted with snow. [Ac school we learned that in 327 nc, even before the Buddiss ‘ame to Swat, Aleander che Great swept into the valley with thousands of elephants and soldietson his way from Afghanistan to the Indus, The Swati people fed up the mountain, believing they would be protected by their gods because was so high, But ‘Aloandee was determined and patient leader, He built wooden ramp from which his catapults and arrows could reach the tp of the mountain. Then he climbed up so he could catch hold of the star of Jupiter sa symbol of his power. From the roofop I watched the mountains change with the seasons, In the ausumn chill winds would come. In the winter cerything was whit snow, long icicles hanging from the rof ike daggers, which we loved to snap off. We raced around, building snowmen and snow bears and trying to catch snowflakes. Spring ‘vas when Swat was at its greenest. Eucalyptus blossom blew into the house, coating everyting white, and the wind carried che pungene smell of che rice fields. I was born in surame, which was ethaps why it was my favorite time of year, eventhough in Min~ fora summer was hot and dry andthe stream stank where people dumped thee garbage. ‘When Twas born we were very poor: My father and a friend had founded their fis school and we lived in a shabby shack of wo rooms opposite the schoo. I slept with my mother and father “in onc room and the other was for guests. We had no bathroom or