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The Taliban is against education because they think that when a child reads a book or learns English or studies science he or she will become Westernized. But I said, “Education is education. We should learn everything and then choose which path to follow.” Education is neither Eastern nor Western, it is human.
I had grown up hearing the word terrorism, but I never really understood what it meant. Until now. Terrorism is different from war-where soldiers face one another in battle. Terrorism is fear all around you. It is going to sleep at night and not knowing what horrors the next day will bring.
No struggle can ever succeed without women participating side by side with men.
To be displaced, on top of everything else, is to worry about being a burden on others.
My mother was always trying to think up plans for what she would do if the Taliban came. She thought of sleeping with a knife under her pillow. I said I could sneak into the toilet and call the police. My brothers and I thought of digging a tunnel. Once again I prayed for a magic wand to make the Taliban disappear.
My father also saw the book as offensive to Islam but believes strongly in freedom of speech. “First, let’s read the book and then why not respond with our own book,” he suggested. He ended by asking in a thundering voice my grandfather would have been proud of, “Is Islam such a weak religion that it cannot tolerate a book written against it? Not my Islam!
People used to talk about Shabana’s bad character, but our men both wished to see her dance and also despised her because she was a dancer. A khan’s daughter can’t marry a Kahn’s son. We Pashtuns love shoes but don’t love the cobbler; we love our scarves and blankets but do not respect the weaver. Manual workers made a great contribution to our society but received no recognition, and this is the reason so many of them joined the Taliban – to finally achieve status and power.
To us it’s a sacred mountain and so high that it always wears a necklace of fleecy clouds.
I remembered a tapa my grandmother used to recite: ‘No Pashtun leaves his land of his own sweet will, Either he leaves from poverty or he leaves for love.
How was I bringing shame? I wanted to ask him. I was a child, a ten-year-old girl. A little girl who liked playing hide-and-seek and studying science. I was angry, but I knew it would do no good to try to reason with him. I knew I should have been afraid, but I only felt frustration.
Our words were like the eucalyptus blossoms of spring tossed away on the wind.
Fazlullah’s men wear masks,” I said, “because they are criminals. But I have nothing to hide, and I have done nothing wrong. I’m proud to be a voice speaking out for girls’ education. And proud to show my identity.
Yet my father remained hopeful and believed there would be a day when there was an end to the destruction. What really depressed him was the looting of the destroyed schools – the furniture, the books, the computers, were all stolen by local people. He cried when he heard this.
It was all confusing. I used to want to become a doctor, but after everything we had been through, I began to think that becoming a political leader might be a better choice. Our country had so many problems. Maybe someday I could help solve them.
He described what was happening in Afghanistan as a “war between two elephants” – the US and the Soviet Union – not our war, and said that we Pashtuns were “like the grass crushed by the hooves of two fierce beasts.
I was speaking at so many events, but I felt that my height got in the way of being authoritative. I was so short that sometimes it was hard to get people’s attention!
Son, may you be the star in the sky of knowledge,’ he used to say. We.
When I got home, I cried and cried. I didn’t want to stop learning. I was only eleven years old, but I felt as though I had lost everything.
This is not the Stone Age,” I said. “But it feels like we are going backward. Girls are getting more deprived of our rights.” I spoke about how much I loved school. About how important it was to keep learning. “We are afraid of no one, and we will continue our education. This is our dream.” And I knew in that instant that it wasn’t me, Malala, speaking; my voice was the voice of so many others who wanted to speak but couldn’t.
I stopped wearing my shawl over my head in some of the meetings, thinking I had become a modern girl. Later I realised that simply having your head uncovered isn’t what makes you modern.