I AM MALALA by Malala Yousafzai pdf book download

I AM MALALA

The Girl Who Stood Up for Education

and was Shot by the Taliban

Malala Yousafzai

with Christina Lamb

Weidenfeld & Nicolson

LONDON.

(✍️ This article is collected from this book 📚 (All Credit To Go Real Hero The Author of this book 📖) 🙏 Please buy this book hardcopy from anyway.)

Prologue: The Day my World Changed______

I COME FROM a country which was created at midnight. When I almost died it was just after midday.

One year ago I left my home for school and never returned. I was shot by a Taliban bullet and was

flown out of Pakistan unconscious. Some people say I will never return home but I believe firmly in

my heart that I will. To be torn from the country that you love is not something to wish on anyone.

Now, every morning when I open my eyes, I long to see my old room full of my things, my clothes

all over the floor and my school prizes on the shelves. Instead I am in a country which is five hours

behind my beloved homeland Pakistan and my home in the Swat Valley. But my country is centuries

behind this one. Here there is any convenience you can imagine. Water running from every tap, hot or

cold as you wish; lights at the flick of a switch, day and night, no need for oil lamps; ovens to cook on

that don’t need anyone to go and fetch gas cylinders from the bazaar. Here everything is so modern

one can even find food ready cooked in packets.

When I stand in front of my window and look out, I see tall buildings, long roads full of vehicles

moving in orderly lines, neat green hedges and lawns, and tidy pavements to walk on. I close my eyes

and for a moment I am back in my valley – the high snow-topped mountains, green waving fields

and fresh blue rivers – and my heart smiles when it looks at the people of Swat. My mind transports

me back to my school and there I am reunited with my friends and teachers. I meet my best friend

Moniba and we sit together, talking and joking as if I had never left.

Then I remember I am in Birmingham, England.

The day when everything changed was Tuesday, 9 October 2012. It wasn’t the best of days to start

with as it was the middle of school exams, though as a bookish girl I didn’t mind them as much as

some of my classmates.

That morning we arrived in the narrow mud lane off Haji Baba Road in our usual procession of

brightly painted rickshaws, sputtering diesel fumes, each one crammed with five or six girls. Since

the time of the Taliban our school has had no sign and the ornamented brass door in a white wall

across from the woodcutter’s yard gives no hint of what lies beyond.

For us girls that doorway was like a magical entrance to our own special world. As we skipped

through, we cast off our head-scarves like winds puffing away clouds to make way for the sun then

ran helter-skelter up the steps. At the top of the steps was an open courtyard with doors to all the

classrooms. We dumped our backpacks in our rooms then gathered for morning assembly under the

sky, our backs to the mountains as we stood to attention. One girl commanded, ‘Assaan bash! ’ or

‘Stand at ease!’ and we clicked our heels and responded, ‘Allah.’ Then she said, ‘Hoo she yar!’ or

‘Attention!’ and we clicked our heels again. ‘Allah.’

The school was founded by my father before I was born, and on the wall above us KHUSHAL

SCHOOL was painted proudly in red and white letters. We went to school six mornings a week and as

a fifteen-year-old in Year 9 my classes were spent chanting chemical equations or studying Urdu

grammar; writing stories in English with morals like ‘Haste makes waste’ or drawing diagrams of

blood circulation – most of my classmates wanted to be doctors. It’s hard to imagine that anyone

would see that as a threat. Yet, outside 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 girls should not go to

school.

That morning had begun like any other, though a little later than usual. It was exam time so school

started at nine instead of eight, which was good as I don’t like getting up and can sleep through the

crows of the cocks and the prayer calls of the muezzin. First my father would try to rouse me. ‘Time

to get up, Jani mun,’ he would say. This means ‘soulmate’ in Persian, and he always called me that at

the start of the day. ‘A few more minutes, Aba, please,’ I’d beg, then burrow deeper under the quilt.

Then my mother would come. ‘Pisho,’ she would call. This means ‘cat’ and is her name for me. At

this point I’d realise the time and shout, ‘Bhabi, I’m late!’ In our culture, every man is your ‘brother’

and every woman your ‘sister’. That’s how we think of each other. When my father first brought his

wife to school, all the teachers referred to her as ‘my brother’s wife’ or Bhabi. That’s how it stayed

from then on. We all call her Bhabi now.

I slept in the long room at the 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 peace

in our valley and the right for girls to go to school. On some shelves were all the gold-coloured

plastic cups and trophies I had won for coming first in my class. Only twice had I not come top – both

times when I was beaten by my class rival Malka e-Noor. I was determined it would not happen

again.

The school was not far from my home and I used to walk, but since the start of last year I had been

going with other girls in a rickshaw and coming home by bus. It was a journey of just five minutes

along the stinky stream, past the giant billboard for Dr Humayun’s Hair Transplant Institute where we

joked that one of our bald male teachers must have gone when he suddenly started to sprout hair. I

liked the bus because I didn’t get as sweaty as when I walked, and I could chat with my friends and

gossip with Usman Ali, the driver, who we called Bhai Jan, or ‘Brother’. He made us all laugh with

his crazy stories.

I had started taking the bus because my mother was scared of me 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 worried about me, but the Taliban had never come for a girl and I was more

concerned they would target my father as he was always speaking out against them. His close friend

and fellow campaigner Zahid Khan had been shot in the face in August on his way to prayers and I

knew everyone was telling my father, ‘Take care, you’ll be next.’

Our street could not be reached by car, so coming home I would get off the bus on the road below

by the stream and go through a barred iron gate and up a flight of steps. I thought if anyone attacked me

it would be on those steps. Like my father I’ve always been a daydreamer, and sometimes in lessons

my mind would drift and I’d imagine that on the way home a terrorist might jump out and shoot me on

those steps. I wondered what I would do. Maybe I’d take off my shoes and hit him, but then I’d think if

I did that there would be no difference between me and a terrorist. It would be better to plead, ‘OK,

shoot me, but first listen to me. What you are doing is wrong. I’m not against you personally, I just

want every girl to go to school.’

I wasn’t scared but I had started making sure the gate was locked at night and asking God what

happens when you die. I told my best friend Moniba everything. We’d lived on the same street when

we were little and been friends since primary school and we shared everything, Justin Bieber songs

and Twilight movies, the best face-lightening creams. Her dream was to be a fashion.

It’s hard for girls in our society to be anything other than teachers or doctors if they can work at all. I

was different – I never hid my desire when I changed from wanting to be a doctor to wanting to be an

inventor or a politician. Moniba always knew if something was wrong. ‘Don’t worry,’ I told her.

‘The Taliban have never come for a small girl.’

When our bus was called, we ran down the steps. The other girls all covered their heads before

emerging from the door and climbing up into the back. The bus was actually what we call a dyna, a

white Toyota TownAce truck with three parallel benches, one along either side and one in the middle.

It was cramped with twenty girls and three teachers. I was sitting on the left between Moniba and a

girl from the year below called Shazia Ramzan, holding our exam folders to our chests and our school

bags under our feet.

After that it is all a bit hazy. I remember that inside the dyna it was hot and sticky. The cooler days

were late coming and only the faraway mountains of the Hindu Kush had a frosting of snow. The back

where we sat had no windows, just thick plastic sheeting at the sides which flapped and was too

yellowed and dusty to see through. All we could see was a little stamp of open sky out of the back and

glimpses of the sun, at that time of day a yellow orb floating in the dust that streamed over everything.

I remember that the bus turned right off the main road at the army checkpoint as always and rounded

the corner past the deserted cricket ground. I don’t 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 I am searching for my father.

In reality what happened was we suddenly stopped. On our left was the tomb of Sher Mohammad

Khan, the finance minister of the first ruler of Swat, all overgrown with grass, and on our right the

snack factory. We must have been less than 200 metres from the checkpoint.

We couldn’t see in front, but a young bearded man in light-coloured clothes had stepped into the

road and waved the van down.

‘Is this the Khushal School bus?’ he asked our driver. Usman Bhai Jan thought this was a stupid

question as the name was painted on the side. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘I need information about some children,’ said the man.

‘You should go to the office,’ said Usman Bhai Jan.

As he was speaking another young man in white approached the back of the van. ‘Look, it’s one of

those journalists coming to ask for an interview,’ said Moniba. Since I’d started speaking at events

with my father to campaign for girls’ education and against those like the Taliban who want to hide us

away, journalists often came, even foreigners, though not like this in the road.

The man was wearing a peaked cap and had a handkerchief over his nose and mouth as if he had

flu. He looked like a college student. Then he swung himself onto the tailboard at the back and leaned

in right over us.

‘Who is Malala?’ he demanded.

No one said anything, but several of the girls looked at me. I was the only girl with my face not

covered.

That’s when he lifted up a black pistol. I later learned it was a Colt 45. Some of the girls screamed.

Moniba tells me I squeezed her hand.

My friends say he fired three shots, one after another. The first went through my left eye socket and

out under my left shoulder. I slumped forward onto Moniba, blood coming from my left ear, so the.

_______boipaw Keyword_______

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