Messages of Support P5 Ch 30-33 PDF

# 30 Messages from Around the World Fiona Alexander brought me a bag of cards. It was Eid ul-Azha, "Big Eid," the holiday when my family went to Shangla. So I thought, How nice, friends have sent me cards for Eid. But how did they know where I was? I wondered. Then I noticed the postage dates. 1...

# 30 Messages from Around the World Fiona Alexander brought me a bag of cards. It was Eid ul-Azha, "Big Eid," the holiday when my family went to Shangla. So I thought, How nice, friends have sent me cards for Eid. But how did they know where I was? I wondered. Then I noticed the postage dates. 16 October, 17 October. These were the days right after the shooting. These cards had nothing to do with Eid. They were from people all over the world wishing me a speedy recovery. Many were from children. I was astonished at how many cards there were. "You haven't seen anything yet," Fiona said. She said there were eight thousand letters for me. Some were addressed "Malala, Birmingham Hospital." One was addressed simply "Malala, Birmingham Hospital." There were parcels, too. Boxes of chocolate. And teddy bears of every size. Most precious of all, perhaps, was a parcel sent by Benazir Bhutto's children. Inside were two scarves that had belonged to their mother. There were messages from government leaders, diplomats, and movie stars. Selena Gomez had tweeted about me, Beyoncé had wished me well on Facebook, and Madonna had dedicated a song to me. There was even a message from Angelina Jolie. It was exciting, overwhelming, and because my brain was still not working right—confusing. How did Angelina Jolie even know who I was? While I was in a windowless room, unaware of what was happening in the outside world, the outside world knew exactly what had happened to me. Fiona told me that over two hundred journalists from around the world had come to the hospital to see me. Except for that one day when I tried to watch the BBC, I hadn't seen the news since I had arrived. But now I understood: I was the news. People had been praying for me. Dr. Fiona and Dr. Javid and all the wonderful doctors and nurses in Pakistan and England had saved my body. All these people's prayers and support had saved my life. How amazing. While I was feeling so alone in this hospital, wondering about my family, worrying about how we would pay for my care, people from all around the world were worrying about me! I didn't feel so lonely anymore. I couldn't wait to get home and tell Moniba about Angelina Jolie! # 31 A Bittersweet Day Doctors operated behind my ear—for nearly eight hours—trying to repair the facial nerve that had been cut by the bullet. This was the nerve that had allowed me to open and close my left eye, raise my left eyebrow, and smile. If they didn't do something soon, they'd said, my face would be paralyzed forever. It was a complicated operation. First, they cleared my ear canal of scar tissue and bone fragments; it was then that they discovered my eardrum had been shattered. No wonder I couldn't hear! Then the doctors did the delicate work of removing portions of the damaged nerve and reconnecting it. My job, once the surgery was over, was to do facial exercises in front of a mirror every day. Who knew that such tiny movements could be such hard work? It was four months before I could smile and wink. My parents waited for that moment when I could wink and smile. It was my face, of course, but I thought they would be happiest to have it back! Every day, I had physiotherapy and had to do exercises, learning to get my arms and legs working properly again. How strange to have to work so hard on something that used to be second nature. The first few times I tried to walk, it was exhausting—like wading through a deep snowdrift. By now it had been almost a month since the shooting. My family was living in an apartment in a tall tower in Birmingham and visiting me every day. And in a sure sign that life was getting back to normal, my brothers were driving me crazy! I begged my parents, "Leave those two at home! They do nothing but make noise and try to take the gifts I've received." My brothers had gone from treating me like a china doll (a phase that lasted only a day) to teasing, pestering, and generally annoying me. “What is all this fuss over Malala?” Atal said. "I have seen her. She survived." I was finally able to read again and devoured *The Wonderful Wizard of Oz*, a book given to me by the former prime minister of the United Kingdom, Gordon Brown. I loved Dorothy's spirit, and I was impressed that even though she was trying to find her way home, she stopped to help those in need, like the Cowardly Lion and the rusty Tin Man. To me, the moral of the story was that there will always be hurdles in life, but if you want to achieve a goal, you must continue. My language and memory started to come back, too. I was shocked when I looked at the pink notebook Dr. Fiona had given me and saw the questions I had written when I first arrived. Most of them were filled with misspellings and were grammatically incorrect. I still had a hard time remembering some of my friends' names, and I could recall nothing about the shooting. So I worked to show everyone how much I was improving. My progress was steady and my spirits got better every day. Finally, in December, after nearly two months inside hospitals, I was permitted my first trip outside. I was homesick for the lush green hillsides of my valley, so *ma*, who worked at the hospital, had arranged a trip to the Birmingham Botanical Gardens. My mother and I went with two nurses; my father didn't go, because he had become so recognizable from TV that he was afraid he would attract cameras. On the way, I sat in the backseat of the car, turning my head from side to side to take in everything in a country that was brand-new to me. I didn't know what the weather would be like outside. I had hoped there would be sunshine, but instead I was met with harsh wind and crisp, cold air. There weren't enough jackets and scarves to keep me warm! But the plants! They were gorgeous. And strange. And familiar! "This one is in my valley, too," I told one of the nurses. "This one, too!" I was so overjoyed at being outside it took me a minute to realize that for everyone else at the garden, it was just a normal day out. My mother was so excited she called my father. “For the first time," she said, “I am happy." Two days later I had my first visitor from outside the family—Asif Ali Zardari, the president of Pakistan and the widower of Benazir Bhutto. The hospital was afraid of a media circus, but the visit was an essential one. Mr. Zardari had pledged that the government would cover all my medical costs. So the whole thing was arranged to avoid the journalists. I was bundled up in a purple parka and snuck out of the building through the staff exit. We drove right past a flock of journalists and photographers, and they didn't even notice. It was like something out of a spy novel. We were driven to some kind of office; and while we waited, Atal, Khushal, and I played a computer game called *Elf Bowling*. This was my first time playing it, and I still beat both of them! More proof that the old Malala was back. When the president came in, he was with his daughter, Asifa. They gave me a bouquet of flowers, and then Asifa presented me with a traditional Kashmiri shawl, and Mr. Zardari laid a hand on my head, a gesture of respect in my country. My father cringed a little for fear he would touch the place where my skull had been removed, but it was fine. Mr. Zardari told us he had arranged for a job for my father in Birmingham. He would be Pakistan's education attaché. He told me that everything would be fine and that my job was to concentrate on my recovery. Afterward, he said I was "a remarkable girl and a credit to Pakistan.” He was the leader of my country, but he was treating me with respect, like I was the VIP! It was an amazing day. All my worries about how to pay for my care and where my family would stay were lifted. But, oh, it was a bittersweet day, too. Because I understood: We would not be going home for a long time. # 32 Miracles Finally, I was released from the hospital, and 2013 was off to a happy start. It was so good to be home with my family, even though this home was an apartment in a tall building with an elevator. I would have given anything to be in our humble old house, tapping on the wall for Safina to come play, even taking the rubbish to the dump; but what really mattered was that we were finally together again. We went for walks in the brisk Birmingham air so I could get my strength back, but I tired quickly. Life in the hospital had been calm compared with all the people and cars and buses rushing here and there. And because I still couldn't hear properly, I was constantly turning this way and that to see what was going on. A simple trip to the grocery store could be overwhelming. Overwhelming—and fascinating. In the cafés, we saw men and women chatting and mixing in a way that would be unimaginable in Swat. And in the shops we saw clothing that showed so much skin we couldn't believe the women of Birmingham could wear it without freezing. Here, they wore tiny shorts, bare legs, and high heels even in the middle of winter. “Are their legs made of iron, so they don't feel the cold?” asked my mother. Sometimes on those early outings, when I saw a man come toward me, I would flinch. If I let my imagination go wild, I could picture every man on the street hiding a gun, waiting to attack. I didn't tell my parents this, though, so they could at least enjoy the chilly Birmingham sights without worrying. I missed home terribly. I missed my school friends, I missed the mountains, the waterfall, the beautiful Swat River, and the lush green fields. I even missed the messy, chaotic streets of Mingora. So it came as hard news when I found out that there were people in Pakistan who were critical of me. People who said I was a pawn of the West, "hobnobbing” with Richard Holbrooke. People who said I was a bad Muslim. People who even said my father had shot me as a stunt so we could live overseas in luxury. The other news from home was from school. I was finally able to Skype with Moniba, and for once we didn't fight. She told me how much she missed me and how no other girl could take my place in her heart. She also told me that Shazia and Kainat were recovered and back in school. And she told me my friends were still saving a seat for me in class. "Oh, by the way," she said. "You scored a one hundred percent on your Pakistani studies exam.” That was the test I'd taken the morning of the shooting. That was the good news. The bad news: Since I hadn't been able to take the rest of the exams, my old rival, Malka-e-Noor, had come in first. Of course she did, since I was not there. I was falling behind at school! *How ironic*. The girl who campaigned for girls' education had lost the top spot in her class. Well, I would just have to redouble my efforts so I could take first position when I claimed that empty seat in my old classroom. Soon, I could walk and talk and read, and my memory was coming back. But I couldn't hear well at all, and there was a constant ringing in my ear. The doctors were also concerned that replacing the piece of skull stored in my tummy might cause an infection. So more surgery was scheduled—three operations all at once. This time the doctor performed a titanium cranioplasty—which is a fancy way of saying she put a titanium plate in my head. I wondered if I would be like the Tin Man in *The Wonderful Wizard of Oz*: If you knocked on my head, would it ring like a gong? In addition, the doctor who had repaired my facial nerve installed a tiny electronic sound transmitter called a cochlear implant deep behind my ear. Later, he said, he'd fit the outside of my ear with a receiver. The skull piece was also removed from its storage place. These were major operations, but I recovered quickly and was home in five days. (Later, I received a truly special gift—that very skull piece, encased in plastic. I keep it in my bedroom and have been known to show it to guests.) A few weeks later, when the receiver was situated behind my ear, I heard a tiny beep. Then another one. Then came the sound of the doctor's voice. At first, everyone sounded like a robot, but soon my hearing got better and better. How great God is! He has given us eyes to see the beauty of the world, hands to touch it, a nose to experience all its fragrance, and a heart to appreciate it all. But we don't realize how miraculous our senses are until we lose one. The return of my hearing was just one miracle. A Talib had fired three shots at point-blank range at three girls in a school bus—and none of us were killed. One person had tried to silence me. And millions spoke out. Those were miracles, too. # 33 This New Place We have settled now into our Birmingham life. We live in a tidy brick house on one of those tidy, tree-lined streets I saw from my window in the hospital. It is lovely. Orderly. Calm. And quiet. Too quiet. There are no children playing cricket in the alleys. No men in the guest room arguing politics.. No women on the back porch having a good gossip. My father, who was always "the friend of all friends" to the men in Swat, has many visitors but few real friends here. My mother, who cannot speak English like the rest of us, wanders perplexed through the shops, inspecting the strange foods for sale. Khushal spends a lot of time alone in his room, wishing, I think, for his old life. And the other day I heard Atal, who has the sunniest nature of us all, crying because he had no one to play with. We are just a few feet away from the next house, but for all we know of our neighbors, it might as well be a mile. As my father says, we live in a neighborhood, but we rarely see the neighbors. Whenever we go out, people approach us and ask to take a picture with me. I don't mind. I understand that the people who come up to me are the same ones who gave me support when I needed it and who give me courage now to keep going. It's odd to be so well known but to be lonely at the same time. Meanwhile, we have all adapted, little by little, to this new place. My father wears a handsome tweed blazer and brogues now when he goes to work. My mother uses the dishwasher. Khushal is having a love affair with his Xbox. And Atal has discovered Nutella. I still go to the hospital for regular physiotherapy sessions to learn how to move my facial muscles. And I'm told I may have more surgery ahead. But I don't think about that too much. One night our family was out for a walk in the main shopping district in Birmingham. I was marveling at all the different types of people in this city. Unlike in Mingora, where everyone looks the same, here there were all kinds of people: freckled-faced boys in soccer jerseys, black women with long braids, men in business suits and women in business suits, conservative Muslim women in burqas and young Muslim women in jeans and headscarves. All of a sudden, a young man called out to my father from behind us. We turned and I saw that he had the dark features of a Pashtun, but he was wearing Western clothes. "Sir," I heard him say to my father. "I am from your tribe back home. I know who you are.” My father extended his hand, happy to see a fellow countryman. The boy pointed at me. “Sir, we all cried for your daughter. We prayed for her," he said. "But what you are doing is not safe." My father looked puzzled. "You cannot be out this late in Birmingham," he said. "This city, at night it can be dangerous." My father and I looked at each other, then we explained to my mother what the boy had said. The poor boy was confused by our reaction. My father hugged him and thanked him. But we couldn't quite explain. How could this quiet, orderly place be unsafe compared with what we had come from? At my new school here, I wear a British schoolgirl's uniform: a green sweater, striped button-down shirt, and tights and a blue skirt. Most of the other girls wear their skirts short, but my skirt is down to my ankles, and I wear a headscarf as well. Luckily, there are a handful of Muslim girls in my class who do the same, so I don't stick out quite so much. But some of the other girls roll their skirts up even shorter as soon as they arrive at school and let them down again before they go home. And I think: What an interesting country this is, where some girls are free to cover their bodies and others are free not to. Here we also have projectors and laptops, videos and Wi-Fi, and classes such as music, art, and computer science, and even cooking (which I hate). It was a bit of a shock coming from Pakistan, where school was just a teacher and a chalkboard. At times, I wish I were back home, in that simple schoolroom with no computers. But then I think of how my old friends would love all this fancy technology and these special classes. Sometimes I feel sad that my old friends don't have all the wonderful things students have here. And sometimes I feel sad that they have what I don't: one another. There is something of a gap between me and my new schoolmates. Sometimes they make a joke and I don't get it. And sometimes I make a joke and they don't get it. Their manner with one another is also quite free compared with the way girls are in Pakistan. I want to join in, I want to have fun, but I don't quite know how. And I cannot be too cheeky. I am expected to be good. I am a good girl—I always have been. But now, I tell myself, I must really be good. So I take extra care with what I say and do. No one else is telling me to limit myself like this. If anything, the teachers here are always encouraging me to be free, to feel at home. But I'm not really free to be like other girls my age—because of the way the world sees me. When you have such a public role and so many people counting on you, I believe you must always act in the way people expect of you. My life has become extremely busy. I am making books, documentaries, and speeches, and I am meeting interesting people, doing social media campaigns, and engaging in humanitarian work. I get to do so many exciting things and go to so many exciting places, but so much travel while trying to keep up with my studies and exams isn't easy. I am only human and sometimes I get tired. Some days I wish I could just sit on the couch and watch *Mind Your Language* or Skype with friends. But I take the work I'm doing very seriously, always. I haven't got a best friend here, like Moniba, or even a rival friend, like Malka-e-Noor. But girls at my new school are very kind to me, and I am beginning to make friends. They invite me to go bowling or to the movies or to their birthdays. They are lovely girls. Kind and fun. But it's not the same as it was back home. There I was just Malala. Here, at least at the beginning, I was "Malala, the girl who was shot by the Taliban." I wanted to just be Malala again, a normal girl. At first, I wondered how I could ever be friends with these girls. I have seen and experienced things they couldn't even imagine. But as time went on, I realized they have had experiences I can't imagine. What I'm finding is that we have much more in common than we have different, and every day we learn something new from one another. And every day I feel a little bit more like plain old Malala, just another girl in the class. But when the day is done and everyone files out for their buses, I think for a moment of the scramble at the end of the day at the Khushal School. I think of how we all tumbled out of the building into the dyna that bumped and bounced along the crazy, crowded streets of Mingora.