Voices for Education (PDF)

# 13 Class Dismissed Ever since I'd started doing interviews, people in Mingora sometimes came up to me and told me I had done well. But many of my mother's friends were scandalized that I had shown my face on TV. Some even said that she would go to hell for not raising me better. And although my m...

# 13 Class Dismissed Ever since I'd started doing interviews, people in Mingora sometimes came up to me and told me I had done well. But many of my mother's friends were scandalized that I had shown my face on TV. Some even said that she would go to hell for not raising me better. And although my mother never said anything to me, I knew she would probably have preferred that I had worn a veil. But even if my mother disagreed with my choice and even if her friends criticized her-she stood behind me. Meanwhile, even some of my friends asked why I let the world see my face. "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." A madman was about to kick more than fifty thousand girls out of school in a matter of days, and all people seemed to want to talk about was whether I should have worn a veil! Meanwhile, my brother Khushal was saying that for once he wished he were a girl so he didn't have to go to school. I wondered sometimes if the world had turned upside down. My mother and father liked to watch my interviews, but I usually ran out of the room when they came on the TV. I always liked to give interviews because I knew how important it was to speak for girls' rights, but I never liked to watch them. I don't know why. It was fine for the whole world to see me - I just didn't want to see myself! And I suppose I have to admit that I'm a lot like all those people who were so preoccupied with my appearance. I suddenly noticed all kinds of things about my looks - things that had never much bothered me before. My skin was too dark. My eyebrows were too thick. One of my eyes was smaller than the other. And I hated the little moles that dotted my cheek. A couple of days before the official school closing, my father was going to Peshawar to meet two video journalists from the *New York Times*, and I went with him. They had invited my father to ask if they could follow him on the last day of school, but at the end of the meeting, one of them turned to me and asked, "What would you do if there comes a day when you can't go back to your valley and school?" Because I was both stubborn and full of hope, I replied, "That will not happen." He insisted it might, and I started to weep. I think it was then that they decided to focus their documentary on me as well. The morning of our last day at school, a two-man camera crew appeared at our house. I was still sleeping when they arrived. They told my father they were there to document my day - from start to finish. He was surprised; he had agreed to cameras in his school, not his home. I heard him try to talk the reporter out of this idea. Eventually he gave in and the filming began. "They cannot stop me. I will get my education," I told the cameraman. "If it is in home, school, or anyplace. This is our request to the world - save our schools, save our Pakistan, save our Swat." I sounded hopeful, but in my heart, I was worried. As my father looked at me, smiling uncomfortably with a mixture of pride and sadness for his daughter, I pictured myself stuck at home, reading whatever books I could find until I ran out of books. I was eleven years old. Was my schooling really going to end now? Was I going to end up like girls who quit school to cook and clean? What I didn't know was that my words would reach many ears. Some in distant parts of the world. Some right in Swat, in Taliban strongholds. Later, as my friends and I passed through the school gate and the video camera recorded our every move, it felt as if we were going to a funeral. Our dreams were dying. Two-thirds of the students stayed home that day, even though we'd all vowed to be there for the last day. Then one of the girls burst through the doors. Her father and brothers had forbidden her from going to school, but as soon as they left for the day, she snuck out. What a strange world it was when a girl who wanted to go to school had to defy militants with machine guns - as well as her own family. As the day went on, the teachers tried to act as if everything were normal. Some even gave us homework as if they'd be seeing us again after the winter vacation. Finally, the bell rang for the last time, and Madam Maryam announced it was the end of the term; but unlike in other years, no date was announced for the start of the next term. My friends and I all stood in the courtyard, hugging one another, too sad to leave. Then we all made a decision. We would make our last day our best. We stayed late, just to make it last as long as possible. We went over to the elementary school building, where we'd all started as children, and played the games we'd played when we were little. Mango, Mango. Hopscotch. *Parpartuni*. We played silly games, sang nonsense rhymes and pretended that, at least for those few hours, there was no Taliban. Unfortunately on that day, Moniba was not talking to me, because we'd had a fight a few days earlier. When I got home, I cried and cried. My mother cried, too. But when my father came home, he said, "Don't worry, *jani*. You will go to school." But he was worried. The boys' school would reopen after the winter holiday, but the closing of the girls' school meant a significant loss of income, which he needed to pay teachers their salaries and the rents for the buildings. As usual, many of the families were behind in their tuition payments, and others had stopped paying when Fazlullah issued his edict. My father had spent the last few days before the holiday trying to find a way to pay the rents, the utility bills, and the teachers' salaries. That night the air was full of artillery fire, and I woke up three times. The next morning, my family and I talked half-heartedly about leaving Swat or about sending me to a boarding school far away. But, as my father said, Swat was our home. We would stand by her in this time of trouble.