An excerpt from Finding My Way, by Malala Yousafzai.
When I arrived in Birmingham for spring break, I told my dad we needed to go to Pakistan. If my college friends could visit their country on holidays, I should have that right too. I felt restless; it seemed that if it didn’t happen now, it never would.
“Let’s put it off until summer,” he said.
“If you want to wait, that’s fine. I’ll go on my own,” I replied, daring him. “I will book my own flight, leave this house in a cab, and call Moniba to pick me up when I land.”
Deep down, I knew I wasn’t that brave, but I wasn’t sure my dad realized that—and it might give me some leverage.
Every time, the answer was the same: “It’s not the right moment for Malala’s return.” My dad had heard it so often that I feared he was losing hope.
“It will never be the ‘right’ moment!” I exclaimed, trying to share my frustration with him. “I am a Pakistani citizen with a valid passport. They have no grounds to stop me.”
Though I sounded angry, inside my heart was breaking. In just a few weeks at 24 Observatory Crescent, I had experienced more reminders of home—food, music, sports, language—than I had in the past five years. But this reawakening was painful, like blood rushing into numb limbs.
I was done stalking my old friends on Facebook, done walking the streets on Google Maps. I couldn’t keep dreaming of home at night and waking up confused every morning.
Author’s summary: Malala captures the deep longing and frustration of wanting to return to her homeland, despite obstacles and fears, revealing the emotional struggle of reconnecting with home after trauma.