I am Malala

political activists but he thought that it would be too late to go if he waited for them. So he called my cousin to take him. My mother began to pray.
    When he got to the hospital only one other member of the jirga committee was there. Zahid Khan was bleeding so much it was as if his white beard was bathed in red. But he had been lucky. A man had fired at him three times from close range with a pistol, but Zahid Khan had managed to grab his hand so only the first bullet struck. Strangely it went through his neck and out through his nose. Later he said he remembered a small clean-shaven man just standing there smiling, not even wearing a mask. Then darkness overcame him as if he had fallen into a black hole. The irony was that Zahid Khan had only recently started to walk to the mosque again because he thought it was safe.
    After praying for his friend, my father talked to the media. ‘We don’t understand why he’s been attacked when they claim there’s peace,’ he said. ‘It’s a big question for the army and administration.’
    People warned my father to leave the hospital. ‘Ziauddin, it’s midnight and you’re here! Don’t be stupid!’ they said. ‘You are as vulnerable and as wanted a target as he is. Don’t take any more risks!’
    Finally Zahid Khan was transferred to Peshawar to be operated on and my father came home. I had not gone to sleep because I was so worried. After that I double-checked all the locks every night.
    At home our phone did not stop ringing with people calling to warn my father he could be the next target. Hidayatullah was one of the first to call. ‘For God’s sake be careful,’ he warned. ‘It could have been you. They are shooting jirga members one by one. You are the spokesman – how can they possibly let you live?’
    My father was convinced the Taliban would hunt him down and kill him, but he again refused security from the police. ‘If you go around with a lot of security the Taliban will use Kalashnikovs or suicide bombers and more people will be killed,’ he said. ‘At least I’ll be killed alone.’ Nor would he leave Swat. ‘Where can I go?’ he asked my mother. ‘I cannot leave the area. I am president of the Global Peace Council, the spokesperson of the council of elders, the president of the Swat Association of Private Schools, director of my school and head of my family.’
    His only precaution was to change his routine. One day he would go to the primary school first, another day to the girls’ school, the next day to the boys’ school. I noticed wherever he went he would look up and down the street four or five times.
    Despite the risks, my father and his friends continued to be very active, holding protests and press conferences. ‘Why was Zahid Khan attacked if there’s peace? Who attacked him?’ they demanded. ‘Since we’ve come back from being IDPs we haven’t seen any attacks on army and police. The only targets now are peace-builders and civilians.’
    The local army commander was not happy. ‘I tell you there are no terrorists in Mingora,’ he insisted. ‘Our reports say so.’ He claimed that Zahid Khan had been shot because of a dispute over property.
    Zahid Khan was in hospital for twelve days then at home recuperating for a month after having plastic surgery to repair his nose. But he refused to be silent. If anything he became more outspoken, particularly against the intelligence agencies, as he was convinced they were behind the Taliban. He wrote opinion pieces in newspapers saying that the conflict in Swat had been manufactured. ‘I know who targeted me. What we need to know is who imposed these militants on us,’ he wrote. He demanded that the chief justice set up a judicial commission to investigate who had brought the Taliban into our valley.
    He drew a sketch of his attacker and said the man should be stopped before shooting anyone else. But the police did nothing to find him.
    After the threats against me my mother didn’t like me walking anywhere and insisted I get a rickshaw to school and take the bus home even though it was only a five-minute walk. The bus dropped me at the steps leading up to our street. A group of boys from our neighbourhood used to hang round there. Sometimes there was a boy called Haroon with them, who was a year older than me and used to live on our street. We had played together as children and later he told me he was in love with me. But then a pretty cousin came to stay with our