A Schoolgirl’s Diary from I am Malala - Day 1-4

A Schoolgirl’s Diary 
from I am Malala

By Christopher Nicolo

Along with every other girl who lives nearby, Malala has been told that she can’t go to school. Still, she insists on going—and on telling the rest of the world about what’s happening.

Dedication

To those children all over the world who have no access to education, to those teachers who bravely continue teaching, and to anyone who has fought for their basic human rights and education.

Prologue

It was the most ordinary of days. I was fifteen, in grade nine, and I’d stayed up far too late the night before, studying for an exam.

I’d already heard the rooster crow at dawn but had fallen back to sleep. I’d heard the morning call to prayer from the mosque nearby but managed to hide under my quilt. And I’d pretended not to hear my father come to wake me.

Then my mother came and gently shook my shoulder.
“Wake up, pisho,” she said, calling me kitten in Pashto, the language of the Pashtun people. “It’s seven thirty and you’re late for school!”

I had an exam on Pakistani studies. So I said a quick prayer to God. If it is your will, may I please come in first? I whispered. Oh, and thank you for all my success so far!

I gulped down a bit of fried egg and chapati with my tea. My youngest brother, Atal, was in an especially cheeky mood that morning. He was complaining about all the attention I’d received for speaking out about girls getting the same education as boys, and my father teased him a little at the breakfast table.

“When Malala is prime minister someday, you can be her secretary,” he said.

Atal, the little clown in the family, pretended to be cross. “No!” he cried. “She will be my secretary!”

All this banter nearly made me late, and I raced out the door, my half-eaten breakfast still on the table. I ran down the lane just in time to see the school bus crammed with other girls on their way to school. I jumped in that Tuesday morning and never looked back at my home.

2nd Read

Along with every other girl who lives nearby, Malala has been told that she can’t go to school. Still, she insists on going—and on telling the rest of the world about what’s happening.

Dedication

To those children all over the world who have no access to education, to those teachers who bravely continue teaching, and to anyone who has fought for their basic human rights and education.

Prologue

It was the most ordinary of days. I was fifteen, in grade nine, and I’d stayed up far too late the night before, studying for an exam.

“I’d stayed up far too late the night before, studying for an exam.”

What does this detail remind you of in your own life?

I’d already heard the rooster crow at dawn but had fallen back to sleep. I’d heard the morning call to prayer from the mosque nearby but managed to hide under my quilt. And I’d pretended not to hear my father come to wake me.

Multiple Choice

Then my mother came and gently shook my shoulder.
“Wake up, pisho,” she said, calling me kitten in Pashto, the language of the Pashtun people. “It’s seven thirty and you’re late for school!”

What does this say about Malala?

• She just like a regular person.

• She hates going to school.

• She has a cat.

• She wakes up early to get to school

I had an exam on Pakistani studies. So I said a quick prayer to God. If it is your will, may I please come in first? I whispered. Oh, and thank you for all my success so far!

I gulped down a bit of fried egg and chapati with my tea. My youngest brother, Atal, was in an especially cheeky mood that morning. He was complaining about all the attention I’d received for speaking out about girls getting the same education as boys, and my father teased him a little at the breakfast table.

“When Malala is prime minister someday, you can be her secretary,” he said.

Atal, the little clown in the family, pretended to be cross. “No!” he cried. “She will be my secretary!”

Open Ended

All this banter nearly made me late, and I raced out the door, my half-eaten breakfast still on the table. I ran down the lane just in time to see the school bus crammed with other girls on their way to school. I jumped in that Tuesday morning and never looked back at my home.

How is your life similar or different from Malala?

My life is similar to Malala because...

My life is different from Malala because...

Day 2

Open Ended

What do you remember about the first 9 paragraphs of A Schoolgirl's Diary?

The ride to school was quick, just five minutes up the road and along the river. I arrived on time, and exam day passed as it always did. The chaos of Mingora city surrounded us with its honking horns and factory noises while we worked silently, bent over our papers in hushed concentration. By day’s end I was tired but happy; I knew I’d done well on my test.

“Let’s stay on for the second trip,” said Moniba, my best friend. “That way we can chat a little longer.” We always liked to stay on for the late pickup.

The ride to school was quick, just five minutes up the road and along the river. I arrived on time, and exam day passed as it always did. The chaos of Mingora city surrounded us with its honking horns and factory noises while we worked silently, bent over our papers in hushed concentration. By day’s end I was tired but happy; I knew I’d done well on my test.

“Let’s stay on for the second trip,” said Moniba, my best friend. “That way we can chat a little longer.” We always liked to stay on for the late pickup.

The ride to school was quick, just five minutes up the road and along the river. I arrived on time, and exam day passed as it always did. The chaos of Mingora city surrounded us with its honking horns and factory noises while we worked silently, bent over our papers in hushed concentration. By day’s end I was tired but happy; I knew I’d done well on my test.

“Let’s stay on for the second trip,” said Moniba, my best friend. “That way we can chat a little longer.” We always liked to stay on for the late pickup.

When our bus was called, we ran down the steps. As usual, Moniba and the other girls covered their heads and faces before we stepped outside the gate and got into the waiting dyna, the white truck that was our Khushal School “bus.” And, as usual, our driver was ready with a magic trick to amuse us. That day, he made a pebble disappear. No matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t figure out his secret.

We piled inside, twenty girls and two teachers crammed into the three rows of benches stretching down the length of the dyna. It was hot and sticky, and there were no windows, just a yellowed plastic sheet that flapped against the side as we bounced along Mingora’s crowded rush-hour streets.

Haji Baba Road was a jumble of brightly colored rickshaws, women in flowing robes, men on scooters, honking and zigzagging through the traffic. We passed a shopkeeper butchering chickens. A boy selling ice-cream cones. A billboard for Dr. Humayun’s Hair Transplant Institute. Moniba and I were deep in conversation. I had many friends, but she was the friend of my heart, the one with whom I shared everything. That day, when we were talking about who would get the highest marks this term, one of the other girls started a song, and the rest of us joined in.

Just after we passed the Little Giants snack factory and the bend in the road not more than three minutes from my house, the van slowed to a halt. It was oddly quiet outside.

“It’s so calm today,” I said to Moniba. “Where are all the people?”

I don’t remember anything after that, but here’s the story that’s been told to me:

Two young men in white robes stepped in front of our truck.

“Is this the Khushal School bus?” one of them asked.

The driver laughed. The name of the school was painted in black letters on the side.

The other young man jumped onto the tailboard and leaned into the back, where we were all sitting.

Two young men in white robes stepped in front of our truck.

“Is this the Khushal School bus?” one of them asked.

The driver laughed. The name of the school was painted in black letters on the side.

The other young man jumped onto the tailboard and leaned into the back, where we were all sitting.

“Who is Malala?” he asked.

2nd Read

The ride to school was quick, just five minutes up the road and along the river. I arrived on time, and exam day passed as it always did. The chaos of Mingora city surrounded us with its honking horns and factory noises while we worked silently, bent over our papers in hushed concentration. By day’s end I was tired but happy; I knew I’d done well on my test.

“Let’s stay on for the second trip,” said Moniba, my best friend. “That way we can chat a little longer.” We always liked to stay on for the late pickup.

Open Ended

When our bus was called, we ran down the steps. As usual, Moniba and the other girls covered their heads and faces before we stepped outside the gate and got into the waiting dyna, the white truck that was our Khushal School “bus.” And, as usual, our driver was ready with a magic trick to amuse us. That day, he made a pebble disappear. No matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t figure out his secret.

What words can you use to describe the dyna driver?

Multiple Choice

We piled inside, twenty girls and two teachers crammed into the three rows of benches stretching down the length of the dyna. It was hot and sticky, and there were no windows, just a yellowed plastic sheet that flapped against the side as we bounced along Mingora’s crowded rush-hour streets.

Question - Sitting in the bus must be

• comfortable

• uncomfortable

• pleasant

• nice

Haji Baba Road was a jumble of brightly colored rickshaws, women in flowing robes, men on scooters, honking and zigzagging through the traffic. We passed a shopkeeper butchering chickens. A boy selling ice-cream cones. A billboard for Dr. Humayun’s Hair Transplant Institute. Moniba and I were deep in conversation. I had many friends, but she was the friend of my heart, the one with whom I shared everything. That day, when we were talking about who would get the highest marks this term, one of the other girls started a song, and the rest of us joined in.

Just after we passed the Little Giants snack factory and the bend in the road not more than three minutes from my house, the van slowed to a halt. It was oddly quiet outside.

“It’s so calm today,” I said to Moniba. “Where are all the people?”

Let's talk:
The author did a good job establishing the setting by showing how the setting can change in a few minutes. How has the setting changed?

I don’t remember anything after that, but here’s the story that’s been told to me:

Two young men in white robes stepped in front of our truck.

“Is this the Khushal School bus?” one of them asked.

The driver laughed. The name of the school was painted in black letters on the side.

The other young man jumped onto the tailboard and leaned into the back, where we were all sitting.

Two young men in white robes stepped in front of our truck.

“Is this the Khushal School bus?” one of them asked.

The driver laughed. The name of the school was painted in black letters on the side.

The other young man jumped onto the tailboard and leaned into the back, where we were all sitting.

Open Ended

“Who is Malala?” he asked.

Question - Using your background knowledge, what do you think is happening?

Day 3
Take out your vocabulary notes

​Edict - An announcement from someone with power.

The principal's new edict to put phones in pouches during school hours made students feel angry.

“Who is Malala?” he asked.

No one said a word, but a few girls looked in my direction. He raised his arm and pointed at me. Some of the girls screamed, and I squeezed Moniba’s hand.

Who is Malala? I am Malala, and this is my story.

A Schoolgirl’s Diary

“After the fifteenth of January, no girl, whether big or little, shall go to school. Otherwise, you know what we can do. And the parents and the school principal will be responsible.”

That was the news that came over Radio Mullah in late December 2008. At first, I thought it was just one of his crazy pronouncements. It was the twenty-first century! How could one man stop more than fifty thousand girls from going to school?

Open Ended

I am a hopeful person—my friends may say too hopeful, maybe even a little crazy. But I simply did not believe that this man could stop us. School was our right.

Question - If Malala was your friend, what advice would you give her? Use RAPP

We debated his edict in class. “Who will stop him?” the other girls said.
“The Taliban have already blown up hundreds of schools, and no one has done anything.”

“We will,” I said. “We will call on our government to come and end this madness.”

“The government?” one girl said. “The government can’t even shut down Fazlullah’s radio station!”

The debate went round and round. I didn’t give in. But even to me, my argument sounded a bit thin.

One by one, girls stopped coming to school. Their fathers forbade them. Their brothers forbade them.

Within days we had gone from twenty-seven girls in our grade to ten.

I was sad and frustrated—but I also understood. In our culture, girls do not defy the males in their families. And I realized that the fathers and brothers and uncles who made my friends stay home were doing so out of concern for their safety. It was hard not to feel a bit depressed sometimes, not to feel as though the families who kept their girls at home were simply surrendering to Fazlullah. But whenever I’d catch myself giving in to a feeling of defeat, I’d have one of my talks with God. Help us appreciate the school days that are left to us, God, and give us the courage to fight even harder for more.

2nd Read Day 3

“Who is Malala?” he asked.

No one said a word, but a few girls looked in my direction. He raised his arm and pointed at me. Some of the girls screamed, and I squeezed Moniba’s hand.

Who is Malala? I am Malala, and this is my story.

Open Ended

Why did Malala's friends keep a chair in class for her?

A Schoolgirl’s Diary

“After the fifteenth of January, no girl, whether big or little, shall go to school. Otherwise, you know what we can do. And the parents and the school principal will be responsible.”

That was the news that came over Radio Mullah in late December 2008. At first, I thought it was just one of his crazy pronouncements. It was the twenty-first century! How could one man stop more than fifty thousand girls from going to school?

I am a hopeful person—my friends may say too hopeful, maybe even a little crazy. But I simply did not believe that this man could stop us. School was our right.

​Let's talk:
How do we feel about Malala?

We debated his edict in class. “Who will stop him?” the other girls said. “The Taliban have already blown up hundreds of schools, and no one has done anything.”

“We will,” I said. “We will call on our government to come and end this madness.”

“The government?” one girl said. “The government can’t even shut down Fazlullah’s radio station!”

The debate went round and round. I didn’t give in. But even to me, my argument sounded a bit thin.

One by one, girls stopped coming to school. Their fathers forbade them. Their brothers forbade them.

Within days we had gone from twenty-seven girls in our grade to ten.

I was sad and frustrated—but I also understood. In our culture, girls do not defy the males in their families. And I realized that the fathers and brothers and uncles who made my friends stay home were doing so out of concern for their safety. It was hard not to feel a bit depressed sometimes, not to feel as though the families who kept their girls at home were simply surrendering to Fazlullah. But whenever I’d catch myself giving in to a feeling of defeat, I’d have one of my talks with God. Help us appreciate the school days that are left to us, God, and give us the courage to fight even harder for more.

Day 4

School had been due to end the first week of January for our usual winter break, so my father decided to postpone the holiday. We would remain in classes through 14 January. That way we could squeeze in every minute left to us. And the ten remaining girls in my class lingered in the courtyard every day after school in case these were our last chances to be together.

​Why is school being extended?

At home in the evenings I wondered what I would do with my life if I couldn’t go to school. One of the girls at school had gotten married off before Fazlullah’s edict. She was twelve. I knew my parents wouldn’t do that to me, but I wondered, what would I do? Spend the rest of my life indoors, out of sight, with no TV to watch and no books to read? How would I complete my studies and become a doctor, which was my greatest hope at the time? I played with my shoebox dolls and thought: The Taliban want to turn the girls of Pakistan into identical, lifeless dolls.

While we girls savored the days until January 15, Fazlullah struck again and again. The previous year had been hard, but the days of January 2009 were among the darkest of our lives. Every morning, someone arrived at school with a story about another killing, sometimes two, sometimes three a night. Fazlullah’s men killed a woman in Mingora because they said she was a dancer. And they killed a man in the valley because he refused to wear his pants short the way the Taliban did. And now, we would be forbidden from going to school.

One afternoon I heard my father on the phone. “All the teachers have refused,” he said. “They are too afraid. But I will see what I can do.” He hung up and rushed out of the house.

A friend who worked at the BBC, the powerful British Broadcasting Corporation network, had asked him to find someone from the school to write a diary about life under the Taliban for its Urdu website—a teacher or an older student. All the teachers had said no, but Maryam’s younger sister Ayesha, one of the older girls, had agreed.

The next day, we had a visitor: Ayesha’s father. He would not allow his daughter to tell her story. “It’s too risky,” he said.

My father didn’t argue with him. The Taliban were cruel; but even they wouldn’t hurt a child, he wanted to say. But he respected Ayesha’s father’s decision and prepared to call the BBC with the bad news.

I was only eleven, but I said, “Why not me?” I knew he’d wanted someone older, not a child.

I looked at my father’s hopeful—nervous—face. He had been so brave for speaking out. It was one thing to talk to national and local media, but this diary might be read by people outside Pakistan. It was the BBC, after all. My father had always stood by me. Could I stand by him? I knew without even thinking that I could. I would do anything to be able to continue going to school. But first we went to my mother.

If she was afraid, I wouldn’t do it. Because if I didn’t have her support, it would be like speaking with only half my heart.

But my mother agreed. She gave us her answer with a verse from the Holy Quran. “Falsehood has to die,” she said. “And truth has to come forward.” God would protect me, she said, because my mission was a good one.

If she was afraid, I wouldn’t do it. Because if I didn’t have her support, it would be like speaking with only half my heart.

But my mother agreed. She gave us her answer with a verse from the Holy Quran. “Falsehood has to die,” she said. “And truth has to come forward.” God would protect me, she said, because my mission was a good one.

​2nd Read

School had been due to end the first week of January for our usual winter break, so my father decided to postpone the holiday. We would remain in classes through 14 January. That way we could squeeze in every minute left to us. And the ten remaining girls in my class lingered in the courtyard every day after school in case these were our last chances to be together.

​Why is school being extended?

At home in the evenings I wondered what I would do with my life if I couldn’t go to school. One of the girls at school had gotten married off before Fazlullah’s edict. She was twelve. I knew my parents wouldn’t do that to me, but I wondered, what would I do? Spend the rest of my life indoors, out of sight, with no TV to watch and no books to read? How would I complete my studies and become a doctor, which was my greatest hope at the time? I played with my shoebox dolls and thought: The Taliban want to turn the girls of Pakistan into identical, lifeless dolls.

While we girls savored the days until January 15, Fazlullah struck again and again. The previous year had been hard, but the days of January 2009 were among the darkest of our lives. Every morning, someone arrived at school with a story about another killing, sometimes two, sometimes three a night. Fazlullah’s men killed a woman in Mingora because they said she was “doing fahashi,” or being indecent, because she was a dancer. And they killed a man in the valley because he refused to wear his pants short the way the Taliban did. And now, we would be forbidden from going to school.

One afternoon I heard my father on the phone. “All the teachers have refused,” he said. “They are too afraid. But I will see what I can do.” He hung up and rushed out of the house.

A friend who worked at the BBC, the powerful British Broadcasting Corporation network, had asked him to find someone from the school to write a diary about life under the Taliban for its Urdu website—a teacher or an older student. All the teachers had said no, but Maryam’s younger sister Ayesha, one of the older girls, had agreed.

The next day, we had a visitor: Ayesha’s father. He would not allow his daughter to tell her story. “It’s too risky,” he said.

My father didn’t argue with him. The Taliban were cruel; but even they wouldn’t hurt a child, he wanted to say. But he respected Ayesha’s father’s decision and prepared to call the BBC with the bad news.

I was only eleven, but I said, “Why not me?” I knew he’d wanted someone older, not a child.

I looked at my father’s hopeful—nervous—face. He had been so brave for speaking out. It was one thing to talk to national and local media, but this diary might be read by people outside Pakistan. It was the BBC, after all. My father had always stood by me. Could I stand by him? I knew without even thinking that I could. I would do anything to be able to continue going to school. But first we went to my mother.

If she was afraid, I wouldn’t do it. Because if I didn’t have her support, it would be like speaking with only half my heart.

But my mother agreed. She gave us her answer with a verse from the Holy Quran. “Falsehood has to die,” she said. “And truth has to come forward.” God would protect me, she said, because my mission was a good one.

If she was afraid, I wouldn’t do it. Because if I didn’t have her support, it would be like speaking with only half my heart.

But my mother agreed. She gave us her answer with a verse from the Holy Quran. “Falsehood has to die,” she said. “And truth has to come forward.” God would protect me, she said, because my mission was a good one.