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 the country on their holidays, I should have that right too. I was growing impatient; it felt like 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 shot back, daring him.
“I will book my own flight, leave this house in a cab, and call Moniba when I land to pick me up.” Deep down, I knew I wasn’t that bold, but I wasn’t sure my dad knew it — and that might give me some leverage.
Every time, the same answer came back to us: “It’s not the right moment for Malala’s return.” My dad had heard it so often I worried he was giving up.
“It will never be the ‘right’ moment!” I railed, trying to infect him with my indignation. “I am a Pakistani citizen with a valid passport. And they have no grounds to stop me.”
I sounded angry, but inside, my heart was breaking. At 24 Obs, I’d had more reminders of home — food, music, sports, language — in a few weeks than in the past five years. Now that reawakening felt painful, like blood rushing back into numbed limbs.
I was done with stalking my old friends on Facebook, done with walking the streets on Google Maps. I couldn’t keep dreaming of home at night and waking up disoriented every morning.
“It will never be the ‘right’ moment!” “I am a Pakistani citizen with a valid passport. And they have no grounds to stop me.”
Author's summary: Malala's longing for Pakistan grew painful as she faced delays in returning, emphasizing her resilience and identity as a Pakistani citizen determined to go home despite obstacles.