We couldn’t see in front but a young man in light-coloured clothes had stepped into the road and waved the van down.


‘Is this the Khushal School bus?’ he asked our driver. Usman Bhai Jan thought this was a stupid question as the name was painted on the side. ‘Yes,’ he said.


‘I need information about some children,’ said the man. ‘You should go to the office,’ said Usman Bhai Jan.


As he was speaking another young man in white approached the back of the van. ‘Look, it’s one of those journalists coming to ask for an interview,’ said Moniba. Since I’d started speaking at events with my father to campaign for girls’ education and against those like the Taliban who want to hide us away, journalists often came, even foreigners, though not like this in the road.


The man was wearing a peaked cap and looked like a college student. He swung himself onto the tailboard at the back and leaned in right over us.


‘Who is Malala?’ he demanded.


No one said anything but several of the girls looked at me. I was the only girl with my face not covered.


That’s when he lifted up a black pistol. I later learned it was a Colt 45. Some of the girls screamed. Moniba tells me I squeezed her hand. Who is Malala? I am Malala and this is my story.


14


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