The hospital had been put on complete lockdown. There was an entire battalion of soldiers guarding it and even snipers on the rooftops. No one was allowed in; doctors had to wear uniforms; patients could only be visited by close relatives, all of whom underwent strict security checks. An army major was assigned to my parents and followed them everywhere.
My father was scared and my uncle kept saying, ‘Be very careful – some of these people might be secret agents.’ My family was given three rooms in the officers’ hostel. Everyone’s mobile phone was confiscated, which they said was for security reasons but may have also been to stop my father talking to the media. Any time my parents wanted to take the short walk from the hostel to the hospital they first had to be cleared via walkie-talkie, which took at least half an hour. They were even guarded as they crossed the hostel lawn to the dining hall. No visitors could get in – even when the Prime Minister came to see me he was not allowed inside. The security seemed astonishing, but over the last three years the Taliban had managed to infiltrate and attack even the most highly guarded military installations – the naval base at Mehran, the air force base in Kamra and the army headquarters just down the road.
We were all at risk from a Taliban attack. My father was told that even my brothers would not be spared. He was very concerned because at that time Khushal was still in Mingora, although later he was brought down to Rawalpindi to join them. There were no computers or Internet in the hostel but a friendly cook, Yaseem Mama, used to bring my family the newspapers and whatever they needed. Yaseem told them he felt proud to prepare my family’s food. They were so touched by his kindness that they shared our story with him. He wanted to nourish them with food and ease their suffering. They had no appetite so he would try to tempt them with ever more delicious dishes, custards and sweets. One mealtime Khushal said that the dining table felt empty with only the four of them. They felt incomplete without me.
It was in one of Yaseem’s newspapers that my father read for the first time some of the incredible international reaction to my shooting. It seemed like the whole world was outraged. Ban Ki-moon, the UN Secretary General, called it ‘a heinous and cowardly act’. President Obama described the shooting as ‘reprehensible and disgusting and tragic’. But some of the reaction in Pakistan was not so positive. While some papers described me as a ‘peace icon’, others carried the usual conspiracy theories, some bloggers even questioning if I had really been shot. All sorts of stories were made up, particularly in the Urdu press, such as one that claimed I had criticised the growing of beards. One of the most vocal people against me was a female MP called Dr Raheela Qazi from the religious Jamaate-Islami party. She called me an American stooge and showed a photograph of me sitting next to Ambassador Richard Holbrooke as evidence of me ‘hobnobbing with US military authority’!
Dr Fiona was a great comfort to us. My mother speaks only Pashto so couldn’t understand anything she said, but Fiona would gesture with a thumbs-up when she came out of my room and say ‘Good.’ She became a messenger for my parents, not only a doctor. She would sit with them patiently and would then ask my father to explain every detail to my mother. My father was astonished and pleased – in our country few doctors bother explaining anything to an illiterate woman. They heard that offers were pouring in from overseas to treat me including from America, where a top hospital called Johns Hopkins had offered free treatment. Individual Americans also offered to help, including Senator John Kerry, a rich man who had visited Pakistan many times, and Gabrielle Giffords, a congresswoman who had been shot in the head while meeting constituents at a shopping mall in Arizona. There were offers too from Germany, Singapore, the UAE and Britain.
Nobody consulted my mother and father on what should happen to me. All decisions were made by the army. General Kayani asked Dr Javid whether I should be sent abroad or not. The army chief was spending a surprising amount of his time on the issue – Dr Javid says they spent six hours discussing me! Perhaps more than any politician he understood the political implications if I did not survive. He was hoping to build a political consensus behind launching an all-out attack on the Taliban. But also those close to him say he is a compassionate man. His own father was just an ordinary soldier and died young, leaving him as the eldest son of eight to support his entire family. When he became army chief the first thing General Kayani did was improve housing, food rations and education for ordinary soldiers rather than officers.
Dr Fiona said it was likely I would have a speech impediment and a weak right arm and right leg, so I would need extensive rehabilitation facilities, which Pakistan didn’t have. ‘If you’re serious about getting the best outcome possible, take her overseas,’ she advised.
General Kayani was adamant that the Americans should not be involved because of the ongoing bad relations between the two countries after the Raymond Davis episode and the bin Laden raid as well as the killing of some Pakistani soldiers at a border post by a US helicopter. Dr Javid suggested Great Ormond Street in London, and specialist hospitals in Edinburgh and Glasgow. ‘Why not your own hospital?’ General Kayani asked.
Dr Javid had known this was coming. Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham is known for treating British soldiers wounded in Afghanistan and Iraq. Its location outside the centre of the city also offered privacy. He called his boss Kevin Bolger, the hospital’s chief operating officer. He quickly agreed it was the right thing to do, although afterwards he said, ‘None of us ever imagined how much it would take over the hospital.’ Moving me – a foreign minor – to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital was not a simple exercise, and Bolger soon found himself tangled in the hoops of British and Pakistani bureaucracy. Meanwhile time was ticking away. Although my condition had been stabilised it was felt that I needed to be moved within forty-eight hours, seventy-two at the most.
Finally the go-ahead was given and the doctors had to face the problem of how I was to be moved and who would pay for it. Dr Javid suggested taking up an offer from the Royal Air Force as they were used to transporting wounded soldiers from Afghanistan, but General Kayani refused. He called Dr Javid for a late-night meeting at his house – the general keeps late hours – and explained, chain-smoking as usual, that he did not want any foreign military involved. There were already too many conspiracy theories floating around about my shooting, people saying I was a CIA agent and such things, and the army chief did not want to further fuel them. This left Dr Javid in a difficult position. The British government had offered assistance but needed a formal request from the Pakistan government. But my government was reluctant to ask for fear of loss of face. Fortunately at this point the ruling family of the United Arab Emirates stepped in. They offered their private jet, which had its own on-board hospital. I was to be flown out of Pakistan for the first time in my life in the early hours of Monday, 15 October.
My parents had no idea of any of these negotiations though they knew discussions were under way to move me overseas. Naturally they assumed that wherever I was sent, they would accompany me. My mother and brothers had no passports or documentation. On Sunday afternoon my father was informed by the colonel that I would be leaving the next morning for the UK and only he was to accompany me, not my mother or my brothers. He was told there was a problem arranging their passports and that for security reasons he should not even tell the rest of my family he was going.
My father shares everything with my mother and there was no way he would keep such a thing secret. He told her the news with a heavy heart. My mother was sitting with uncle Faiz Mohammad, who was furious and worried about her and my brothers’ security. ‘If she’s on her own with two boys in Mingora, anything could happen to them!’
My father called the colonel. ‘I have informed my family and they are very unhappy. I cannot leave them.’ This caused a big problem because I was a minor so couldn’t be sent alone and many people got involved to try and convince my father to come with me, including Colonel Junaid, Dr Javid and Dr Fiona. My father does not respond we
ll to being pushed and remained firm even though it was clear that by now he was creating havoc. He explained to Dr Javid, ‘My daughter is now in safe hands and going to a safe country. I can’t leave my wife and sons alone here. They are at risk. What has happened to my daughter has happened and now she is in God’s hands. I am a father – my sons are as important to me as my daughter.’
Dr Javid asked to see my father privately. ‘Are you sure this is the only reason you are not coming?’ he asked. He wanted to make sure no one was pressuring him.
‘My wife told me, “You can’t leave us,”’ my father said. The doctor put a hand on his shoulder and reassured my father that I would be taken care of and he could trust him. ‘Isn’t it a miracle you all happened to be here when Malala was shot?’ said my father.
‘It is my belief God sends the solution first and the problem later,’ replied Dr Javid.
My father then signed an ‘in loco parentis’ document making Dr Fiona my guardian for the trip to the UK. My father was in tears as he gave her my passport and took her hand.
‘Fiona, I trust you. Please take care of my daughter.’
Then my mother and father came to my bedside to say goodbye. It was around 11 p.m. when they saw me for the last time in Pakistan. I could not speak, my eyes were shut and it was only my breath that reassured them I was still alive. My mother cried, but my father tried to comfort her as he felt I was now out of danger. All those deadlines they’d given at the beginning – when they said the next twenty-four hours were dangerous, forty-eight were crucial, seventy-two were critical – had all passed without incident. The swelling had gone down and my blood levels had improved. My family trusted that Dr Fiona and Dr Javid would give me the best possible care.
When my family went back to their rooms sleep was slow in coming. Just after midnight someone knocked at their door. It was one of the colonels who had earlier tried to convince my father to leave my mother behind and travel to the UK. He told my father that he absolutely had to travel with me or I might not be taken at all.
‘I told you last night the issue was resolved,’ my father replied. ‘Why did you wake me? I’m not leaving my family.’
Once again, another official was called to talk to him. ‘You must go. You are her parent, and if you don’t accompany her she may not be accepted into the hospital in the UK,’ he said.
‘What’s done is done,’ my father insisted. ‘I am not changing my mind. We will all follow in a few days when the documents are sorted out.’
The colonel then said, ‘Let’s go to the hospital as there are other documents to sign.’
My father became suspicious. It was after midnight and he was scared. He didn’t want to go alone with the officials and insisted my mother come too. My father was so worried that for the whole time he repeated a verse of the Holy Quran over and over. It was from the story of Yunus who is swallowed by a whale like the story of Jonah in the Bible. This verse was recited by the prophet Yunus when he was in the tummy of the whale. It reassures us that there is a way out of even the worst trouble and danger if we keep faith.
When they got to the hospital the colonel told my father that if I was to be allowed to fly to the UK then there were other documents that needed to be signed. It was simple. My father had felt so uncomfortable and scared because of the secrecy of all the arrangements, the men in uniform everywhere and the vulnerability of our family, that he had panicked and blown the incident out of proportion. The whole episode had been a matter of botched bureaucracy.
When my parents finally got back to the hostel it was with a very heavy heart. My father did not want me to come round in a strange country without my family there. He was worried about how confused I would be. My last memory would be of the school bus, and he was distraught that I would feel abandoned by them.
I was taken away at 5 a.m. on Monday, 15 October under armed escort. The roads to the airport had been closed and there were snipers on the rooftops of the buildings lining the route. The UAE plane was waiting. I am told it is the height of luxury with a plush double bed, sixteen first-class seats and a mini-hospital at the back staffed with European nurses led by a German doctor. I am just sorry I wasn’t conscious to enjoy it. The plane flew to Abu Dhabi for refuelling then headed on to Birmingham, where it landed in the late afternoon.
In the hostel my parents waited. They assumed their passports and visas were being processed and they would join me in a few days. But they heard nothing. They had no phone and no access to a computer to check on my progress. The wait felt endless.
PART FIVE
A Second Life
Watan zama za da watan yam
Ka da watan da para mram khushala yama!
I am a patriot and I love my country
And for that I would gladly sacrifice all
23
‘The Girl Shot in the Head, Birmingham’
I WOKE UP on 16 October, a week after the shooting. I was thousands of miles away from home with a tube in my neck to help me breathe and unable to speak. I was on the way back to critical care after another CT scan, and flitted between consciousness and sleep until I woke properly.
The first thing I thought when I came round was, Thank God I’m not dead. But I had no idea where I was. I knew I was not in my homeland. The nurses and doctors were speaking English though they seemed to all be from different countries. I was speaking to them but no one could hear me because of the tube in my neck. To start with my left eye was very blurry and everyone had two noses and four eyes. All sorts of questions flew through my waking brain: Where was I? Who had brought me there? Where were my parents? Was my father alive? I was terrified.
Dr Javid, who was there when I was brought round, says he will never forget the look of fear and bewilderment on my face. He spoke to me in Urdu. The only thing I knew was that Allah had blessed me with a new life. A nice lady in a headscarf held my hand and said, ‘Asalaamu alaikum,’ which is our traditional Muslim greeting. Then she started saying prayers in Urdu and reciting verses of the Quran. She told me her name was Rehanna and she was the Muslim chaplain. Her voice was soft and her words were soothing, and I drifted back to sleep.
I dreamed I wasn’t really in hospital.
When I woke again the next day I noticed I was in a strange green room with no windows and very bright lights. It was an intensive care cubicle in the Queen Elizabeth Hospital. Everything was very clean and shiny, not like the hospital in Mingora.
A nurse gave me a pencil and a pad. I couldn’t write properly. The words came out wrong. I wanted to write my father’s phone number. I couldn’t space letters. Dr Javid brought me an alphabet board so I could point to the letters. The first words I spelt out were ‘father’ and ‘country’. The nurse told me I was in Birmingham, but I had no idea where that was. Only later did they bring me an atlas so I could see it was in England. I didn’t know what had happened. The nurses weren’t telling me anything. Even my name. Was I still Malala?
My head was aching so much that even the injections they gave me couldn’t stop the pain. My left ear kept bleeding and my left hand felt funny. Nurses and doctors kept coming in and out. The nurses asked me questions and told me to blink twice for yes. No one told me what was going on or who had brought me to the hospital. I thought they didn’t know themselves. I could feel that the left side of my face wasn’t working properly. If I looked at the nurses or doctors for too long my left eye watered. I didn’t seem to be able to hear from my left ear and my jaw wouldn’t move properly. I gestured to people to stand on my right.
Then a kind lady called Dr Fiona came and gave me a white teddy bear. She said I should call it Junaid and she would explain why later. I didn’t know who Junaid was so I named it Lily. She also brought me a pink exercise book to write in. The first two questions my pen wrote were, ‘Why have I no father?’ and ‘My father has no money. Who will pay for all this?’
‘Your father is safe,’ she replied. ‘He is in Pakistan. Don’t worry about payme
nt.’
I repeated the questions to anyone who came in. They all said the same. But I was not convinced. I had no idea what had happened to me and I didn’t trust anyone. If my father was fine, why wasn’t he here? I thought my parents didn’t know where I was and could be searching for me in the chowks and bazaars of Mingora. I didn’t believe my parents were safe. Those first days my mind kept drifting in and out of a dream world. I kept having flashbacks to lying on a bed with men around me, so many that you couldn’t count, and asking, ‘Where is my father?’ I thought I had been shot but wasn’t sure – were these dreams or memories?
I was obsessed by how much this must be costing. The money from the awards had almost all gone on the school and buying a plot of land in our village in Shangla. Whenever I saw the doctors talking to one another I thought they were saying, ‘Malala doesn’t have any money. Malala can’t pay for her treatment.’ One of the doctors was a Polish man who always looked sad. I thought he was the owner of the hospital and was unhappy because I couldn’t pay. So I gestured at a nurse for paper and wrote, ‘Why are you sad?’ He replied, ‘No, I am not sad.’ ‘Who will pay?’ I wrote. ‘We don’t have any money.’ ‘Don’t worry, your government will pay,’ he said. Afterwards he always smiled when he saw me.
I always think about solutions to problems so I thought maybe I could go down to the reception of the hospital and ask for a phone to call my mother and father. But my brain was telling me, You don’t have the money to pay for the call nor do you know the country code. Then I thought, I need to go out and start working to earn money so I can buy a phone and call my father so we can all be together again.
I Am Malala Page 23