Malala has always reminded me of my little sister, Hadia. She’s around the same age and she writes as well. Opinionated little pieces. It’s always a pleasure seeing her contemplating about things and expressing herself. I have seen her growing up in front of my eyes from a little baby to a young girl. She often surprises me with the way she looks at things. When people talk about Malala, I only see my sister writing what she’s making of the world around her.
Visiting Swat this past weekend and walking through the bazaar where Malala was shot at was a reminder of both of them. And it made me a little sad.
On the last day of the trip, we were really tired from all the skiing. The journey downhill has never been pleasant for me and it wasn’t so that time either. Sitting at the window seat, I was sure nothing good will happen from then on. I was wrong. Swat had a last treat for me.
I was looking at the mountains outside when I noticed a little girl, just like Malala and Hadia. She was on the rooftop of her house, parallel to the road. All of a sudden, she recalled something —a song, I assumed— and started dancing to the tune. It was just for a few seconds but made my day.
Wish the three of them all the best.