Review of "I am Malala" by Malala Yousafzai and Christina Lamb

I just finished this book and I wanted to write the review while still under the influence of emotion from the moment of closing the back cover. The first thing I did was log into Goodreads, mark it as "finished" and give it a rating. Something pretty strange happened. I gave it five out of five stars. If you looked at my ratings, you would find that most of the books I liked have four, and five star ratings are reserved for Borges, Fitzgerald and Huxley. So even on my virtual bookshelf, Malala seems to have a knack for finding herself in good company.

This autobiography, however, shares the high place for different reasons. My rating does not reflect the quality of writing or my enjoyment while reading it, but the importance that I feel it deserves. In addition to Malala's extraordinary story, the book contains a lot of background information about history, politics and culture of the Swat Valley, the Pashtun and Pakistan. There is also a lot of detail about her family, her every day life and how it changed with the events in her country. This causes the story to read slowly at times, especially throughout the middle third of the book. On the other hand, as much as perhaps all of it was not necessary to include, it was ultimately valuable information. The historical and political background really puts the story in context. The details of her life make Malala more real and relatable. So if you are reading this book and become annoyed with me because of descriptions of a sixth grade field trip or wondering why you need to know how Pakistan came to be as a country, be patient and keep reading, they are all important details of the big picture.

In the end, every aspect that I doubted while reading became understandable. It reads like amateur writing in much of the text, but this is also necessary in my opinion. This is a teenage girl telling her remarkable life story with the help of an author who is (as I imagine) trying to help her in writing as much as possible while still preserving the girl's young voice. Describing her homeland and its culture, Malala comes of as what I would call a realistic patriot. She is very cognizant of the things about her country that are unfair and self-destructive, as she shows unconditional love and devotion.

The aspect of this work that really takes its value to the next level is the knowledge it gives the reader about the history of Pakistan, the Swat Valley, Islam, the Pashtun culture. Perhaps most informatively, it offers insight about the Taliban and the methods they used to take and maintain control of their target areas as well as a local family's point of view of the events in the last several years, including the US military involvement.

I believe I have so far provided my opinion and information on this book without spoiling it for future readers, but it would be hard to keep writing about it without revealing too much. The bottom line is that I recommend this book (I know, shockingly unexpected!), and would love to hear other opinions and reviews from those who have read it.

The Good, the Bad, and the Irony

“This is a story about a family and, as there is a ghost involved, you might call it a ghost story. But every family is a ghost story. The dead sit at out tables long after they have gone.”

― Mitch Albom, For One More Day

Faced with a choice of one topic that carries a lot of emotional weight for me, cancer is the perfect candidate. Why? I am a cancer orphan. It has profoundly affected my life since I was an infant. My dad died a week after his 26th birthday, creating a shadow to be present in every important time and place. This piece is about what that means for me. There will be thoughts known to my friends, and some I have longed to express but never found the right words.

To start chronologically, I remember no particular moment of realization that I was missing a parent and that this was something tragic. The normal was my mother, sister and I, and this did not seem unusual until I became old enough to really notice that most kids had two parents. This was when I started asking questions, and also when I stopped asking questions, discovering there were words that stirred emotions that were too overwhelming to process. My information came from photo albums and listening in on conversations between adults on a rare evening of melancholic reminiscence. For the sake of context, I should add that I grew up in a culture where funerals are attended in much higher numbers than weddings, and grieving is considered a form of respect for the dead. The death of a young person is mostly regarded as the ultimate tragedy, and often too unbearable to even talk about. There is usually a change of tone when someone says the word "cancer", as if speaking about a monster that might wake up if you cay its name.

Even though part of me always wondered why it is such a big deal to have a single parent, and things always seemed to work well for us, the shadow was always there. Not talking about it seemed only to intensify the feeling, as if our unified avoidance somehow made it more real. Make no mistake, this was not the spooky kind of shadow. It was the warm, comforting kind, reminding us that we are the most tangible part of this presence that most can only remember.

By the time I was ten I felt that I had a fairly good grip on things. I had reassured my best friends that it is perfectly fine to talk about their dads, and my whole life up until then was more than enough time to come to terms with this. And then there was a time when a teacher was filling out information about the parents' occupations and he had the students get up one at a time and say their parents' names and what they did for a living. I did have that slight feeling of dread, but I was still sure it would be OK. When it was my turn I got up and said my mother's name and job and said my father's name, but when asked the other question, I could not bring myself to utter a sound. This incident pretty much destroyed my hopes of not being treated differently, and eventually resulted in a conclusion that this is something I can't change and a decision to try not to waste energy being frustrated about it.

Growing up, I imagined all my future relationships would be fatally flawed, and vividly saw myself going to a fertility clinic and looking at donor profiles to start a family on my own. I was wrong, and found myself fiercely in love, married, and aching to have children as soon as possible before I was even out of college. Being a chronic over-thinker, this blissful happiness brought about thoughts like "This is what it was like for my parents before everything changed." There were still difficulties, we had to make hard decisions like many young newlyweds. Still there were many breathtakingly happy moments and I frequently thought how my parents were given less than two years of that. When my son was learning to walk, I thought about my mother watching me do the same and feeling the void next to her. There was also the irrational fear that one of us (my husband or I) might not live to celebrate our second wedding anniversary. Of course we did, and have witnessed many milestones together. Then there was the time when I got heartburn for the first time and obsessively googled symptoms of gastric cancer. My research told me the same thing my doctor confirmed at the annual check up the year I turned (you guessed it, 26!), that the genetic factor is far less significant in increasing risk than lifestyle factors, which put me in the lower than average risk bracket.

I am now a few years older than my father ever was. Mostly because I find it makes people uncomfortable, I rarely talk about him, but I still remember being told what high hopes he had for me. I imagine how he would proudly foster my son's obsession with cars, adore my daughter's smile and curls and find much to talk about with my husband. There have been other family and friends who were diagnosed with cancer, most of whom have reached remission. Melodramatic as it may sound, every one of them is my personal hero.

As an incurable optimist, I have to admit that this entire struggle is what has fostered my ability to value every scrumptious meal, every "I love you" and "I'm sorry", every hug and smile and even every argument. It is horrifying to admit that for this talent that makes me a better wife, mother and friend, I have to thank this one human affliction that I most passionately loathe.  It is horrifying, but my friends, you just have to appreciate the irony.