Finding my way: my new favorite memoir

Boot title: Finding My Way: A Memoir Book author: Malala Yousafzai

“No man can step in the same river twice, for it is not the same river and he is not the same man.”

― Heraclitus

Malala is one year younger than me. I knew so little of her, apart from the news headline from 2012. Recently I saw her in a podcast of Trevor Noah, my impression was—she seems interesting. Then I found this beautiful paperback at a book cafe and decided to give it a shot. ‘Finding My Way’, seemed like a heartfelt conversation with a friend.

Her memoir is about her days in Oxford, how college gave her a chance to feel normal like others, how she met her husband, her thoughts about marriage, her mental health journey, her longing to be understood by her mother.

It's very honest writing. Malala was shot by the Taliban, but what is she most afraid of? Not to upset her mom by wearing clothes she actually wants to wear, LOL. We girls from this part of the world have to fight so many things to rise to a man’s status, and at home we are slashed with words for dressing up, the most common reason given “what will our relatives say?” I felt Malz and I could rant on our mothers.

The writing is full of humor. And it’s an inspiring read for anyone trying to fit in a new environment. I would leave some favorite quotes from the book.

After a lifetime of brothers, sisterhood felt like going to a foreign country and discovering I somehow already knew the language.

There’s a saying that every Oxford student knows: ‘University is study, sleep and social life - but you can only pick two.’ I didn’t take long to decide that one was enough for me.

To help girls like them, I had tried, for a long time, to obey all the rules - to wear the clothes my mum picked out, to be the deferential daughter that Pakistani parents expect. But maintaining that balance was starting to feel like a trap. I could stand behind a podium all day, calling out the worst abuses perpetrated by men, and it would never stir up the level of media attention that wearing jeans did. So why should I even try to placate my critics?

When she had to leave, I begged her to stay. Every time, she would pat my head and whisper, ‘Love grows by coming and going.’

When doctors suggested I continue to see a counsellor after leaving hospital, my dad declined. ‘Only a completely nonfunctioning person needs a therapist,’ he said. ‘Malala is fine.’ My parents were raised to ask ‘What will people say?’ in every situation and choose the option least likely to embarrass or shame their families. He thought he was protecting me.

My mum was a hero, brave and generous. She was also judgemental, unsparing and strict, especially with me. I longed for a day when I could tell her all my secrets and call her my friend.

Now, no matter what my life went next, I was a university graduate, and I always would be. It didn’t mean the end of misogyny or an enduring triumph for the right to education, of course. This was a personal victory. Between me and the men who tried to stop me, the flight was over. I had won.

At university, I was surrounded by friends, free to explore, happy. Of course, I never wanted it to end. But this was not another home I was forced to leave – it was a gate I passed through to become something new.