We Are Displaced: List 1

I was only six years old, so I didn’t notice anything at first, but when I think back on those years, my memories are tinged with the fear that I know must have been growing in my parents’ eyes.

An earthquake in 2005 was not only devastating for the destruction it caused and the lives it took—more than seventy-three thousand were killed, including eighteen thousand children—but it also left vulnerable survivors.

When men from an extremist group who had provided aid to so many who had been displaced by this natural disaster began to preach that the earthquake was a warning from God, people listened.

These were religious fundamentalists who claimed they wanted to return to an old way of living, which was ironic considering that they used technology—the radio—to spread this very message.

They aggressively discouraged girls from going to school, commending by name parents who had kept their girls out of school as well as the girls themselves, and condemning by name those who had not.

They aggressively discouraged girls from going to school, commending by name parents who had kept their girls out of school as well as the girls themselves, and condemning by name those who had not.

At first, these extremists still felt fringe to my father—more an annoyance than a real terror.

The words Taliban and militant entered our daily conversations; it was not simply something discussed on the news anymore.

And rumors were spreading throughout Mingora that these militants were infiltrating Swat Valley.

No one knew who they were exactly, but everyone knew they were connected to the Taliban and enforcing their decrees.

"Sister,” he said sternly to me. “You should cover your face.”

If the Taliban heard that someone had spoken out against them, they would announce those names on their radio station. And then the next morning, those people might be found dead in Green Square, our city center, often with notes pinned to the bodies explaining their so-called sins.

This was all part of their extremist propaganda.

My father had been cautioned to stop speaking out on behalf of girls’ education and peace.

Rather than share idle gossip and talk about our favorite movie stars, my friends and I shared information about death threats and wondered if we’d ever feel safe again.

Many girls stopped attending classes or left the area to be educated elsewhere when the ban was announced—my class of twenty-seven had dwindled to ten.

They predicted full-fledged warfare, and it was not safe for people to stay in the valley.

People were fleeing on motorbikes and trucks, in rickshaws and mule carts, all with the same wide-eyed look of shock.

My mother started packing. We would go to Shangla the following day. We would become IDPs—internally displaced persons.

My mother made me leave the books behind because there was no room. Distraught, I hid them in a closet and said a silent prayer that we would be home soon.

I went with my friend Safina and her family, following right behind my father’s friend, who took everyone else in my family. We joined the long queue of cars leaving Mingora that day.

The road we usually took to Shangla was barricaded by a large group of Taliban fighters, so we had to take a longer route that day.

Evacuating civilians was the only chance the army had for defeating the Taliban without causing mass casualties.

I buried my face in my father’s chest, trying to stifle my cries.

My uncle’s house had stone walls, a wooden roof, and a dirt-packed floor. It smelled like the earth, woodsy and dank.