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Aug 23, 2013 · I. E. Irodov. The book is intended for college undergraduates majoring in Physics. It contains about 2000 problem covering the major areas of Physical science: mechanics, thermodynamics, molecular physics, electrodynamics, oscillations and waves, optics, atomic and nuclear physics.
- I AM MALALA
- Prologue: The Day my World Changed
- Before the Taliban
- When I was a baby my father used to sing me a song written by the famous poet Rahmat Shah Sayel of Peshawar. The last verse ends,
- My Father the Falcon
- Growing up in a School
- The Village
- Why I Don’t Wear Earrings and Pashtuns Don’t Say Thank You
- Children of the Rubbish Mountain
- The Mufti Who Tried to Close Our School
- My father could listen no more. ‘Maryam is mentioned everywhere in the Quran. Was she not a woman and a good woman at that?’
- The Autumn of the Earthquake
- Radio Mullah
- Toffees, Tennis Balls and the Buddhas of Swat
- The Clever Class
- The Diary of Gul Makai
- A Funny Kind of Peace
- Leaving the Valley
- The Valley of Sorrows
- DVDs.
- Praying to Be Tall
- The Woman and the Sea
- ‘The same one you’re using,’ she replied.
- Who is Malala?
- ‘God, I entrust her to you’
- ‘The Girl Shot in the Head, Birmingham’
- ‘They have snatched her smile’
- ‘This one,’ I said.
- I wanted to change it to:
- Birmingham, August 2013
- Glossary
- Acknowledgements
- A note on the Malala Fund
- Picture Section
- Text
The Girl Who Stood Up for Education and was Shot by the Taliban
I COME FROM a country which was created at midnight. When I almost died it was just after midday. One year ago I left my home for school and never returned. I was shot by a Taliban bullet and was flown out of Pakistan unconscious. Some people say I will never return home but I believe firmly in my heart that I will. To be torn from the country that...
Sorey sorey pa golo rashey Da be nangai awaz de ra ma sha mayena Rather I receive your bullet-riddled body with honour Than news of your cowardice on the battlefield (Traditional Pashto couplet) Daughter Is Born WHEN I WAS born, people in our village commiserated with my mother and nobody congratulated my father. I arrived at dawn as the last star ...
O Malalai of Maiwand, Rise once more to make Pashtuns understand the song of honour, Your poetic words turn worlds around, I beg you, rise again My father told the story of Malalai to anyone who came to our house. I loved hearing the story and the songs my father sang to me, and the way my name floated on the wind when people called it. We lived in...
I ALWAYS KNEW my father had trouble with words. Sometimes they would get stuck and he would repeat the same syllable over and over like a record caught in a groove as we all waited for the next syllable to suddenly pop out. He said it felt like a wall came down in his throat. M’s, p’s and k’s were all enemies lying in wait. I teased him that one of...
MY MOTHER STARTED school when she was six and stopped the same term. She was unusual in the village as she had a father and brothers who encouraged her to go to school. She was the only girl in a class of boys. She carried her bag of books proudly into school and claims she was brighter than the boys. But every day she would leave behind her girl c...
IN OUR TRADITION on the seventh day of a child’s life we have a celebration called Woma (which means ‘seventh’) for family, friends and neighbours to come and admire the newborn. My parents had not held one for me because they could not afford the goat and rice needed to feed the guests, and my grandfather would not help them out because I was not ...
BY THE AGE of seven I was used to being top of my class. I was the one who would help other pupils who had difficulties. ‘Malala is a genius girl,’ my class fellows would say. I was also known for participating in everything – badminton, drama, cricket, art, even singing, though I wasn’t much good. So when a new girl named Malka-e-Noor joined our c...
AS THE KHUSHAL School started to attract more pupils, we moved again and finally had a television. My favourite programme was Shaka Laka Boom Boom, an Indian children’s series about a boy called Sanju who has a magic pencil. Everything he drew became real. If he drew a vegetable or a policeman, the vegetable or policeman would magically appear. If ...
JUST IN FRONT of the school on Khushal Street, where I was born, was the house of a tall handsome mullah and his family. His name was Ghulamullah and he called himself a mufti, which means he is an Islamic scholar and authority on Islamic law, though my father complains that anyone with a turban can call themselves a maulana or mufti. The school wa...
‘No,’ said the mullah. ‘She is only there to prove that Isa [Jesus] was the son of Maryam, not the son of God!’ ‘That may be,’ replied my father. ‘But I am pointing out that the Quran names Maryam.’ The mufti started to object but my father had had enough. Turning to the group, he said, ‘When this gentleman passes me on the street, I look to him an...
ONE FINE OCTOBER day when I was still in primary school our desks started to tremble and shake. Our classes were still mixed at that age, and all the boys and girls yelled, ‘Earthquake!’ We ran outside as we had been taught to do. All the children gathered around our teachers as chicks swarm to a mother hen. Swat lies on a geological fault line and...
I WAS TEN when the Taliban came to our valley. Moniba and I had been reading the Twilight books and longed to be vampires. It seemed to us that the Taliban arrived in the night just like vampires. They appeared in groups, armed with knives and Kalashnikovs, and first emerged in Upper Swat, in the hilly areas of Matta. They didn’t call themselves Ta...
FIRST THE TALIBAN took our music, then our Buddhas, then our history. One of our favourite things was going on school trips. We were lucky to live in a paradise like Swat with so many beautiful places to visit – waterfalls, lakes, the ski resort, the wali’s palace, the Buddha statues, the tomb of Akhund of Swat. All these places told our special st...
IT WAS SCHOOL that kept me going in those dark days. When I was in the street it felt as though every man I passed might be a talib. We hid our school bags and our books in our shawls. My father always said that the most beautiful thing in a village in the morning is the sight of a child in a school uniform, but now we were afraid to wear them. We ...
IT WAS DURING one of those dark days that my father received a call from his friend Abdul Hai Kakar, a BBC radio correspondent based in Peshawar. He was looking for a female teacher or a schoolgirl to write a diary about life under the Taliban. He wanted to show the human side of the catastrophe in Swat. Initially Madam Maryam’s younger sister Ayes...
WHEN MY BROTHERS’ schools reopened after the winter break, Khushal said he would rather stay at home like me. I was cross. ‘You don’t realise how lucky you are!’ I told him. It felt strange to have no school. We didn’t even have a television set as someone had stolen ours while we were in Islamabad, using my father’s ‘getaway’ ladder to get inside....
LEAVING THE VALLEY was harder than anything I had done before. I remembered the tapa my grandmother used to recite: ‘No Pashtun leaves his land of his own sweet will./ Either he leaves from poverty or he leaves for love.’ Now we were being driven out for a third reason the tapa writer had never imagined – the Taliban. Leaving our home felt like hav...
IT ALL SEEMED like a bad dream. We had been away from our valley for almost three months and as we drove back past Churchill’s Picket, past the ancient ruins on the hill and the giant Buddhist stupa, we saw the wide Swat River and my father began to weep. Swat seemed to be under complete military control. The vehicle we were in even had to pass thr...
Fazlullah himself was still at large. The army had destroyed his headquarters in Imam Deri and then claimed to have him surrounded in the mountains of Peochar. Then they said he was badly injured and that they had his spokesman, Muslim Khan, in custody. Later the story changed and they reported that Fazlullah had escaped into Afghanistan and was in...
WHEN I WAS thirteen I stopped growing. I had always looked older than I was but suddenly all my friends were taller than me. I was one of the three shortest girls in my class of thirty. I felt embarrassed when I was with my friends. Every night I prayed to Allah to be taller. I measured myself on my bedroom wall with a ruler and a pencil. Every mor...
AUNT NAJMA WAS in tears. She had never seen the sea before. My family and I sat on the rocks, gazing across the water, breathing in the salt tang of the Arabian Sea. It was such a big expanse, surely no one could know where it ended. At that moment I was very happy. ‘One day I want to cross this sea,’ I said. ‘What is she saying?’ asked my aunt as ...
I knew that could not be true. ‘No. Look at my dark skin and look at yours!’ We visited the White Palace and saw where the Queen had slept and the gardens of beautiful flowers. Sadly we could not see the wali’s room as it had been damaged by the floods. We ran around for a while in the green forest, then took some photographs and waded into the riv...
ONE MORNING IN late summer when my father was getting ready to go to school he noticed that the painting of me looking at the sky which we had been given by the school in Karachi had shifted in the night. He loved that painting and had hung it over his bed. Seeing it crooked disturbed him. ‘Please put it straight,’ he asked my mother in an unusuall...
AS SOON AS Usman Bhai Jan realised what had happened he drove the dyna to Swat Central Hospital at top speed. The other girls were screaming and crying. I was lying on Moniba’s lap, bleeding from my head and left ear. We had only gone a short way when a policeman stopped the van and started asking questions, wasting precious time. One girl felt my ...
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 d...
With grateful thanks to: The Jinnah Archive (www.jinnaharchive.com) for the use of selections from the work of Quaid-i-Azam M.A. Jinnah. Rahmat Shah Sayel for use of his poems. For help with the translations of tapey from Pashto, thanks to my father’s friends Mr Hamayun Masaud, Mr Muhammad Amjad, Mr Ataurrahman and Mr Usman Ulasyar.
With grateful thanks to: The Jinnah Archive (www.jinnaharchive.com) for the use of selections from the work of Quaid-i-Azam M.A. Jinnah. Rahmat Shah Sayel for use of his poems. For help with the translations of tapey from Pashto, thanks to my father’s friends Mr Hamayun Masaud, Mr Muhammad Amjad, Mr Ataurrahman and Mr Usman Ulasyar.
With grateful thanks to: The Jinnah Archive (www.jinnaharchive.com) for the use of selections from the work of Quaid-i-Azam M.A. Jinnah. Rahmat Shah Sayel for use of his poems. For help with the translations of tapey from Pashto, thanks to my father’s friends Mr Hamayun Masaud, Mr Muhammad Amjad, Mr Ataurrahman and Mr Usman Ulasyar.
With grateful thanks to: The Jinnah Archive (www.jinnaharchive.com) for the use of selections from the work of Quaid-i-Azam M.A. Jinnah. Rahmat Shah Sayel for use of his poems. For help with the translations of tapey from Pashto, thanks to my father’s friends Mr Hamayun Masaud, Mr Muhammad Amjad, Mr Ataurrahman and Mr Usman Ulasyar.
With grateful thanks to: The Jinnah Archive (www.jinnaharchive.com) for the use of selections from the work of Quaid-i-Azam M.A. Jinnah. Rahmat Shah Sayel for use of his poems. For help with the translations of tapey from Pashto, thanks to my father’s friends Mr Hamayun Masaud, Mr Muhammad Amjad, Mr Ataurrahman and Mr Usman Ulasyar.
With grateful thanks to: The Jinnah Archive (www.jinnaharchive.com) for the use of selections from the work of Quaid-i-Azam M.A. Jinnah. Rahmat Shah Sayel for use of his poems. For help with the translations of tapey from Pashto, thanks to my father’s friends Mr Hamayun Masaud, Mr Muhammad Amjad, Mr Ataurrahman and Mr Usman Ulasyar.
With grateful thanks to: The Jinnah Archive (www.jinnaharchive.com) for the use of selections from the work of Quaid-i-Azam M.A. Jinnah. Rahmat Shah Sayel for use of his poems. For help with the translations of tapey from Pashto, thanks to my father’s friends Mr Hamayun Masaud, Mr Muhammad Amjad, Mr Ataurrahman and Mr Usman Ulasyar.
With grateful thanks to: The Jinnah Archive (www.jinnaharchive.com) for the use of selections from the work of Quaid-i-Azam M.A. Jinnah. Rahmat Shah Sayel for use of his poems. For help with the translations of tapey from Pashto, thanks to my father’s friends Mr Hamayun Masaud, Mr Muhammad Amjad, Mr Ataurrahman and Mr Usman Ulasyar.
With grateful thanks to: The Jinnah Archive (www.jinnaharchive.com) for the use of selections from the work of Quaid-i-Azam M.A. Jinnah. Rahmat Shah Sayel for use of his poems. For help with the translations of tapey from Pashto, thanks to my father’s friends Mr Hamayun Masaud, Mr Muhammad Amjad, Mr Ataurrahman and Mr Usman Ulasyar.
Sep 26, 2019 · Chapter 1. An Introduction to the Human Body. 1.0 Introduction. 1.1 How Structure Determines Function. 1.2 Structural Organization of the Human Body. 1.3 Homeostasis. 1.4 Anatomical Terminology. 1.5 Medical Imaging. Chapter 2. The Chemical Level of Organization. 2.0 Introduction. 2.1 Elements and Atoms: The Building Blocks of Matter.
Part One: Before You Begin. Establish your writing space. Assemble your writing tools. Break the project into small pieces. Settle on your BIG idea. Construct your outline. Set a firm writing schedule. Establish a sacred deadline. Embrace procrastination (really!). Eliminate distractions. Conduct your research. Start calling yourself a writer. Th.
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