Exactly two years ago, terrorists tried to take Malala Yousafzai's life. Instead, they created a global powerhouse fighting on behalf of girls everywhere. In a Glamour exclusive, Genevieve Roth traveled with the 17-year-old activist to Nigeria—and saw her in action.__
Update: Malala wins the Nobel Peace Prize »
It's a few hours past sunset on a July night in Abuja, Nigeria, and the last plane out of the country for the day is about to take off. The terminal is empty except for a small group huddled on a row of seats; in the center, a negotiator talks quickly into an iPhone.
The conversation is tense: Nearly four months after their capture, the more than 200 girls who were abducted by the terrorist group Boko Haram in northern Nigeria have not returned home. The Nigerian government has concluded its investigation, and what was once an issue of international outrage has been creeping off the front pages and into obscurity. Nobody has #BroughtBackOurGirls, and increasingly, it's not looking as if anybody is going to; despite pleas from the global community, Nigeria's president, Goodluck Jonathan, has yet to meet with the families of the kidnapped. A few hours ago, it seemed there was finally cause for optimism—the negotiator huddled over the phone had convinced President Jonathan to meet with the girls' families. But now that meeting has been called off. The group is about to board the plane, and days' worth of diplomacy hangs in the balance.
Shortly after the call this sit-down will be reinstated. A week after that the Nigerian president will greet the families and offer the condolences and support they have been waiting months to receive. It's not everything, but it's something; in fact, it's more of a something than these families have had in a long time.
The broker behind it all? Not U.S. Secretary of State John Kerry. Not British Prime Minister David Cameron. Not even celebrity-diplomat-in-chief Angelina Jolie. This was the doing of a 17-year-old girl who loves magic tricks and milk chocolate, and who isn't even old enough to own the phone she did the negotiating on.
This was the work of Malala Yousafzai.
It's been two years since a member of the Taliban climbed aboard a Pakistani school bus looking for the young woman who'd been speaking out for the right of girls to go to school; two years since he identified her and fired a Colt .45 at her head. But today the scene at the airport makes clear that Malala is recovered, renowned—and on a mission.
On most days of the week, Malala is like 17-year-old girls all over the world: She attends classes, does homework, giggles with friends, and torments her two younger brothers. On other days Malala's life looks nothing like that of a normal teenager. She has emerged as a voice for peace in an increasingly chaotic world. She has become the kind of person—the only person, it seems—who can get a stubborn president to agree to a meeting that others have been suggesting for months. ("People tend to take her phone call," says Malala Fund CEO and cofounder Shiza Shahid. The teen has been known to Skype with United Nations Secretary-General Ban Ki-moon and chat with Sheryl Sandberg; last year Beyoncé wished her a happy birthday.)
This kind of power is a hefty responsibility for a 17-year-old, and it's one that Malala takes seriously: "These [Nigerian] girls need our support," she says. "I want to be there for them. I want to be anywhere in the world these things are happening." But it can also prove worrisome for those who love her most. When Malala survived the attack, Shahid thought it might be the end of her advocacy. "I thought, This had gone too far," she recalls. But then Malala started to recover. "Right away she said, 'I want my books. I need to go home and take my exams,' " says Shahid. "So then it was, OK, this is who you are, let me help you do this the right way." And the right way means letting her be a child and an activist. Her father, Ziaud- din Yousafzai, a teacher and longtime advocate for girls' education, appreciates the moments his daughter has out of the spotlight. "I personally am very comfortable when she leads a normal life," he says. "Too much light on her disturbs me."
Indeed, Malala's ever-growing visibility has also made her a target. "Malala is feared in places where there are outmoded beliefs for women and girls," says U.S. Ambassador to the United Nations Samantha Power. Malala herself has no qualms ("If someone wants to target you," she says, "they can do it anywhere—there have been many presidents killed in America, and they were the president!"), but she must be careful, particularly in regions where her ideas about girls and education are considered radical. For this reason her trip to Nigeria was planned in total secrecy (and during school holidays, so she didn't have to miss class). Up until the moment she got on the plane in Birmingham, England, messages from Nigerian officials and the United Nations kept coming: Are you sure this is a trip you need to be taking? Can't you meet the girls by Skype? Nothing swayed Malala. "When I thought about my sisters in Nigeria, I thought, They need our support right now. It's an emergency."
Just across the street from the Transcorp Hilton hotel in Abuja, the Nigerian capital, the #BringBackOurGirls protesters are chanting: "Bring back our girls, now and alive." Inside the hotel, in a conference room, Malala sits with the families of the missing girls. Each party has traveled more than 14 hours to be here (Malala on an economy flight from England, the families on a bumpy overland bus across the countryside) to meet and share their stories. Eleven fathers and one mother sit in a circle with Malala, her father, and Shahid. One by one the parents recite their daughters' names and ages. A tall man in a yellow tunic struggles to get the words out, saying just the first half of his daughter's name before collapsing into sobs. Malala's father joins him. "This pain that you are suffering," he says, "for Malala's mother and I, it was very much like this." And soon the whole room is in tears. It is a gut-wrenching reminder: While we are safely in this hotel, more than 200 girls, taken while sleeping in their school dormitory, are now God knows where, undergoing God knows what.
Malala is the only one who does know—she too was attacked for going to school; when she first awoke in the hospital, she was in another country without her family. "I feel the situation they are going through," she says. "I know what it's like when you are all alone and you are with these crazy men with guns." She reassures the parents, "This is my first trip to Nigeria, but it will not be my last. I will support my sisters until they come home."
Some fortunate girls from the Government Girls Secondary School in Chibok, Nigeria, have returned, and Malala sits with five of them next. These girls escaped Boko Haram by jumping off a truck in the middle of the night. They spent a night in the forest, crawling their way back to their village. Malala is comfortable with them; she lives in a world full of adults—many famous—but she gravitates toward the youngest person in the room. "Malala always wants to connect with the girls herself," says Tara Abrahams, president of the education advocacy group Girl Rising. "She has a relatability. The girls see themselves in her, and she sees herself in them."
Like Malala, the escaped Nigerian girls must make a life in the wake of all of the terror they survived, and Malala hopes to help them start. "I want us to be friends," she says. "Please, let's talk to each other." The five girls—ages 16 to 18—are extremely shy, but Malala encourages them. "I believe your voices are more powerful than any weapon," she says. She tells them they should tell her the truth without fear. Slowly the girls open up; one describes in detail the way she injured her leg when she jumped off the truck, the pain she still feels. They are girls with dreams: They want to be doctors, fashion designers, teachers. They love Nigeria, their families, and selfies; they are not ready to be married. "But we are scared," they say, "that we will never catch up on our schooling. We have been out so long." They live in constant fear that the terrorists will come back and kill them or that the parents of those girls who are still captive will never forgive them. This same day Boko Haram will release a film mocking the efforts of the #Bring BackOurGirls campaign, chanting, "Bring back our army." If these men have plans to send the daughters home, it's not evident in this video. These are the girls Malala is fighting for.
The next day Malala relays what she learned from the families and the girls to President Goodluck Jonathan. "I have never seen her like this before," says her father. "She was very blunt, saying, 'Mr. Jonathan, you are the elected president of this country, and it's your mandate that you protect these citizens.' " Afterward, at a press conference, eager reporters pepper her with questions more suited for a foreign ambassador, but Malala is undaunted. "This is the promise the president made," she says. "I will be counting days and I will be watching."
It's safe to say that this is not how her classmates are spending their summer vacation.
__Next: Malala's life in Birmingham, England » [#image: /photos/56959a6816d0dc3747ec9a0d]|||Part-Time Peace Activist, Full-Time Big Sister: On a recent trip to Jordan, Malala met with Syrian refugees, including many children who had been forced into child labor. "They would stand by the side of the road and wait for someone to hire them," she said. |||
The family's home in Birmingham sits in stark relief to the nervy Nigerian capital Malala just left. The town is quiet and organized, and she is generally given space, a welcome change compared to the frenzy that awaited her just after her attack. "The press went crazy," says Shahid, who has known the family since 2009. "Reporters were camped out at the hospital. People were raising money in her name. A journalist came to me, day three after Malala's shooting, when she was still very, very, very critical, and said, 'Do you know if they'd write a book?' I was in horror. I just said, 'How about we make sure she survives first?' "
While Malala recovered in the hospital, her family had to make some big decisions: They wished first for her recovery and then for some sense of safety. But the media storm made it clear that she would never again live in relative anonymity. They plotted a course to help Malala raise her voice responsibly, when she was ready. Shahid brought in a pro bono publicist to keep the press at bay and created a fund as a holding place for the donations pouring in. "I think we all secretly hoped that she would just want to go to school somewhere safe and be normal," says Shahid. "But we knew better."
Those plans proved wise, because Malala has big dreams. "I want to work everywhere in the world," she says. The Malala Fund is now a fully functioning nonprofit that, in addition to promoting the cause of girls' education, has already raised millions—including more than $50,000 from Glamour readers and supporters—to directly benefit girls. Its first grant? To support the education of 40 students—ages five to 12—in Malala's native Swat Valley. The Fund has also partnered with Free the Children in Kenya, has aided Syrian refugees in Jordan, and plans to quadruple the amount of money it's donated so far by the end of 2014. In addition to Shahid it has a highly influential team, including executives and advisers from Google, McKinsey & Company, and CNN. ("The funny thing is, I'm not even allowed to be on the board of the Malala Fund because I'm not 18!" Malala says.) This structure allows Malala to stay in school and advance her goals. It's working. Says Ambassador Power, "Today Malala is [a symbol] everywhere that girls do not have the same access to education as boys." Adds Abrahams, "She does things in these countries, in a way that only she can."
And no part of the world intimidates Malala. While prepping for her speech in Nigeria, she struggled with how to discuss recent fighting in the Middle East. At one point she looked up at her dad and said, "Father, I think we need to go to Gaza."
Ziauddin Yousafzai is proud of Malala's courage and shares her devotion to the cause of girls, but he is happiest when she focuses her time on Birmingham and the life they have worked to create for her there. "Our life in Pakistan was a life we chose. This life has been thrust upon us," he says. "I want her to be in school, to do her homework, and to rest. The world's demand for her on every global stage, it's very difficult."
On a trip to Trinidad, where she met with the education minister, her brothers came along, including 10-year-old Atul. "They are fine brothers," she says. "Until you have spent two or three hours with them!"
Malala misses her home country too. "I want to go there, I want to be with my friends. I just miss everything," she says. "At home I was in the same class for 10 years. I had this friend, Moniba, since we were born. We could fight, we could make up. I could tell her every single thing and she would never judge me." In Birmingham, Malala and her family share a modern house in a residential part of the city where they have yet to meet most of the people who live nearby. "Here you live on a street and you have neighbors, but you don't see them for months or years," says Malala. "In our country, in the street, everyone knows each other. You can go to each other's houses. You can ask, 'Can I borrow two tomatoes or two onions?' The children play all the time and there is always this noise everywhere, and you enjoy the noise." In England Malala attends an all-girls school with a rigorous academic program. She wears the same uniform as every other girl, gets the same homework assignments. School administrators have worked hard to help Malala assimilate, but they also treat her like a normal student and make little accommodation for the sometimes-harried schedule of a global peace advocate.
Her family tries to apply similar restrictions on her Malala Fund activities: Malala travels only on weekends and holidays. During the school year she has one Fund-related call a week, but that's it. "When I go to school, I'm not the same girl that you see on TV. I become a little different. I'm quiet. I feel a bit that I have to be a good kind of girl—I'm [seen as] the famous girl Malala, shot by the Taliban. The image of that is of a good girl," she says. "They are not expecting me to be a kind of cheeky girl. But I am, a little bit."
Still, Malala feels increasingly comfortable in her new country. "I have made so many friends now, and I think next year will be perfect," she says. When classes start in the fall, the Nobel Peace Prize nominee will participate in—get this—a community service program. She's decided to team up with her new best friend, who's helping homeless cats. "I don't trust cats!" she says with a laugh. "But my best friend, she loves them."
It's nice to hear her talk of something so relatively benign, but for Malala, this contrast is business as usual. "I live in two worlds. My role changes depending on where I am," she says. "So when I am in school, there's homework, I raise my hand, I ask questions. And then I have everything else."
And "everything else" includes celebrating her seventeenth birthday in Nigeria. In the speech she gave that day, she said she didn't want cake or presents in celebration (blessedly, she still got both) but rather the safe return of her "sisters" still held by terrorists. At press time, that wish hadn't yet been granted; more kidnappings continue. But Malala's faith holds strong. "When I was attacked, I came into this new life," she says. "I said one thing to myself, and that was this life was going to be sacred for me, and I am not going to use it for enjoyment but for a purpose. I am going to work for education, and I am going to spend my whole life doing it."
Malala Yousafzai was a 2013 Glamour Woman of the Year. To donate to the Malala Fund, go to malalafund.org. Genevieve Roth is Glamour's special projects director.
