When I arrived in Birmingham for spring break, I told my dad we needed to go to Pakistan. If my college friends could visit the country on their holidays, I should have that right as well. I was growing impatient; it felt like if it didn’t happen now, it never would. I had waited long enough.

“Let’s put it off until summer,” he said.

“If you want to wait, that’s fine. I’ll go on my own,” I shot back, with a dare in my voice. “I will book my own flight, leave this house in a cab, and call Moniba when I land to pick me up.” Deep down, I knew I wasn’t that bold, but I wasn’t sure my dad knew it – and that might give me some leverage.

We’d had this conversation dozens of times over the years. Whenever I asked my dad to book the trip, he reached out to the Pakistani government, who had to give their permission for me to visit. They wanted to be sure they could protect me – and that my presence wouldn’t disrupt the country or stir up controversy.

Every time, the same answer came back to us: “It’s not the right moment for Malala’s return.” My dad had heard it so often that I worried he was giving up. “It will never be the ‘right’ moment!” I railed, trying to infect him with my indignation. “I am a Pakistani citizen with a valid passport. I have committed no crime. And they have no grounds to stop me.”

I sounded angry, but inside, my heart was breaking. At 24 Obs, I’d had more experiences that reminded me of home – food, music, sports, language – in a few weeks than I’d had in the past five years. And now that reawakening felt painful, like blood rushing back into numbed limbs. I was done with stalking my old friends on Facebook, done with walking the streets on Google Maps. I couldn’t keep dreaming of home at night and waking up disoriented every morning.

I don’t know what my dad said, or if he channelled the righteous outrage that I felt, but the prime minister and the army chief agreed to a visit. Their approval came with some conditions: The trip would last four days, and they would oversee the itinerary. But we were going home.

I could barely believe it. My heart, so accustomed to yearning, struggled to catch up. I tried to temper my excitement in case the trip got cancelled, filling pages of my diary with Let’s see what happens! Stay positive! Fingers crossed!

My parents threw themselves into preparations – Mom selected my clothes for the trip, and Dad made plans to see his many friends and family members. My 17-year-old brother Khushal was apprehensive, though. In the two weeks leading up to our trip, he had terrible dreams. Some nights he didn’t sleep at all, just paced around the house, checking and rechecking the locks on the ground-floor doors and windows. “I already have bodyguards,” I told him gently. “Just be my brother, that’s enough.”

On the flight, my excitement unexpectedly curdled into anxiety. I fell asleep and dreamed of standing on the side of a dusty road, waving as my family boarded a bus and rode away. Then I watched the bus speed into a turn and careen over the side of a cliff. One nightmare rolled into another. I was in a wheelchair, surrounded by men in dark suits. They pushed me onto a stage and told me to make a speech. A man in the audience stood up, took out a gun, and shot me. My subconscious was scrambling my worst fears – losing my family, being attacked, never feeling safe in the world.

I woke up sweating as the plane descended into Islamabad. In the seat across the aisle, my dad closed his eyes and cupped his hands in front of his face in prayer. Was he thanking God for returning him to his homeland or asking for protection? Probably both.

In the airport, I didn’t feel the exhilaration I had imagined I would. Instead, I examined every face for signs of trouble – the woman who inspected our passports, the men pushing carts of luggage, families of the other passengers waiting in the lobby. What do they think of me? Have they seen the conspiracy theories on the internet? Are they happy I’m here or wishing I’d stayed away? My legs were unsteady as we walked through the airport, like they wanted to break free and run.

Military personnel showed us to our cars, one for me and my parents, another for my brothers. As I sat in the backseat, waiting for the convoy to pull away, a dark thought overcame me: If someone tries to kill me again, am I going to freeze? Will I know how to save myself? Outside, someone shouted, and I gripped my dad’s hand. My fears were not unfounded: As he started the car, our driver turned around and said, “If we suddenly stop, duck down as low as you can.” I texted his instructions to Khushal and told him to look out for Atal. Duck down, I whispered to myself over and over.

The sky turned from black to pale blue on the 30-minute drive. We reached the hotel just before dawn. As news of my arrival was already spreading across TV and social media, the hotel managers wanted to hurry us into our rooms. They worried about journalists swarming the lobby, disturbing the guests and creating a security risk.

As they whisked us toward the elevator, I caught a glimpse of the hotel’s walled garden. “I’d like to go out there for a moment,” I said. My parents started to protest, but I held up my hands. “Please,” I said. “I promise not to wander too far or stay too long. I just want to watch the sunrise on my own.”

Outside, I stepped onto a stone path lined with Madagascar periwinkles. Thick clusters of jasmine sat atop the garden walls, spilling their vines toward the ground below. There were apple blossom trees, spiky silver palms, and shades of green I had not seen in years. I took off my shoes, sat down, and sank my hands into the grass. You are one of us, the flowers and trees seemed to whisper. Your skin was made to sit under this sun, your lungs were made to breathe the warm air. As the sky changed from pink to gold, I felt at peace, grateful. When I stood up, my legs were strong again. I was determined not to waste another moment of the trip in fear.

Excerpted with permission from Finding My Way, Malala Yousafzai, W&N.

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