I describe life in England to Moniba.
I tell her of the streets with rows of identical houses,
unlike home, where everything is different and higgledy-piggledy and a shack of mud and stones can stand next to a house as big as a castle.
I tell her how they are lovely solid houses which could withstand floods and earthquakes but have no flat roofs to play on.
I tell her I like England because people follow rules, they respect policemen and everything happens on time.
The government is in charge and no one needs to know the name of the army chief.
I see women having jobs we couldn't imagine in Swat.
They are police and security guards; they run big companies and dress exactly as they like.
I don't often think about the shooting, though every day when I look in the mirror it is a reminder.
The nerve operation has done as much as it can.
I will never be exactly the same.
I can't blink fully and my left eye closes a lot when I speak.
My father's friend Hidayatullah told him we should be proud of my eye.
'It's the beauty of her sacrifice,' he said.