We visited the Lok Virsa museum, and it was a joy to celebrate our national heritage once again.
Our own museum in Swat had closed.
On the steps outside an old man was selling popcorn.
He was a Pashtun like us, and when my father asked if he was from Islamabad he replied, 'Do you think Islamabad can ever belong to us Pashtuns?'
He said he came from Mohmand, one of the tribal areas, but had to flee because of a military operation.
I saw tears in my parents' eyes.
Lots of buildings were surrounded by concrete blocks, and there were checkpoints for incoming vehicles to guard against suicide bombs.
When our bus hit a pothole on the way back my brother Khushal, who had been asleep, jerked awake.
'Was that a bomb blast?' he asked.
This was the fear that filled our daily lives.
Any small disturbance or noise could be a bomb or gunfire.
On our short trips we forgot our troubles in Swat.
But we returned to the threats and danger as we entered our valley once again.
Even so, Swat was our home and we were not ready to leave it.
Back in Mingora the first thing I saw when I opened my wardrobe was my uniform, school bag and geometry set. I felt so sad.
The visit to Islamabad had been a lovely break, but this was my reality now.