I know my father cries too.
He cries when I push my hair to the side and he sees the scar on my head,
and he cries when he wakes from an afternoon nap to hear his children's voices in the garden and realises with relief that one of them is still mine.
He knows people say it's his fault that I was shot, that he pushed me to speak up like a tennis dad trying to create a champion, as if I don't have my own mind. It's hard for him.
All he worked for for over almost twenty years has been left behind: the school he built up from nothing, which now has three buildings with 1,100 pupils and seventy teachers.
I know he felt proud at what he had created, a poor boy from that narrow village between the Black and White Mountains.
He says, 'It's as if you planted a tree and nurtured it – you have the right to sit in its shade.'
His dream in life was to have a very big school in Swat providing quality education, to live peacefully and to have democracy in our country.
In Swat he had achieved respect and status in society through his activities and the help he gave people.
He never imagined living abroad and he gets upset when people suggest we wanted to come to the UK.
'A person who has eighteen years of education, a nice life, a family, you throw him out just as you throw a fish out of water for speaking up for girls' education?'
Sometimes he says we have gone from being IDPs to EDPs – externally displaced persons.
Often over meals we talk about home and try to remember things. We miss everything, even the smelly stream.
My father says, 'If I had known this would happen, I would have looked back for a last time just as the Prophet did when he left Mecca to migrate to Medina. He looked back again and again.'
Already some of the things from Swat seem like stories from a distant place, like somewhere I have read about.