The story of Malala is one story that I wish to read over and over again. It inspires those who read it to make a difference in the world, no matter their age. The beginning tells the story of a younger Malala. What her life is like and things of that sort. She is a normal girl, until one day a mysterious voice on the radio changes everything. Suddenly she becomes an activist, who stands up for the right to girls education. Then the Taliban attacks. On a bus ride home, her life changes in an instant. She wakes in a hospital, not sure what happened to her. Her left side doesn’t want to work, and she can’t close her left eye. When she learns what happened to her, she is shocked, but not crushed. She keeps doing what she does, standing up for those that don’t have a voice. She says that though the Taliban tried to silence them, they only made it more known. They pretty much caused their own demise.

Malala is a very selfless girl. For example, when she was in the hospital she worried how her family was going to pay for her treatment instead of how hurt she was. She is also very brave. For example, even after the Taliban shot her, she still spoke for those who don’t have a voice. If everyone was a little less selfish and a little more brave, the world would be a better place.

My legs stay firmly in place, as my eyes stare at the men talking about the days events in politics. My father is among them. I miss my father everyday when he has to leave for the Council of 500. My mother is at home, and I was sent to the agora. The boats come in the harbor, the many faces piling onto the streets. Merchants yell from their stands to buy honey and other goods. I have not been here in ages. The Assembly meets today. My heart tells me to go in but I can’t. My father will be there, as he is every ten days, and I will miss him, just like always. At home, Mother is probably weaving one thing or another to sell at the agora, and my older brother is at school. The slave must be tutoring my younger brother. Mother must be in the same room to supervise the tutoring. Mother is kind to the slave, but the slave is still the slave. My eyes scan the crowd, clutching my few coins to buy a little wine for my mother and father. My eyes thirst for my strong and proud father, for I know the day will come when I will not have the choice, and someone will choose for me. I hope that someone that chooses for me is my father. I wish I was not a girl, though Mother has taught me skills such as how to weave and spin. She also has taught me how to make sure the slaves stay in line. She taught me how to teach my little brother, as I will need to do that with my son once I get married. I know my father is proud of his freedom. My brothers are looking forward to being able to do what my dad does. But I will forever not be able to own land, to always be held accountable for my future children and household. But at the same time, I am glad I live in this wonderfully creative place called Athens.