What we learned when we met Malala Yousafzai

While travelling through the Swat Valley in 2010, we interviewed the young school girl standing up to the Taliban.

We don't expect to switch on the news and see that someone we know has been shot, though this was our experience when we saw the face of young Malala Yousafzai on the television. During 2010, we had been to Pakistan to create a book that uncovered the difficulties of being a woman in Pakistan. We met and interviewed over 150 women and were fortunate that one was a fiery young girl named Malala.

While staying in Peshawar we heard about a school girl from the Swat Valley who was standing up to the Taliban and promoting education for women. This is an area of the world where women rarely walk the streets, definitely not alone and never uncovered. And as Malala's example shows, there is a genuine threat to your life if you dare to step outside the strict social fabric.

We left for Swat with some trepidation and against the advice of our local friends. Although the Taliban were officially ousted by the government, it was still an area known for extremist views and occasional lawless violence. It was supposedly safe but still foreigners were not allowed in. We took our chances; “let’s go and see for ourselves” was our policy. We went through the checkpoints without any fuss, almost too easily. We were left questioning how effective the military crackdown actually was.

As the mountain roads turned from tarmac to dust we passed by Buddhist relics, a reminder of Swat’s more enlightened times. Tragically many of the Stupas had been vandalised or destroyed by those determined to erase any non-Muslim aspect of Pakistan’s history. As we crossed the final mountain we were afforded a spectacular view of the valley, justifying its reputation for being a popular holiday destination. Only now it had the air of a dilapidated English seaside town; lots of hotels but no tourists.

We arrived in Mingora and were met by Malala's father Ziauddin Yousafzai, who unlike many Pakistani men, wasn’t in a hurry to talk about himself but preferred to give the centre stage to his daughter. On first appearances an ordinary twelve-year-old girl but when she spoke there was an aura of confidence that only comes from speaking the truth.

We asked Malala about life under Taliban rule and she replied that it was like being in the Stone Age, "everyone was afraid of the Taliban, a child or a young man, because they were so cruel, they just cut peoples’ throats or left them hanging in the square." The Taliban used the radio to spread their ideas, to appeal for money and canvas for new members. They took over the airwaves, imposed Sharia law onto the area and banned girls from attending school. They said any girl caught going to school would be kidnapped and married off to one of their young talibs.

Malala and her class had been the centre of resistance to the Taliban. This group of young girls lead by Malala were horrified at the idea of giving up their education at such a young age. While others were so traumatised by the violence they had witnessed that they stopped attending, Malala’s group continued schooling in secret. They were so afraid of being stopped and questioned by the Taliban, that they had to make their way to school wearing plain clothes and hiding their books.

We were taken to the school where the students gave a stiff formal greeting before giving way to fits of shy giggles. There we talked to the girls about their experiences under Taliban rule and Malala gave an impassioned speech about the importance of education for women.

Painted on her wrist was a small Pakistani flag and it became clear to us that this girl was speaking from a place filled with nothing but love for her country. She says that before the Taliban she wanted to be a doctor, but after witnessing the ineffectual nature of her country’s politicians, she now wants to become a spokeswoman for her nation.

As a child, she would have been excused for giving up on such a dream once the imminent danger had passed. Despite the disappearance of media interest in the Swat Valley, Malala has continued to promote freedom as proven by her National Peace Award.

Malala’s father is her inspiration. Throughout Taliban rule he also worked tirelessly, a lone voice promoting equality and education for women. He is an example of conviction and bravery, qualities that have been adopted by his daughter. She would make most fathers proud but these aren’t ordinary circumstances.  It is worth questioning the wisdom behind encouraging Malala to speak openly against the Taliban. Though it is disheartening to think that the only way to have avoided this devastating act, would have been to silence a young girl brave enough to carry the hopes of every woman in her country.

When Malala Yousafai spoke "there was an aura of confidence that only comes from speaking the truth." Photograph: Geoff Brokate and Kaye Martindale.
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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad