Malala Yousafzai on a Life-Changing Romance

When Asser informed me he was returning to the UK in July from Pakistan, I was thrilled, albeit not completely surprised. His niece was graduating from medical school, and England was hosting the Cricket World Cup, presenting an excellent chance for him to expand his professional network as a mid-level cricket manager. However, the primary reason for his visit was me. Although he didn’t have to say it, I could sense my intuition was right regarding his feelings this time.

Following that initial phone conversation where I confided in him about my struggles at Oxford—feeling exhausted and dealing with panic attacks—he reached out almost daily. Initially, he checked on my wellbeing, urging me to take my iron supplements and gently chiding me when I confessed to living off french fries for two consecutive days. Our talks soon lengthened, encompassing topics such as our celebrity crushes, childhood aspirations, and even philosophical discussions about the existence of God. Asser stayed updated on all the drama surrounding my friends’ love lives; I learned he had a passion for deejaying during college but abandoned it after witnessing a murder at an illegal rave in Lahore. Unlike most of my friends, I preferred texting over calls, but with Asser, I could chat for hours.

Our bond had evolved beyond friendship, and we both recognized it—he affectionately called me “babe” and complimented my looks in the photos I shared. My lack of dating experience sometimes meant I approached courting a 29-year-old man with the emotional toolkit of a 12-year-old girl. If he texted that he was busy and couldn’t call at our usual time, I would sulk and reply, “you don’t even have time for me. Must not be that important to you.” Occasionally, I would pick fights simply to draw his attention. He found my antics amusing, dubbing me “president of the drama club” and assuring me that he missed me.

“How much time will we have together during your busy summer schedule?” he asked one night, a few weeks before his arrival in London.

“Short trips to Ethiopia and France, and a longer visit to the US in August. However, my calendar has numerous open slots, and they’re all for you! I’m actually more concerned about…”

“Your parents?”

“Yeah. Last year, they didn’t pry too much, but as we see more of each other, they’re bound to ask questions. It could get complicated.”

“What if I write your dad a letter? It could say, ‘Dear Mr. Yousafzai, I hope this message finds you well. You have a daughter who has blossomed into a remarkable and beautiful woman. And…’”

At this, he broke into song, singing, “Le jayenge, Le jayenge, Dilwale Dulhania le jayenge!” This song, “The Brave-Hearted Will Take the Bride,” is a classic Bollywood number about a man making his case to the woman’s father.

Two thoughts crossed my mind simultaneously:

I can’t wait to see him again.

That just might be the worst singing voice ever.

From the moment Asser landed in England, all our memories—last summer’s confused feelings and our recent long phone calls—combined to create the excitement of a budding romance with the familiarity of a long-term relationship. We spent entire days together and would engage in lengthy phone calls the moment we returned home, often talking for hours. During the long drives to London, we enjoyed comfortable silence, content to simply exist side by side while watching the countryside pass by and listening to my security team’s ’90s playlists.

One evening, we dined at a restaurant housed in an old manor in the English countryside. “Excuse me for just a minute,” I said to Asser after the host showed us to our window-side table. I had left my parents’ house wearing a shalwar kameez that passed my mom’s scrutiny but had stashed a change of outfit in my bag—a sleeveless, fitted pink lace dress paired with my highest heels.

Upon my return, Asser straightened up, and an unfamiliar smile broke across his face. He pulled my chair out and whispered, “You’re a total knockout!” in my ear. I buried my face in my dinner napkin, a mix of excitement and shyness flooding through me.

Asser’s arrival chased away the looming dread surrounding my third term at Oxford, but it wasn’t the quintessential carefree summer romance depicted in movies, as I constantly worried about the risk of being caught. On a stroll through London’s Chiswick Gardens one afternoon, I found myself impressing Asser by climbing a tree and daring him to race me to the top. When I jumped down, I grabbed his hand and pulled him close, only to notice a woman on a nearby park bench looking our way. Her face lit up with recognition as she pulled out her phone to take a picture. Alarmed, I ducked behind a hedge, startling both Asser and my security detail.

The following day, I traveled to the airport with my dad to catch a flight to Addis Ababa. I could no longer delay the conversation—I had to tell him about Asser. As he scrolled through the news on his phone, I gazed out the window, mentally rehearsing what I would say while preparing for his reaction. I wished to live in my secret world a little longer, free from judgment and reminders of the risks I was taking. But reality was knocking.

My dad and I relished discussions about politics, world events, feminism—anything under the sun. I typically tried to persuade him of my point of view, and usually, I succeeded. Throughout my life, I felt I could share anything with him; however, I had never experienced love before.

“Dad, you know…it’s tough to find good people…like those who have a good sense of humor and also think I’m funny,” I began. He appeared attentive, striving to grasp my perspective. Ugh, you’re making this more difficult, I thought. Just say it!

“It’s just that…when you meet someone and want to spend more time with them? Well, I guess… I’ve met someone like that. He’s, um, 29…he lives in Lahore but visits England in the summertime to see his sister. He works in cricket, which is great for me.”

My dad nodded slowly, as if all my words until that moment had been fine.

“We…Asser and I…,” I continued. “I like him, Dad. I have feelings for him…romantically.” A wave of nausea washed over me as I forced the admission out, yet my dad stared back at me without blinking.

“I wanted you to know,” I pressed on, “but please, don’t tell Mom. I’m begging you—I’m not ready to face her yet.”

Initially, it seemed he might inquire further. But he restrained himself, gazing straight ahead in silence. Then, to my disbelief, my dad, my lifelong ally, pulled out his phone and called home.

On the other side of the call, I heard my mom reply, “Absolutely not! Does he even speak Pashto? She must marry a Pashtun man!”

“If he’s only here for the summer, we should meet him,” my dad said, his tone firm after hanging up. “However, we won’t announce any engagement until after your graduation.” My irritation mounted as I stared out the window, infuriated with myself for bringing it up, at my dad for calling my mom, at my mom for her narrow-minded views, and at both of them for even mentioning engagements and marriage.

Why are you so focused on marriage? I wanted to shout. Can’t I just live like any other 21-year-olds in college? I already knew the answer: While my parents wouldn’t force me into marriage, they’d never accept me with a boyfriend. No looking, no touching, no dating. Conversations with a man before marriage required parental supervision. Those were the Pashtun standards, and I had already broken every last one.

I scheduled everything down to the minute: Asser would arrive by train at 11:45 a.m., reach my parents’ home by 12 p.m. for lunch, and leave by 1 p.m. to return to London. I figured not much could go awry in an hour.

He arrived with flowers and appeared slightly nervous. I was flustered too, trying to avoid eye contact as I led him to the living room where my brothers, Khushal and Atal, were blasting drill rap and engrossed in video games. Meanwhile, my dad had unintentionally invited seven guests and was outside attempting to manage a barbecue while serving tea and juggling multiple conversations. My mom lounged under a tree in a lawn chair, scrutinizing everyone, especially Asser. She asked him if he knew any Pashto, and although he stumbled through a few phrases, her expression conveyed her lack of enthusiasm. However, she at least acknowledged his attempts. As the situation grew increasingly tense for me, Asser relaxed, engaging my dad and his friends in discussions about grilling techniques, encouraging Khushal with his studies, and even beatboxing alongside Atal.

At exactly 1 p.m., I summoned a car for him and whispered, “I’m so sorry,” as he departed. As soon as he left, a significant weight lifted off my shoulders. I felt relieved to separate my identities—the chaste Pashtun daughter my parents expected and the fun-loving girlfriend Asser knew—back into their respective boxes. But this relief was temporary, quickly overtaken by the urge to dash after his car, hop in, and escape together. I couldn’t fathom how I would endure the upcoming weeks without him.

Before dawn the next day, my parents and I headed to Heathrow and boarded a flight to Boston. They were taking me to see Dr. Tessa Hadlock, a pioneer in facial paralysis treatment at Harvard Medical School. Under her care, I was set to undergo a complex series of surgeries called a cross-facial nerve graft. If successful, I would regain more movement on the left side of my face.

Initially, I was reluctant about the cross-facial nerve graft as it meant weeks spent in hospitals and recovery for three straight summers. My parents, however, were determined to erase the memory of seeing me in the Birmingham hospital with drooping eyes and a paralyzed mouth—squashing the comments from relatives and online trolls about how beautiful I “used to be” before the shooting.

On the plane, I received a message from Asser: Have your mom and dad said anything about us? I replied with the truth. They were concerned. Someone could take a picture, they warned, or word could spread through our circle of friends. They feared a scandal and advised me to cease seeing him. I had no intention of doing that, yet I despised the tension my relationship stirred with my parents.

Wasn’t it their duty to be supportive of my happiness? Typically, I would sit next to my dad on the flight and enjoy long conversations. This time, however, I draped a blanket over my head and slipped into sleep.

Fortunately, the procedure went smoothly. Upon waking, I saw sunlight streaming through the hospital window, and my body relaxed. You made it, I thought to myself.

When I returned to London, I met with Asser at a Cantonese restaurant in the Dorchester hotel for one last dinner before his flight back to Lahore. My face was still quite swollen from the surgery, yet he greeted me with the same smile that had graced his face when I wore my “knockout” dress at the beginning of summer.

For months, we had sidestepped defining our relationship, relishing each other’s company as if nothing needed to change. I had preferred it this way, but being apart from him in recent weeks intensified my feelings. Now, I needed clarity on his thoughts.

Throughout dinner, I awkwardly circled the question, never quite vocalizing it. But he must have sensed my hesitation.

“I’m going to miss you so much when I leave,” he said. “I feel kind of…hollow at the thought of not seeing you each week. You know—because I told you the second time we met—that I’m seeking a long-term relationship….” He hesitated, and my heart raced, unsure of how this conversation would unfold. Was he proposing or breaking things off?

Both options frightened me.

“The truth is, I’d marry you tomorrow, and I hate myself for admitting that. It’s unfair to put that pressure on you. You’re still young. You’re still evolving, still figuring out what you desire in life.”

At that moment, his words struck me as patronizing, yielding a hesitation where I couldn’t easily acknowledge their veracity. “You believe that because I’m young, I’m incapable of knowing how I feel? What insights do you, at 29, possess about love?”

“I contemplate my emotions. Do you genuinely have a great time with her? Can you talk with her for hours? Do you trust her? Do you long to kiss her in the cloakroom at the Dorchester hotel?”

My face turned crimson, and I stumbled over my words. “What about…for now…let’s consider it an open relationship—except for you, of course,” I suggested. Asser burst into laughter loud enough for other diners to glance our way.

“Okay, that was amusing…but it highlights part of the problem. You won’t even label me as your boyfriend. Being someone’s secret is disheartening, especially when I want to celebrate how incredible you are. I would love to take beach vacations with you, filling my phone with pictures of us. I can’t foresee when that might occur.”

“The secrecy is to maintain my parents’ calm. They’re terrified of a scandal.”

He leaned in closer, clasping my hand. “I will continually safeguard your privacy. Forever. Yet, if I’m honest, Malala, I think you’re also keeping it under wraps because you’re uncertain about what you want in life—or with me. That’s perfectly fine! But that feeling doesn’t dissipate as you get older; there are no definitive signs steering us in the right direction. We constantly risk making poor choices or suffering heartbreak. That never changes.”

I fidgeted with my dress’s sleeve, suddenly feeling nervous around him for the first time all summer. “Could we perhaps pause our feelings for now, just until I conclude my studies at Oxford? We can revisit this discussion next June and navigate it together.”

“I’m not entirely convinced feelings operate that way,” he smiled. “But, for you, I’m willing to try.”

We discovered a dimly lit corner of the hotel lobby to bid farewell. As he wrapped his arms around me, I softly uttered, “I love you.” Then he was gone, and summer faded away.

Copyright © 2025 by Malala Yousafzai. From the forthcoming book Finding My Way by Malala Yousafzai, to be published by Atria Books, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, LLC. Printed with permission. Audio excerpt courtesy of Simon & Schuster Audio, a Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. Used with permission from Simon & Schuster, Inc.

In this story: grooming by Craig Taylor; makeup by Kristina Ralph-Andrews; tailor by Jemima Hastings

Produced by artProduction.