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The valley was now off limits, but, just like children, journalists love to do things that are forbidden. So I packed my backpack in a hurry.
I crossed the Atlantic and Africa. I reached the desert, then crossed the Arabian Sea and headed towards the mountains where Malala lived. When I reached my destination I had to disguise myself because the valley had many dangers and nobody could know I was there. M alala was a girl who wanted to go to school, but in the place where she lived that was forbidden. Books could only be read in hiding and there were many dangers on the way to school; unimaginable risks, even the risk of death.
This place is called the Swat valley. The Swat valley is located in a distant country called Pakistan. It has rolling green fields surrounded by gigantic mountains whose peaks the snow paints white almost all year round.
In the summer, when the sun warms the peaks, the snow melts into the Swat River and the river serpentines down the mountains where it meets the Cabul River; the latter comes from a neighboring country called Afghanistan. An ethnic group of warrior people who live along the Hindu Kush mountain range. Their origins are unknown, but some believe they are descendants of one of the ten lost tribes of Israel, yet there is no historical evidence confirming such claim.
Others say they are descendants of Arian mixed with invader peoples. Their lands are so beautiful and fertile that many powerful emperors have tried to conquer it.
The greatest of these emperors was Alexander the Great. The king of kings traveled to the Swat valley in B. C where he challenged the gods that people believed protected the valley, crossed rivers brimming with gavials, conquered the mountains, and fought atrocious battles.
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He was hurt fighting the brave Pashtuns and because of that, admitted he was a regular man and not an immortal god as he used to say. His writings have not resisted the passing of time, but the stories are alive in the legends of the Swat.
Large crocodile that inhabits the Ganges River and whose size can exceed five meters. Genghis Khan, founder of the greatest empire in history, traversed these lands in AD with his warhorses and archers so dexterous they could hit a target from a distance of five hundred meters. This was how he trained his warriors in the mountains and the Pashtuns learned from them.
Other conquerors came, but the Pashtuns were never dominated because they are a fierce and valiant people, the most fierce and valiant of all the fierce and valiant peoples. It was from these people that the girls from Swat inherited their courage. The territory that is now Pakistan used to be a part o f India until its independence in I n a not too distant past, princes and princesses, kings and queens inhabited the Swat, just like the valleys in the fairy tales, except they were real.
I find it curious that kings and queens still exist, real princes and princesses. So, when I arrived in Pakistan the first thing I did was pay the prince of Swat a visit. His name is Miangul Adnan Aurangzeb and he is now an ex-prince, he wears a suit and tie and lives in a house because he does not have a castle anymore. It is a small house for a prince, and if the walls seem to have shrunk, they do however still retain their charm with relics of the times when the Swat valley was a magnificent kingdom.
While we had tea in gold and porcelain cups, he showed me pictures from his childhood and it was like taking a trip back in time. He was a powerful general. At his side, an elegant lady with a precise haircut and a skirt down to her knees sparks my interest. They really are old photographs because today women in Swat cannot show either their legs or hair. In another photo the same lady is seen greeting female students in a school.
That was a time when girls could study in safety. Beside him is a girl in a round dress. Her name was Benazir Bhutto. Have you heard of her? When she grew up, Benazir became the first woman to hold the highest post in a Muslim country: But the same men who persecuted Malala also did not let her be and one day she was not able to escape their claws anymore; Benazir Bhutto was killed in a bombing.
Absorbed in his memories, Adnan runs his delicate fingers because princes have very delicate fingers and well done nails over a photo of his paternal greatgrandfather as if he wanted to caress him. The prince really misses this grandfather of his. He was the wali of the Swat valley. Crowned leader of a region, the equivalent of a king. He was a pacifist and benevolent king; at least that is how the people of the Swat remember him.
He wore socks up to his knees, short trousers, and coke-bottle glasses. However, he did not intend to travel the world, rather he wished to bring the world to Swat.
That was his dream. The castle is called that because it is surrounded by snowy mountains and made of white marble, the same stone used in the construction of the magnificent Taj Mahal.
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It was in the gardens of the White Palace, where the flowers colored the landscape, that Malala and her school friends enjoyed picnicking in the summer. It is a sumptuous monument made of white marble, which the emperor Shah Jahan had built in memory of his favorite wife, Aryumand Banu Begam, whom he called, Mumtaz Mahal Jewel of the palace.
For this reason it is also known as the greatest proof of love in the world. I told the prince that one day, I too met queen Elizabeth. It was when I lived in England, where she lives. The largest in the world! I went there because a Muslim like Malala friend of mine had never been inside a church and was very curious so she asked me to take her. When I visited Egypt, Diana, my friend, took me to the most beautiful mosques of her land, so I returned the favor.
How surprised were we when we saw that the queen was there in person! On the way out I expected to see her leave in a carriage, like she did in the royal parades, but she climbed into her green Jaguar she must really like this color!
Study hard because education is very important for both boys and girls. He was the one who set up the first schools for girls in the valley. But this was before the war, and before girls were forbidden to study. To learn how all this happened, I continued on my travels and headed to the Swat valley.
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In this scenario Malala raises to become the youngest-ever winner of the Nobel Peace Prize. The author describes a region of astonishing beauty, coveted by conquerors like Genghis Khan and Alexander the Great, once inhabited 22 http: She writes mainly about religion, conflicts and human rights, with a special eye on the situation of women. Adriana Carranca worked for 12 years as a reporter-at-large for O Estado de S.
Paulo, a leading newspaper in Brazil, to which she continues to be a weekly contributor. She became an independent journalist last year in order to be able to dedicate more time to her books.
She is currently an International columnist at O Estado de S. Paulo and O Globo. Inshe was nominated for the Jabuti Prize. Bruna has illustrated over 30 books and continues her work in her studio, in Curitiba. He has lived in the USA, Portugal, and France where he has worked as a translator in a variety of projects in the areas of animation, film, literature, art books and catalogues, among others.
I am free to roam from town to town on the watch for the dead. I have few restrictions, so long as I undertake to describe, objectively and concisely, the conditions of the passing of those felled by enemy gunfire or the well-thrown brick, bodies that fall in the kitchen or from cliff faces bodies turned to gas by fire bodies lolling at the bottom of wells, forcing the family to arrange the funeral around the watering hole where the deceased lost its footing.
I have visited towns with the sole purpose of recording their most recent deaths, which sometimes enables me to relate the conditions both before and after the event and bear witness to the simple fact that in the vicinity of death none go unscathed.
When one accompanies the dead, the first thing one notes is the sheer loss they provoke but one will also see what grows in their stead. So that something can derive from death, death must first be recognized and confirmed, granted its irrevocable status.
If left undeclared, nothing can come of it, and the dead will go on, forever and to their lasting disgrace, re-elected to some mandate of the living. Every city or town mentioned herein, even if its founding cadaver lies beyond memory, has had its most recent dead duly certified and confirmed, only then being included in my records. Death leaves remains, and remains are my business. In all of the towns mentioned here, the men and women who suffered disease, disaster, accident, or wilful or unwitting acts of extermination were recognized, at pains, by their family and friends, who set about collecting the morbid remains produced by the dead in order to prepare them for mourning and burial.
That an inconsolable wife should cling to the frame of her lifeless husband, or a daughter wish to accompany her mother into the grave and its supposed eternity I understand and present no impediment.
Every corpse needs its rubber stamp, public guarantee, witness and rite. The first pronouncement of death can be gleaned from the panic-stricken or sorrowful gaze of the living, a desperate modality of recognition and confirmation. I observe and describe dead people, filing them away among a registry of other deaths witnessed by me and confirmed by the communities in which they had lived.
However, if the deceased should fail to turn up for its funeral, should it not be duly wept all the way to the grave, should it not be covered in earth to the monochordic hum of prayer, should it not be spoken of as the deceased at some ceremony held in its memory, I cannot register it. I compile the dead in a long list that, for reasons of my own inaptitude, is not made on the medium of paper.
I am unable to write. The list of all the deaths I have witnessed is oral in nature. I am now eagerly awaiting the consummation of one more passing. A man, the victim of poisoning, is currently in the throes. I assume that this man, shaking and clawing at his belly here before me, will not have time to make supplications or confession, much less obtain the correct address to the place destined for the saved and worthy — if, that is, he merits such salvation.
The pernicious nature of the poison has spread throughout the organs of the body and now devours them. I wager its success will not delay in coming. When the man slumped over, in an envenomed swoon, he was clutching the tablecloth, which he drew with him to the floor, along with a vase of roses.
The vase smashed, sending shards scuttling across the tiles. In the kitchen, his wife stood silent. His daughter lay unmoved on a sofa in the adjacent lounge. Slowly rising from her position on the sofa, the daughter approached the dinner table with a dry cloth, mopped up the spilt water and collected the strewn roses. Somewhat distracted, she trod on some broken glass, acquiring two contiguous cuts on the sole of her foot, and withdrew. The convulsions have ceased. His suffering is evident.
His inner constitution now leaves him in liquid form. Oozing outward, part of the man now gathers in pools. I wait impatiently for the sound of a weeping widow, the arrival of the first funeral wreath, that desperate call to a relative or to the local priest. I cannot yet register this death, nor utter the name of the town in which I find myself. I need some family member to face the corpse, show some sign of recognizing the deceased and attest to his passing.
Someone has to go into incontestable mourning and arrange for the necessary funeral rites. In Monte Santo de Minas, a building has collapsed around its occupants, leaving them with multiple injuries to the thorax and cranium. Faith, when it does not delay death, precipitates it. I have cause for expectation and exasperation, after all, my task of observing and describing deaths will draw to a close with this last record. The house is in darkness, save for a light on in the dining room. Perhaps a funeral for select guests?
Have I dallied too long out of doors and return now to see the daughter console her distraught mother? I enter the living room. He is tied so that he can neither slide nor tumble to the floor, even if his decrepit organism precludes any healthy upright posture. But what strength could C. The ropes that bind the corpse start around the ankles, lashing his feet to the chair legs, and continue all the way up to the waist.
Lengths of rope around his chin and brow keep his head held firm if not exactly high. His arms lie by his side. Has the son done a bound or does he simply prefer to stay alone in his room? Mother, will we be three or four? Will my brother be staying in his room?
Your father always knew when to be understanding. I have not set eyes on the lad since entering this house, and know nothing of his habits.
The women go on serving supper. Is there any juice? And what will father have? Serve him the thigh. The women move around C. Nothing of the sort. I leave the house and wander through the streets. At the closest bakery, the first loaves are laid out on the counter. A small and distinct old fellow sits down and orders corn biscuits to dunk in his coffee. I envy this man, because I know how delicious this breakfast is. I cannot, however, join him in breaking the fast, as I am denied whole foods, having grown used to consuming a particular source of nutrients that is rarely appreciated, consisting wholly of remains.
And besides, I could never give myself over to gluttony without neglecting my core activity, namely the production of concise narratives of the deaths to which I bear witness. The main purpose of my tongue is not to taste, but to render account.
I am made of space uncontained by bodily contours. There is much that I lack, in fact, almost everything, deprived as I am of sufficient matter to make a life one could unite in a single person, identifiable and nameable with precision and certainty.
Either they do not hear me, or pretend not to. I have no distinctive qualities, given my similarity with all that was lost. Microbes know of these routes of contamination and avail of them assiduously. Aware of the fact, man vigilantly polices his relations with the world so that the latter cannot perniciously invade the organism and assail its more sensitive parts.
I have no such capacity to limit the action of the world upon me, nor of myself upon the components of the world. Outside and far away are mere qualities of my extension. My presence is, on one hand, always fleeting, disperse and ebbing, and my contact with men comes only when their calendars reach the hour of their disappearance, of the crossing it is my task to narrate. People, in general, are privileged, because they can bump shoulders in their fortuitous encounters as they scurry about their business in the streets, or can clash voluntarily in contests of virility, or stand naked and exposed for punishment, or lie naked and exposed for coitus.
I envy them, and my envy is hard-working. Though let me declare forthwith that the lack of means caused by my inconsistency is something I fully intend to change. I have planned my reconstitution and the pleasure of being a man, a man in full. My matter is, as yet, far too sparse to contain all the attributes I hope one day to have. But I believe in the fundaments that sustain my morbid book-keeping, the completion of which will coincide with my corporeal success.
I use words to cobble together, from the dead, a body in the likeness of the living. Why, Oh detestable kin, do they not send him off, bury him below ground, let him go? Paradoxically, the means at his disposal in pursuing this end are either immaterial, like language, or shapeless, like his tongue left slavering for remains.
And his attention focuses on the very edge of existence, right there where life is snuffed out: He translates fiction and non-fiction in various fields, including architecture, art, design, fashion, film, history, literature, philosophy, photography, sociology and travel, as well as film scripts and treatments. ALL G entle glides the breeze through the folds of the sprawling city, a stepped horizon of buildings against a dark grey mantle that smears and smites the lower sky and sullies with grime all that it touches.
An invisible claw of air, the outboard engine of inanimate objects, that hooks and moves beings that are not beings, but ghosts and stories, the imaginary forms of fear, the cradle of faith and courage. A breeze that cannot bend the old palm tree, much less the buildings and their men. A breeze that permeates lives, in passing or definitively, a tousle, a tingle, a sigh of relief after hours of sun and exercise. The breeze that lifts a paper airplane, folded out of a torn and scribbled page, and takes it on an uncertain jaunt toward a certain crash, the breeze that blows out the candle, that steels through the chink and rustles the curtain.
She checked her email. It just came to her, and more besides, and made her dally an unplanned moment. Revamping the old dressing-table was supposed to have been a way of revamping the self. Before she knew it she was taking measurements, hiring a carpenter, ordering some crystal mirror from the glazier, buying the mosaic tiles, the PVA glue, DIY magazines. Three kilos in three weeks, three months without putting on any weight, a run three times a week, no sugar in her coffee, whole-wheat bread, dry pasta, lettuce, carrots, carrots and more carrots.
At that hour he was probably in his rented five-suite apartment overlooking Ibirapuera Park watching one of those UFF fights he liked so much while his wife, a former miss-something, put one of their kids to bed, one of those kids she was fortunate enough not to have borne him.
The purple bruise had turned black, and the black had yellowed and the yellow had finally disappeared. Now the dress, which Neuza had rescued from several visits to Oxfam, really did sit well, and it was a cut that was back in fashion. To wear it for eyes other than his gave her enormous pleasure. Of course she would not have worn it had she known that, the following morning, when Ricardo left her home, there would be blood spattered on the waistline and hem.
And that that blood, even after it had been washed off at the laundromat, would always be there, a living stain visible in the light that lingers behind closed eyelids. This time Neuza would not be able to talk her out of dumping it at some church bazaar or other, where it would be sold on for a tenth of the original price.
Little could he know that she had carried that tip with her ever since, and used it every time she needed to return to the world the airy anguish it had seeded in her.
Ella lo ve como un hijo, y en ocasiones, lo trata mejor que a sus propios hijos. Similarmente, los chicos Weasley generalmente tratan a Harry como un hermano, y el Sr. Tiende a seguir sus instintos, determinado en quien puede o no confiar. De hecho, ella parece haberlo hecho, pues su timidez hacia Harry desaparece.
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Interpersonales Una de las grandes fortalezas de Harry, es su habilidad de amar a otros, a pesar de los terribles sucesos de su vida. Es capaz de comunicarse con las serpientes, un arte asociado con Magos Oscuros, heredado por los descendientes de Salazar Slytherin. Harry es excelente al montar una escoba.
Harry puede superar volando a cualquiera en la escuela, incluso impresionando al jugador profesional de Quidditch Viktor Krum. Sin embargo, estos momentos no son muchos y duran poco tiempo. En medio de su ira, puede herir gravemente a un enemigo sin desearlo conscientemente como por ejemplo al utilizar el Sectumsempra.
En cuanto a su potencial, no es un buen estudiante. Harry tiene dificultades para ejecutar conscientemente magia no-verbal. De manera similar, tiene dificultades con la magia sin varita. Harry no puede bloquear hechizos de manera no-verbal aunque ejecuta exitosamente el encantamiento escudo, Protego, a viva voz. Muchos de los enemigos de Harry, incluyendo a Snape y a Voldemort, pueden hacerlo perfectamente. Sin embargo, pudo ser que Snape utilizara la Legeremancia para anticipar los hechizos que Harry intentaba utilizar.
Tampoco significa que no sea capaz de hacerlo, sino que simplemente no lo ha hecho hasta ahora. Mientras que Dumbledore utiliza su sensibilidad hacia la magia para explorar la cueva, Harry parece ser insensible a su presencia, aunque pudo haber percibido un poco de magia dentro de la cueva. Sin embargo, los instructores correspondientes son en parte responsables de esto. En la clase de Pociones y en cualquier otro lugarel profesor Snape constantemente antagoniza e insulta a Harry.
Datos clave sobre Harry Potter. James Potter y Lily Evans. Se desconoce si aparecieron mas habilidades tras convertirse en Auror. Su Patronus es un ciervo.
La Varita de Sauco, aunque decide no usarla. Famoso por derrotar al mago tenebroso Lord Voldemort en y por matarlo en Recuerdo cuando era un mozalbete: No se puede hacer eso con los aros.
A mi padre y a mi nos gustaba ver a los guardianes aplastados. Se cree que se debe al trabajo de oscuros magos y brujas desconocidos. Los gnomos de Gringotts insisten en que no se han llevado nada. Rubeus Hagrid, que admite que fue expulsado de Hogwarts cuando cursaba tercero, ha ocupado el puesto de guardabosque del colegio desde entonces, un trabajo en el que Dumbledore lo ha puesto de forma fija.
Por si esto no fuera bastante, El Profeta ha des cubierto recientemente que Hagrid no es, como ha pretendido siempre, un mago de sangre limpia. De hecho, ni siquiera es enteramente humano. Su ma dre, revelamos en exclusiva, no es otra que la gi ganta Fridwulfa, que en la actualidad se halla en paradero desconocido.
Los pocos que sobrevivieron se unieron a las filas de El-que-no-debe-ser-nombrado, y fueron respon sables de algunas de las peores matanzas de mug gles que tuvieron lugar durante su reinado de terror.
En tanto que muchos de los gigantes que sirvie ron a El-que-no-debe-ser-nombrado cayeron aba tidos por aurores que luchaban contra las fuerzas oscuras, Fridwulfa no se hallaba entre ellos. Pero lo taparon todo. Pensamos que es probable que estos individuos, que incluyen a Black primo, Bellatrix Lestrange, se han reunido alrededor de Black, su jefe. Especial Profeta Dominical sobre el regreso de Voldemort Primera plana: Aparte de eso, Dumbledore se negaba a hablar del triste asunto, aunque muchos trataron de que lo hiciera.
Cuando Albus y yo dejamos Hogwarts planeamos hacer juntos la, entonces tradicional, vuelta al mundo, para observar a magos extranjeros antes de proseguir con nuestras respectivas carreras. Sin embargo la tragedia intervino.