When we think of the regular, ordinary Afghan people killed and crippled by the U.S.-fueled avalanche of year-after-year war, who do we think of? One person I think of is Malala Yousafzai. I know she’s Pakistani, but she’s also Pashtun, a people who straddle both countries and who, like indigenous people everywhere, have never been welcomed into the states that rose up around them. In I Am Malala, Yousafzai demonstrates a nuanced, principled, deeply wise understanding of history, of self-respect, of love for humanity, of love for justice. Her father shows a deeper commitment to true feminism and fatherhood than the vast majority of Westerners who never have to grapple with how to try to save one’s country and one’s daughter at the same time, knowing most likely an early death awaits. Miraculously, neither Malala nor anyone else in her family were killed before they tragically left their homeland following the attempted assassination of Malala. She wasn’t overly impressed with Obama when he invited her to the White House; she looked in his eyes and told him his drones only fuel terrorism, spread devastation, and abandon girls who want education. She is extraordinary, but there are many others like her, too, children and adults, in Afghanistan and Pakistan and everywhere else U.S. drones drop their bundles of terror.