Lily Raya

When a girl says, “One child, one teacher, one book, one pen can change the world,” we nod politely—until that child gets shot in the head for saying it. Then the quote hits differently.

This book is not just a memoir—it's a case study in moral courage and global misalignment. Malala Yousafzai is not a saint, a superhero, or a flawless icon. She's a sharp teenager from a conflict zone who knew how to observe, speak, and persist.

This isn't a book about victimhood. It's about structural power, and what happens when one individual challenges it. Malala's story is personal, yes—but more importantly, it reveals the broader systems at play: patriarchal norms, religious distortion, political negligence, and global hypocrisy.

Her father, Ziauddin, runs parallel to the narrative—not as a side character, but as an architect of her values. He built schools, yes—but more crucially, he normalized resistance. He raised his daughter in a home where speaking out was not only allowed but expected. That's rare anywhere in the world.

Some may say the book was ghostwritten, or filtered. Sure. That doesn't reduce its impact. It's still her story. And stories like this don't survive unless someone chooses to listen.

I didn't expect to be changed. But I did start seeing education less as a system, and more as a force.
One that threatens regimes. One that frees minds. One that starts quietly, then echoes.

This book won't make you feel good. But it might make you aware. And that's a start.

It forces a hard question: what's your excuse? If a schoolgirl under threat of death still shows up to speak, what are you doing with your platform, safety, or privilege?

This isn't a perfect book, but it doesn't need to be. Its purpose isn't literary—it's ethical. It demands the reader consider how fragile access to education truly is, and how radical the act of learning can be under oppression.

I'd recommend this not for emotional inspiration, but for civic recalibration. Especially for teens and young adults who mistake schooling as a burden rather than a right that many still fight for.

This is not your average “12 steps to happiness” guide. It's a dense, heady cocktail of psychoanalysis, mythology, theology, political commentary, and deeply personal reflection — shaken, not stirred. Jordan B. Peterson isn't here to make you feel good. He's here to make you think, and possibly spiral.

The book is part advice, part manifesto, part philosophical excavation. It attempts to answer the chaos of modern life by digging into old stories — biblical myths, evolutionary theory, psychology, and his own life. He casts a wide net. Too wide, maybe. There are moments of genuine insight, but also long detours where the point gets buried under metaphor and repetition.

The structure is deceiving. “12 rules” sounds digestible. But each rule is a 30-page essay that veers from childhood trauma to lobsters to Cain and Abel. He doesn't simplify — he expands. You get the sense that Peterson isn't writing to be understood easily. He's writing to process his own thoughts out loud.
That's not necessarily a flaw — but it makes the book inconsistent. Some chapters land with clarity. Others spiral.

One thing I'll admit: after reading (and listening — the audiobook is narrated by him), his voice stayed in my head for days. I saw the world through his filter. It was intense. Almost too much. I still find his voice echoing in my internal monologue, applying stern analysis to everything from my posture to my breakfast choices. if you've heard him speak before, you'll find it impossible not to read his book in his voice.

Final thought? This book isn't a life-changer. But it can be a perspective-checker. There's truth here. But it demands energy. Attention. And a tolerance for discomfort. It's not just about personal development; it's a confrontation with the chaos inside and outside yourself.


If you're in a place of confusion or resentment, it might push you to reflect. If you're already clear-headed, it might feel like overkill.Not a must-read for everyone. But if you do pick it up, take what works. Leave the rest.

“I was resolved to bring to light a single, all-encompassing fact: that my government had developed and deployed a global system of mass surveillance without the knowledge or consent of its citizenry.”

Snowden doesn't dramatize. He explains. Carefully, precisely, and with the calm of someone who has nothing left to prove—only something urgent to document. He writes not like a fugitive, but like an engineer: exacting, recursive, unsentimental.

He doesn't just talk about surveillance as a political issue—it's a technical reality, a structural flaw baked into modern systems. And he doesn't pretend he's above it all. He takes responsibility. He quit his job, left his country, and lost everything—just to tell the public what was really going on.

What makes this book compelling isn't the exposure of surveillance itself—most readers already know, or suspect, the basic mechanics. What matters is how he frames complicity: his own, and ours.

Snowden doesn't exempt himself. He admits he helped build the very infrastructure he later dismantled. That contradiction gives the memoir its moral weight.

I found the early chapters—his childhood online, his obsession with the Internet, the formative belief in its freedom—more valuable than the political disclosures.

“The Web became my jungle gym, my treehouse, my fortress, my classroom without walls.”
That's not nostalgia. It's context. If you didn't grow up inside the machine, you won't understand what it means to watch it become a weapon.

Citizenfour

Snowden

Imagine being stranded on Mars with no one to talk to but yourself, NASA's email server, and a bag of potatoes. Now imagine being smart enough to survive it—and sarcastic enough to make it hilarious. That's The Martian.

Mark Watney is essentially what happens when you trap a botanist, a mechanical engineer, and a stand-up comedian in one guy and then launch him into space without a return ticket. He wakes up alone on Mars and doesn't waste time panicking. No, he immediately starts science-ing everything like Bill Nye with a death wish.

His survival plan includes:

• Hacking rovers
• Farming with his own poop
• Duct taping literal death traps
• Roasting NASA via text from 140 million miles away

It's like watching someone speedrun “Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs” using only leftover tools, sharp wit, and a spreadsheet.

This book does three things exceptionally well:

• It makes orbital mechanics and atmospheric chemistry feel like high-stakes puzzles you want to solve.
• It turns a near-death experience every other chapter into a chance for brilliant one-liners.
• It proves that duct tape, sarcasm, and potatoes can get you through literally anything.

Watney's internal monologue is 50% engineering genius, 30% gallows humor, and 20% “I can't believe that worked.” He literally says things like “I'm going to have to science the shit out of this,” and then does. Repeatedly. The man treats interplanetary disaster the way most people treat a flat tire — mildly annoying, but solvable with a wrench and a good playlist.

There's a lot of real science in this book — orbital slingshots, CO₂ scrubbers, oxygen reclamation, crop sustainability under radiation — but Weir delivers it with so much clarity and comic timing, it never feels like a lecture. It feels like you're listening to the funniest guy in your astrophysics class narrate his slow-motion attempt not to die on the red planet.

And don't forget the Earth-side plot: a global scramble to bring one sarcastic nerd home, involving multiple space agencies, bureaucratic panic, and public support that probably peaked when they found out he was growing potatoes in Martian soil using his own poop. (As far as PR wins go, “NASA astronaut fertilizes potatoes with feces” isn't what you'd expect, but it worked.)

This book isn't about heroism in the usual sense. It's about methodical problem-solving, absurd optimism, and the sheer force of will to say, “Well, that exploded... time to fix it,” forty times in a row. Watney doesn't make speeches. He logs status updates. And somehow, that's way more inspiring.

Bottom line:
The Martian is the best argument for teaching STEM in schools and sarcasm at home.
If you love science, dark humor, and high-stakes “DIY or die,” this is your Bible.
And if I'm ever stranded on another planet, I want Mark Watney in my comms — or at the very least, his potato-growing manual and a lot of duct tape.

I shouldn't have read it — not because it was bad, but because it didn't leave me the same.

Miller's writing is deceptively graceful. Clean, vivid, restrained. I went in for a novel. I came out with an obsession.

This book didn't just tell a story; it launched me into a deep rabbit hole. Greek mythology, the gods, and all the characters — I couldn't stop. I found myself exploring their lives, their worldviews. It started with Achilles and Patroclus. Then I needed to understand the myths. Then the gods. Then their worldview — which led to philosophy. That path took me from Homer to Meditations, from mythology to Stoicism. A quiet domino effect. One book knocked them all down.

I'm still somewhere in that rabbit hole — or maybe it's a black hole. Either way, it started here.

The audiobook:
Professionally done. The narration shifts with the mood — subtle but powerful. In moments of grief, the voice alone could undo you.