I met Marie Claire in a nondescript room in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. I had been invited to join an annual program there honoring the refugees and their host community. Lancaster is often referred to as the refugee capital of America, I learned, and though I had received the invitation a couple of years earlier, this was the first time I could make it.

My visit was a surprise to everyone there, and I gave a speech. That is just how it goes sometimes. I walk in, a surprise, and then I speak to a roomful of amazing people.

But always at events like these, I’m more interested in listening than talking. That day, I sat in that room with six refugee girls and boys, each telling his or her story. I remember Marie Claire not only for the story she told but also for the story she didn’t. She was full of strength, but I could hear the pain in her heart and see the tears in her eyes. When she spoke, I felt her trauma as well as her triumph. The picture of this moment, as she revealed her past, is still in my head.

—Malala