I could never have imagined
that a 19-year old suicide bomber
would actually teach me
a valuable lesson,
but he did.
He taught me to never presume anything
about anyone you don't know.
On a Thursday morning in July 2005,
the bomber and I, unknowingly,
boarded the same train carriage
at the same time,
standing, apparently, just feet apart.
I didn't see him.
Actually, I didn't see anyone.
You know not to look at anyone on the Tube,
but I guess he saw me.
I guess he looked at all of us
as his hand hovered over the detonation switch.
I've often wondered, what was he thinking,
especially in those final seconds?
I know it wasn't personal.
He didn't set out to kill or maim me, Gill Hicks.
I mean, he didn't know me.
No,
instead he gave me an unwarranted
and an unwanted label.
I had become the enemy.
To him, I was the other,
the them, as opposed to us.
The label "enemy" allowed him to dehumanize us.
It allowed him to push that button,
and he wasn't selective.
26 precious lives were taken in my carriage alone,
and I was almost one of them.
In the time it takes to draw a breath,
we were plunged into a darkness so immense that it was almost tangible,
what I imagine wading through tar might be like.
We didn't know we were the enemy.
We were just a bunch of commuters who, minutes earlier,
had followed the Tube etiquette:
no direct eye contact, no talking,
and absolutely no conversation.
But in the lifting of the darkness,
we were reaching out.
We were helping each other.
We were calling out our names,
a little bit like a roll call,
waiting for responses.
"I'm Gill. I'm here.
I'm alive.
Okay."
"I'm Gill. Here.
Alive.
Okay."
I didn't know Allison,
but I listened for her check-ins
every few minutes