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I could never have imagined
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that a 19-year old suicide bomber
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would actually teach me
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a valuable lesson,
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but he did.
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He taught me to never presume anything
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about anyone you don't know.
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On a Thursday morning in July 2005,
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the bomber and I, unknowingly,
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boarded the same train carriage
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at the same time,
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standing, apparently, just feet apart.
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I didn't see him.
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Actually, I didn't see anyone.
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You know not to look
at anyone on the Tube,
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but I guess he saw me.
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I guess he looked at all of us
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as his hand hovered over
the detonation switch.
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I've often wondered, what was he thinking,
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especially in those final seconds?
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I know it wasn't personal.
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He didn't set out to kill
or maim me, Gill Hicks.
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I mean, he didn't know me.
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No,
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instead he gave me an unwarranted
-
and an unwanted label.
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I had become the enemy.
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To him, I was the other,
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the them, as opposed to us.
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The label "enemy" allowed him
to dehumanize us.
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It allowed him to push that button,
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and he wasn't selective.
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26 precious lives were taken
in my carriage alone,
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and I was almost one of them.
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In the time it takes to draw a breath,
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we were plunged into a darkness
so immense that it was almost tangible,
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what I imagine wading
through tar might be like.
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We didn't know we were the enemy.
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We were just a bunch of commuters
who, minutes earlier,
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had followed the Tube etiquette:
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no direct eye contact, no talking,
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and absolutely no conversation.
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But in the lifting of the darkness,
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we were reaching out.
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We were helping each other.
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We were calling out our names,
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a little bit like a roll call,
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waiting for responses.
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"I'm Gill. I'm here.
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I'm alive.
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Okay."
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"I'm Gill. Here.
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Alive.
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Okay."
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I didn't know Allison,
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but I listened for her check-ins
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every few minutes.
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I didn't know Richard,
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but it mattered to me that he survived.
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All I shared with them
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was my first name.
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They didn't know that I was
a head of a department
-
at the Design Council.
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And here is my beloved briefcase,
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also rescued from that morning.
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They didn't know that I'd published
architecture and design journals,
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that I was a Fellow
of the Royal Society of Arts,
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that I wore black --
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still do --
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that I smoked cigarillos.
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I don't smoke cigarillos anymore.
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I drank gin and I watched TEDTalks,
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of course, never dreaming
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that one day I would be standing
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balancing on prosthetic
legs giving a talk.
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I was a young Australian woman
doing extraordinary things in London
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and I wasn't ready for that all to end.
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I was so determined to survive
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that I used my scarf to tie
tourniquets around the tops of my legs,
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and I just shut everything
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and everyone out
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to focus, to listen to myself,
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to be guided by instinct alone.
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I lowered my breathing rate,
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I elevated my thighs,
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I held myself upright,
and I fought the urge to close my eyes.
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I held on for almost an hour,
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an hour to contemplate
the whole of my life
-
up until this point.
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Perhaps I should have done more.
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Perhaps I could have
lived more, seen more.
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Maybe I should have gone running,
dancing, taken up yoga,
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but my priority and my focus
was always my work.
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I lived to work.
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Who I was on my business card
-
mattered to me.
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But it didn't matter down in that tunnel.
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By the time I felt that first touch
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from one of my rescuers,
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I was unable to speak,
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unable to say even
a small word, like "Gill."
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I surrendered my body to them.
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I had done all I possibly could,
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and now I was in their hands.
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I understood just who
-
and what humanity really is
-
when I first saw the ID tag
-
that was given to me
when I was admitted to hospital,
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and it read:
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"One unknown estimated female."
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One unknown estimated female.
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Those four words were my gift.
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What they told me very clearly
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was that my life was saved
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purely because I was a human being.
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Difference of any kind made no difference
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to the extraordinary lengths
that the rescuers were prepared to go
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to save my life,
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to save as many unknowns as they could,
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and putting their own lives at risk.
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To them, it didn't matter
if I was rich or poor,
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the color of my skin,
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whether I was male or female,
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my sexual orientation,
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who I voted for,
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whether I was educated,
if I had a faith or no faith at all.
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Nothing mattered
-
other than I was a precious human life.
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I see myself as a living fact.
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I am proof that unconditional love
-
and respect can not only save
-
but it can transform lives.
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Here is a wonderful image
of one of my rescuers, Andy, and I
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taken just last year.
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Ten years after the event,
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and here we are, arm in arm.
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Throughout all the chaos,
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my hand was held tightly.
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My face was stroked gently.
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What did I feel?
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I felt loved.
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What's shielded me from hatred
and wanting retribution,
-
what's given me the courage to say,
this ends with me,
-
is love.
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I was loved.
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I believe the potential
-
for widespread positive change
-
is absolutely enormous,
because I know what we're capable of.
-
I know the brilliance of humanity.
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So this leaves me with
some pretty big things to ponder
-
and some questions for us all to consider.
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Is what unites us not far greater
than what can ever divide?
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Does it have to take a tragedy
or a disaster for us to feel
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deeply connected as one species,
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as human beings?
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And when will we embrace the wisdom
-
of our era
-
to rise above mere tolerance
-
and move to an acceptance for all
-
who are only a label until we know them?
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Thank you.
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(Applause)