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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 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
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
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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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Twenty-six 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
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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,
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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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OK."
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"I'm Gill.
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Here.
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Alive.
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OK."
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I didn't know Allison.
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But I listened for her check-ins
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
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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 TED Talks,
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of course, never dreaming
that one day I would be standing,
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balancing on prosthetic legs,
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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
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
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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
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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
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just who and what humanity really is,
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when I first saw the ID tag
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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,
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if I had a faith or no faith at all.
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Nothing mattered,
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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
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that unconditional love and respect
can not only save,
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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,
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what's given me the courage to say:
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this ends with me
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is love.
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I was loved.
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I believe the potential
for widespread positive change
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is absolutely enormous,
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because I know what we're capable of.
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I know the brilliance of humanity.
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So this leaves me with some
pretty big things to ponder
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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
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for us to feel 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
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to rise above mere tolerance,
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and move to an acceptance
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for all who are only a label
until we know them?
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Thank you.
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(Applause)