I first realised the capacity for heroism in children when I was nine years old. After years of terrorist threats to his and his family’s life, my dad was forced to take us all away from our home to a safe and secret place. All of a sudden what was known and certain crumbled, and at 9 years of age, it was time for me to search within myself for courage. Being unaware of the real danger meant that this was not a difficult task: I embraced the experience as an exhilirating adventure, something that an older person would find almost impossible. One thing that I remember most clearly is going into my new bedroom in the safehouse and finding a little doll in the drawer. “Somebody else like you has been here before!” it cried.
On the other side of this story another little girl walks in danger. Every day she carries food to her daddy, one of the terrorists who had threatened my daddy. Sadly, it was her faithful, brave walk that one day led the police to his hide-out, and to his consequent arrest. It’s funny, but I still think about her, and wonder where her very different life has led her. In her father’s eyes, and strangely in mine, she was a hero.