True Story
“I was walking down a dimly lit street late one evening when
I heard muffled screams coming from behind a clump of bushes. Alarmed, I slowed
down to listen, and panicked when I realized that what I was hearing were the
unmistakable sounds of a struggle: heavy grunting, frantic scuffling, the
tearing of fabric. Only yards from where I stood, a woman was being attacked.
Should I get involved? I was frightened for my own safety,
and cursed myself for having suddenly decided to take a new route home that
night. What if I became another statistic? Shouldn’t I just run to the nearest
phone and call the police?
Although it seemed like an eternity, the deliberations in my
head had taken only seconds, but already the girl’s cries were growing weaker.
I knew I had to act fast. How could I walk away from this? No, I finally
resolved, I could not turn my back on the fate of this unknown woman, even if
it meant risking my own life.
I am not a brave man, nor am I athletic. I don’t know where
I found the moral courage and physical strength—but once I had finally resolved
to help the girl, I became strangely transformed. I ran behind the bushes and
pulled the assailant off the woman. Grappling, we fell to the ground, where we
wrestled for a few minutes until the attacker jumped up and escaped.
Panting hard, I scrambled upright and approached the girl,
who was crouched behind a tree, sobbing. In the darkness, I could barely see
her outline, but I could certainly sense her trembling shock. Not wanting to
frighten her further, I at first spoke to her from a distance. ‘It's ok,’ I
said soothingly. ‘The man ran away. You’re safe now.’
There was a long pause and then I heard her words, uttered
in wonder, in amazement. ‘Dad, is that you?’ And then, from behind the tree,
stepped my youngest daughter, Katherine.”
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