In recent decades, legislative measures like seat belt laws from the late 1960s, drunk driving regulations from the late 1970s, and smoking restrictions from the mid-1990s have undoubtedly saved countless lives. However, we continue to struggle with the issue of gun violence.
In October 2006, while abroad, I found myself in a small van as the evening sun set on a beautiful day. Just twenty minutes into the journey, a sudden explosion erupted before me—a fireball the size of a fist. Instantly, the loudest sound I had ever heard echoed in my left ear, and I feared I had lost my hearing forever. Amidst the chaos, people screamed for us to duck, and I instinctively crouched down, trying to make myself as small as possible while bullets flew around us. In that moment, I kept assuring myself, “I don’t think I’ve been shot. Okay, I still don’t think I’ve been shot.”
The van came to a halt, and frantic shouts urged the driver to keep moving. We lurched forward and eventually pulled into a gas station. As the passengers began to exit, I hesitated, paralyzed by uncertainty about the shooter’s whereabouts and the potential danger of stepping out. My anxiety peaked when I noticed a man in front of me—his head bowed, blood streaming from his forehead. That haunting image is etched in my mind.
Later, I was informed that a woman beside me, who was around my age, pushed me toward the door, prompting me to make a decision. We both exited, but she immediately broke down in hysteria. I instinctively shifted my focus to her, providing calm support as I guided her to a safer spot near the gas station. As the minutes passed without further gunfire, I started to realize we were no longer in immediate peril. She reassured me that her boyfriend was on his way to pick us up and would take me back to my hotel.
While we waited, I absentmindedly touched my neck and felt something wet—blood. Immediately, I understood I could have been shot but hadn’t felt it due to shock. The body’s self-preservation mechanisms are remarkable during emergencies. I continued to explore the back of my neck and discovered a small piece of metal. After assessing that it wasn’t life-threatening, I asked her if her boyfriend could take me to the hospital instead of my hotel.
When he arrived, I was grateful for the kindness of these strangers, who became my lifeline in a foreign country. On the way to the hospital, our car unexpectedly ran over a branch, causing us to duck instinctively. Upon reaching the hospital, I reunited with a friend who had come to support me. I mentioned I thought someone had died, a sentiment I had picked up at the gas station. She advised me not to dwell on it, a piece of wisdom I appreciated. Later, I learned that indeed, one person had lost their life that day. I often wonder if it was the man I had seen.
An X-ray revealed two small pieces of shrapnel lodged in my neck. The options were clear: undergo immediate surgery or wait until I returned home the next day. I opted for the latter. After being released, I returned to my hotel and noticed a small tuft of hair had fallen out. I later realized the metal had likely cut it before entering my skin.
The next day, I flew home, where my father organized my surgery at his workplace. My mother shared that some Vietnam veterans she knew had shrapnel that would eventually work its way out on its own, while others lived with it for life due to the risks of removal. It struck me that she was comparing my experience to that of veterans—an unsettling connection.
Twelve days later, I was back at my office. While colleagues were preparing for a party, a balloon popped, triggering an overwhelming wave of emotion. I closed the door to hide my tears and sobs. Three weeks later, during Thanksgiving dinner, surrounded by family, I couldn’t shake the thought of an empty chair at another family’s table. I slipped away to release the pent-up grief, unable to contain my sorrow.
Despite the trauma, I recognized how fortunate I was. I had access to a hospital, transportation, a friend waiting for me, and health insurance. The most significant stroke of luck, however, came to light two weeks post-incident: the gunman had used a rifle, and due to the country’s strict gun laws, he couldn’t continue firing rounds or use high-capacity magazines. This limitation likely saved my life.
I often contemplate the impact my absence would have had on my family and friends. Would they have held memorials for me? Would my siblings cope with the loss? The thought of my niece and nephews growing up without my love is unbearable, as I pride myself on being a loving aunt. I also think about the friendships I’ve built since that day—none of them would have known me.
So, I extend my gratitude to the politicians in that country for their stringent gun laws. While they may complicate the lives of some gun enthusiasts, they spared my family and friends from immeasurable pain and heartache. I firmly believe they made the right choice.
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In summary, while I endured a harrowing experience of gun violence, I emerged with a profound sense of gratitude for my survival, the support I received, and the numerous connections I still maintain. Reflecting on the potential loss of life and the impact on loved ones reinforces the importance of gun control in protecting families and communities.