We Can All Step In

One Sunday morning around 6:30 a.m., I boarded the 7 train in New York City to go to Queens. Scattered throughout the car were about seven weary workers, their clothes covered in dirt. They were trying to sleep after what I imagine had been a long night of hard physical labor. I thought many were probably immigrants who had collected a day’s pay.

Before the train started its journey, two very alert guys boarded wearing hoods. One stood at one end of the subway, keeping watch outside and the other immediately started going through the pockets of one of the sleeping workers. I looked around for others to step in. Most averted their eyes from the crime.

“Stop, leave him alone,” I shouted.

The man did not stop, so I yelled more. “Stop, leave this guy alone.”

This time he stopped and headed toward me saying, “This is none of your business. You better stay out of this.” He showed me a knife.

Meanwhile, a friend of the sleeping man tried to shake him awake, and others on the train began to respond. The two thieves left. The man and his earnings were safe. Thankfully, so was I.

We often think of bullying as a hazard of childhood—something to be outgrown. But incidents like my run-in on the subway show that’s not the case. And the lessons we learn from combating bullies can have life-or-death consequences.

Recently, Michel Martin, in her NPR report "The Moral Dilemma in Witnessing Acts of Violence [2]" sought to answer why some people step in to help people in trouble while others do not.  Martin contrasted the bravery shown by bystanders in the recent Arizona shootings with the passivity of a crowd in Washington, D.C., that stood by while a man was beaten.

Martin's report caused me to reflect on my own experiences. It takes some courage to stand up, speak out or step in. In the case of the train, I was shaken but I knew that I had done the right thing. But it was no more than what Khalid—a complete stranger—had done for me during a trip to Morocco years ago.

I arrived in Casablanca on a bus when most of the city was still asleep. The streets were peaceful, empty and fairly dark with a few scattered streetlights.

I started walking down a cobblestone alley toward the hotel when suddenly someone hit me from behind with the full force of his body. I stumbled but did not—surprisingly—fall down. The man then grabbed me from behind and placed a large knife to my neck. He wanted me to give him everything I had.

Then, the shadowy figure of another man about 100 feet away yelled something to my attacker. They exchanged words, and the man with the knife ran away, leaving me unharmed.

I ran to the nearest open café and asked patrons if they knew who stepped in to save me. It was Khalid. I expressed my sincerest gratitude for his bravery and courage. Humble, Khalid apologized for the uncivil act by one of his countrymen. He hoped I would remember his country and Moroccans as hospitable and friendly. I do.

I believe it was Khalid’s act of courage and responsibility that provided the necessary courage for me to do the same for someone else. We can all be courageous and let others know it is all right to show their courage. Indeed, that is what makes change possible in this country and around the world.

Ronk is curriculum design manager at Teaching Tolerance.