A few years ago, my husband and I were having a late dinner at a café in Paris on a vacation when people started to shuffle and panic around us. An older man leaving the restaurant stopped to tell us that something terrible is happening; there was a terrorist attach a couple miles away, and several parts of the city were still under attack. We left immediately and walked to our hotel without encountering the violence, although each step was serenated by the sound of sirens. For the next 24 hours, we sat in our hotel, glued to the news, uncertain of how we’d get home, and overcome by how quickly a city of light could darken in mourning. I know I was lucky. I know that I had no idea what it felt like for those who had been in danger from the attacks, desperately hiding or fleeing from a split second that could end their life.