Many times, when I am out shopping with my family, or waiting at an airport, people come up and ask, “Aren’t you the girl in the famous photograph?” They are curious and friendly. They seem to know me, even though I don’t know them. Because they remember an image: that wounded little girl running up the road in Vietnam. Yes, I am the little the little girl from the picture, I tell them, smiling. Then they begin to tell me their stories. How there lives were affected by that picture. How that picture helped them forgive. How that picture taught them to love. That’s when I am proudest of my picture.

My earliest memories are loving ones. The smells of my mother’s cooking, the big house I shared with my seven brothers and sisters. Great Uncle’s smile, the fruit trees in our yard, my school friends. My name, “Phuc,” means “happiness” and I was a happy child.

One day everything changed. The war came to our village. My family hid for three days in the only “safe” haven, the nearby pagoda. When some soldiers saw the planes were going to bomb the holy place, they shouted to the children, Get out. Run for it!” I was so scared and I started running up the road with my cousins. Then I saw four bombs. Suddenly, there was napalm everywhere, and I was caught in the terrible fire. My clothes, my skin, burning. By some miracle, my feet weren’t burned, so I could run. I was screaming, “Noag qua! Nong Qua!” Too hot, too hot!

That was on 8 June 1972. I was a young girl, nine years old.

Nick Ut, of the Associated Press, photographed me on the road that day. Fate brought us together for an instant that was very dramatic, very powerful.

The next day, my picture appeared on the front pages of newspapers around the world, and the world was shocked. They saw an innocent child, who knew nothing of war, caught up in violence. It showed there were no safe places during war. That picture changed the way people looked at the Vietnam War, at all wars.

The photographer won the Pulitzer Prize, but the photographer saved my life. Nick Ut was not just a person doing his job; he was one human being helping another. After he took his picture, he put down his camera and rushed me to the nearest hospital. That was an act of love.

“What do you think about when you think about love?” my friend asks me. God’s love, because God changed my life, I say. Family love, love of the doctors who healed me. Love of freedom and of forgiveness. Mother’s love, the love of children – which is so beautiful, so strong, so joyful. Love of a good man. Love of the ocean, of cold weather, because it soothes my skin when I feel pain. Love of apples, of laughter, of prayer. Love of pink. Love of meeting people, especially young people, everywhere. They are our hope, our future. Love of serious things, love of playful things….

Romantic love. Married love. I see these photographs and I smile. Remember when I was younger, and I thought no man could love me because of my scares? I was so wrong. Toan and I fell in love. In September, 1992, our friends organized a beautiful wedding in Havana.

Our journey to a new life began eight years ago, when we defected to Canada, and it is a story we save for our children. Mummy and Daddy had nothing. We had each other, and we found freedom. So we have everything.

My picture was of ancient history. There happened to be a photographer on that road. But I never forget the millions of innocent victims who did not have a photographer to record their suffering. I especially never forget the children. That’s why I have formed a charitable organization, The Kim Foundation, to help child victims of war. It is based in Chicago and Toronto.

A few years ago, I visited the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C. I saw the names of all the people who had died. For what? I asked. Why did they have to suffer? Many veterans spoke to me. A man came out of the crowd and introduced himself. John Plummer told me he had been involved in planning the attack on my village, Trang Bang, the day I was burned. He said he had never forgiven himself and his life had been ruined. He asked me to forgive him, and I did. I think he was a victim, too, just like me.

Another man, Mike, a helicopter door gunner in the war, told me he suffered terrible nightmares. As he talked, he wept. “All these years, I’ve held that picture in my head,” he said. “Now I meet you in person, and you forgive. This is my lucky day.” I have many such special moments when I am out speaking with people. These moments of love.

I believe we are all God’s creatures, born with a huge capacity to make peace. The book you hold here demonstrates the love we, the human race, are capable of. With love like this, it should be easy to make peace. We must begin in our own families, then in our workplaces, then in our nations.

Kim Phuc (as told to Anne Bayin, Toronto, Canada.)