Gabrielle Giffords on gun violence: "Too many children are dying... We must do something."

The former Democratic Congresswoman, who was severely injured after being shot in the head at a political rally in 2011, delivered a moving speech at the start of a Senate Judiciary Committee hearing on gun violence.

"Speaking is difficult, but I need to say something important. Violence is a big problem. Too many children are dying; too many children. We must do something. It will be hard. But the time is now. You must act. Be bold. Be courageous. Americans are counting on you."

Speaking slowly, speech clearly still incredibly difficult for her, Gabrielle Giffords delivered what should be a powerful and lasting message about the importance for America to act on gun control. She opened yesterday's Senate Judiciary Committee hearing on gun violence - her words even more arresting because she herself was the victim of a shooting in 2011 that left her partially blind and paralysed in her right arm. As a former Democratic Representative, her exhortation that this is an important conversation "for Democrats; for Republicans" is a timely reminder of how important bipartisanship will be if any meaningful steps are to be taken on gun control. Watch her speech in full:

Later on, the hearing heard evidence from National Rifle Association (NRA) executive vice-president Wayne LaPierre, who stuck to his organisation's position that "law-abiding gun owners will not accept blame for the acts of violent or deranged criminals". He came under fire from Democrat members of the committee though, being forced to admit that while in 1999 the NRA supported the idea of mandatory background checks for people trying to buy guns, it had since relaxed its position. Giffords' husband, Mark Kelly, pointed out what a difference such checks could make, saying "My wife would not have been sitting in that seat today if we had had stronger background checks".

Editor's note: this article was updated - Giffords was a Democratic Representative, not a Republican as previously stated.

Gabrielle Giffords with her husband Mark Kelly at the hearing. Photograph: Getty Images

Caroline Crampton is assistant editor of the New Statesman. She writes a weekly podcast column.

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As the strangers approach the bed, I wonder if this could be a moment of great gentleness

I don’t know what to do. In my old T-shirt and M&S pants, I don’t know what to do.

It’s 1.13am on an autumn morning some time towards the end of the 20th century and I’m awake in a vast hotel bed in a small town in the east of England. The mysterious east, with its horizons that seem to stretch further than they should be allowed to stretch by law. I can’t sleep. My asthma is bad and I’m wheezing. The clock I bought for £3 many years earlier ticks my life away with its long, slow music. The street light outside makes the room glow and shimmer.

I can hear footsteps coming down the corridor – some returning drunks, I guess, wrecked on the reef of a night on the town. I gaze at the ceiling, waiting for the footsteps to pass.

They don’t pass. They stop outside my door. I can hear whispering and suppressed laughter. My clock ticks. I hear a key card being presented, then withdrawn. The door opens slowly, creaking like a door on a Radio 4 play might. The whispering susurrates like leaves on a tree.

It’s an odd intrusion, this, as though somebody is clambering into your shirt, taking their time. A hotel room is your space, your personal kingdom. I’ve thrown my socks on the floor and my toothbrush is almost bald in the bathroom even though there’s a new one in my bag because I thought I would be alone in my intimacy.

Two figures enter. A man and a woman make their way towards the bed. In the half-dark, I can recognise the man as the one who checked me in earlier. He says, “It’s all right, there’s nobody in here,” and the woman laughs like he has just told her a joke.

This is a moment. I feel like I’m in a film. It’s not like being burgled because this isn’t my house and I’m sure they don’t mean me any harm. In fact, they mean each other the opposite.

Surely they can hear my clock dripping seconds? Surely they can hear me wheezing?

They approach, closer and closer, towards the bed. The room isn’t huge but it seems to be taking them ages to cross it. I don’t know what to do. In my old T-shirt and M&S pants, I don’t know what to do. I should speak. I should say with authority, “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” But I don’t.

I could just lie here, as still as a book, and let them get in. It could be a moment of great gentleness, a moment between strangers. I would be like a chubby, wheezing Yorkshire pillow between them. I could be a metaphor for something timeless and unspoken.

They get closer. The woman reaches her hand across the bed and she touches the man’s hand in a gesture of tenderness so fragile that it almost makes me sob.

I sit up and shout, “Bugger off!” and they turn and run, almost knocking my clock from the bedside table. The door crashes shut shakily and the room seems to reverberate.

This article first appeared in the 12 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's revenge