Fifty-three years ago, on the morning of 21 October, a shadow fell on Aberfan. A spoil tip collapsed, killing 116 children and 28 adults. My grandfather, Ken, was one of many hundreds who went to help with the rescue, the only day my grandmother ever remembered him crying. While they worked desperately with shovels, with anything they could find, he said that whispers would spring up that a young boy had been found alive, unharmed, had dusted himself down, and run down the street. It wasn't true, but it kept the rescue workers going, it kept their hope alive on that darkest of days. My grandfather was a Catholic, and he said that, until that day, he had never believed in the devil.

There was a bitter injustice in the wake of this avoidable disaster too. Despite a public inquiry uncovering unforgivable negligence, no criminal proceedings were ever brought, no-one lost their job or received any sanction. But there were also stories of hope, of unbelievable courage; teachers who gave their lives trying to save the children. So when we remember Aberfan, we remember the loss, the betrayal, but we also remember courage and the resilience that that village showed on that day and every day since. We remember Aberfan—53 years that don't lessen the loss.