Life and Death

2:35 pm on a Saturday and I was sleeping only to be woken up by the ringing of my cell phone. It was my father calling with the kind of news people seem to be getting more and more these days. "There was a shooting..." that's all I heard before I sprung upright in my bed. See, I have two brothers, one who just turned 17 and another who is 20. In a world where young black men often find themselves on the wrong end of a bullet I hear the word "shooting" and my thoughts automatically go to my brothers. But why does my brain do that?

I come from a middle class family background, my parents have a mortgage, two cars, 5 kids, where 3 out of 5 are in post-secondary education, 1 is in high school, and me, in graduate school in the UK. My immigrant parents have worked so hard to give us the opportunities that our war torn country couldn't and still can't. My family has thrived because of their hard work. We've been blessed with the love of great parents, their time and patience, and because of all of that we've turned out to be good kids. We work hard, and we aim to be educated, law abiding participants in society. My parents have never had to deal with drugs, alcohol, gangs, pregnancy scares and I count that as a serious blessing in a world of teenage pregnancies, gun violence, and substance abuse. So why do I still worry about my brothers? They're good boys (almost men) who go to school, work and are home at a normal hour. They play football with their friends, spend their days playing video games, and bugging their sisters. Why do I hear the word "shooting" and automatically feel like I'm going to have my heart ripped out?

Last week, 6 young Somali boys were shot by one gunman. 5 survived, and 1 died. The place it happened is about 20 minutes from my house, an area I've been to, near one of the malls I frequent, and not so far removed from my neighborhood. The police released a video of the shooting and I felt both disgust and shock while watching it. To watch one person literally shoot out an entire round on 6 men trapped in an enclosed area without any mercy, with such casualty dumbfounded me. But why should it? I'm from a country that's been at war with itself for years and has racked up the death toll to match. I live in a civilized nation where gun violence is rising and the death of a young man is yet another news story among so many others. Why does death surprise me? My aunt was shot in the leg in Somalia a few years ago during a carjacking. My father is a military man who I'm sure has shot a weapon before. I guess I know bullets, but I don't know bullets.

The young man who died, Abdikarim, told his mom he would be back soon before leaving his home for the very last time. I have brothers who say that to my mom when she asks when they'll be back. I have brothers who say that to me if I catch them leaving the house without telling anybody where they're going. Simply, I have brothers. I don't want them to be a statistic. I don't want either of my brothers to be yet another black man killed by a gun. Is it too much to wonder at why there is so much black on black violence? Why do young black men feel that they have a right to claim the lives of anybody, let alone another young brother in the struggle? Can life really seem that insignificant? I ask myself if the lives of my brothers only matter to me and my family. Do others see their lives as unimportant? For me, I see two young men who are benefiting from a great life that their parents sacrificed for, who have so much to live for and to see and yet I am constantly worried that somebody else will not see that and will have no qualms about ending their lives. Why?

Abdikarim had a sister. I actually met her last year at my university where she was a first year student. We happened to know the same group of girls and I remember thinking to myself that she was so young and I felt so old in comparison. I was graduating, she was finishing her first year and the difference in age felt staggering. I remember thinking she had the most beautiful hair. She was, without a doubt, a sweetheart. Young, excited and full of promise about what life in university was going to be like. Now, after the death of her brother, she's an adult. She's been forced to see real life in a way that nobody should have to see, through death. My younger sister's best friend used to go out with Adbikarim. I remember her coming over to my house and telling me she had a boyfriend. I thought to myself, "you're too young to be dating." I also thought, "holy crap, this little girl is doing a better job at dating than I am." I laughed about it. She was almost 16 at the time, and now, at 17, she's witnessed the death of her very first boyfriend. What do I do with that? I can't imagine what her thoughts are, what her perceptions of life and death have now become because somebody thought that this young man's life was not important enough. And it was. It was important to his sister, to my sister, to my sister's best friend, to a community who is in shock and to me, just another girl with brothers she loves and worries about.

This morning when my father called to tell me there was a shooting I felt my heart skip a beat. I couldn't form any words. He was calling to tell me there had been a shooting at a coffee shop in my neighborhood. 4 young men were shot while sitting inside, drinking coffee and talking, by one or more people from outside the shop. The location? The coffee shop in the plaza where I get my pizza slices, where I get my hair cut, where I rent my movies, where I buy my groceries, where I go to the doctors, where my dentist gets rid of my cavities, and where my brothers hang out. How easily could have one of those 4 young men been one of my brothers? Luckily, all 4 sustained non-life threatening injuries and will live to see another day. That's all they have, another day. This happened at 1 am, and my brothers are very much at home at that time, but only because of the iron fist with which my mother rules. Then again, do gunmen run on a time schedule? I don't think so.

The attempted massacre of 6 young men in Toronto has served to remind me of how precious life is, and how easily it can be destroyed. Something as small as a bullet can shatter the lives of families, communities, and make me, a regular girl from a regular family, wonder and worry about her two brothers mortality. I want to worry if they're going to harass me on MSN tomorrow, or if they'll go cross-eyed from watching too much TV, or if they'll do well on their tests, or if they just stole the last slice of cake from the fridge. I don't want to think of their deaths.

I'm in London, experiencing the beauty of life and love and travel, and yet I am now reminded of the other side of life....death. Having said that, I am in deep prayer for Abdikarim's soul, and his family. My heart is with his sister. My thoughts are with his mother. My hope is with our community.

May Allah (S.W.T.) bless his soul, grant him entrance to paradise, and may he rest peacefully in a better place. Amen.