Thoughts and prayers

A shooting on a small island

My neighbor was murdered a week ago tonight. My husband and I were sitting outside talking when I heard the shots, but I am naive; I thought they were fireworks. But my husband, who lived in Baltimore in the 1990s, knew immediately. “Go inside, lock the doors, call the police,” he said.

I did; a police car and an ambulance showed up a few minutes later. But my neighbor was probably already dead by the time we called. He had been shot in the neck and the head, wounds that are very rapidly fatal.

I don’t know the motive for his killing. It’s rumored that he and his suspected killer were in an altercation earlier this year, but that’s not confirmed by the police. All I know for sure is that someone hated this community member, firefighter, and father enough to plan his murder, to shoot him down in cold blood.

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Violent crime is very rare on our tiny island. The last murder here was over 10 years ago. Then as now, the suspected killer is not from our island; but then again over half of Saba’s population was born elsewhere, so that’s not surprising. Except for law enforcement and a few people who are legally authorized to shoot goats, gun possession isn’t legal on Saba. That illegality was probably not much of a deterrent to my neighbor’s murderer, since he was planning to kill someone. Still, gun violence is much rarer here than in the United States, for the simple reason that guns are. The last fatal shooting before this one was in 1989.

At the time of my neighbor’s murder, my husband and I were talking about American politics, and the number of high-profile killings that have happened in the United States in the past few weeks. We were talking about the tendency to try to spin up an explanation for why the killing that happened to the victim will not happen to you: That the killing was the result of a conspiracy, or that the killing was justified by some morally culpable thing that the victim had done. We were talking about the fallacy that my individual anonymity, or my individual virtue, or both, will surely save me from the brutality of the world.

At the beginning of that conversation, it was impossible for us to imagine that it would end with gunshots. After all, we’re unknown people who made the individually virtuous choice to live in a remote location known for its safety, just like our murdered neighbor.

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When my neighbor was shot, I did what I could: I called the police, and then I prayed. I prayed Our Father. I prayed Hail Mary. I prayed the Chaplet of Divine Mercy. I prayed the Fatima Prayer. I prayed that if my neighbor’s earthly life could not be saved that his soul be welcomed into God’s grace.

I understand from their social media posts regarding murders in the United States that many of my American friends think that these prayers are worse than useless. They see thoughts and prayers not as a surrender to God’s will but an abdication of responsibility. I think the more distant one is from danger, the easier that is to believe. If I can just Do Something, I can still pretend that I am in control and that the violence will never befall me. But I am not in control. Ultimately, whether through human acts or acts of nature the violence of death will come for everyone. Of course we should all try to make the world a better place in mundane ways, but when the end comes the best I can hope for is the solidarity of others’ thoughts and prayers. The best I can do is, through them, to offer my solidarity as a fellow mortal creature.

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I have no idea what made someone hate my neighbor enough to kill him. By all accounts he was a good guy, with no more flaws than any of us have. But almost everyone has someone who hates them enough to want them dead. I am sure I do. And I know I have hated others, if not enough to plot their murder still enough to know I would not mourn their deaths. I, too, am culpable in wishing ill to others.

Another thing I can do with my prayers is repent. I can ask for forgiveness for the hatred I’ve held towards others, and for forgiveness for those whom I’ve hurt badly enough to make them hate me.

I can pray that my neighbor’s death does not precipitate a cycle of violence. I can pray that this act of violence doesn’t lead us to live in a culture of fear.

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Saba is a place where we leave the doors unlocked, where children hitchhike and total strangers are invited to parties. Do you still leave your front door unlocked when your neighbor was shot just a few feet away in his? Do you still offer a ride to the hitchhiking stranger when it was a stranger who most likely killed the guy next door? Or do you change your behavior, and then rage about the how the world isn’t what it used to be?

Rage comes naturally as breathing to a frightened little animal like me. But I am more than those animal instincts, which is another reason to pray.

And when I do, the answer is there that was always there, one of the more common admonitions in the Bible: “Be not afraid.”

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Ten years ago, in the aftermath of the last murder here, a friend of mine received a series of threatening anonymous messages. We would later come to learn that the author of those messages was the murderer—who was still at large at the time.

She was not about to let that keep her from her habit of going for early-morning hikes. But wasn’t that dangerous, especially given the circumstances? Wasn’t she afraid?

Of course, she said, but she loved hiking and would not let that be taken from her. That evil exists should not change who she is, and she’s someone who likes hiking. But I could walk with her if I wanted.

And so I did.

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Tomorrow evening there will be a vigil for my slain neighbor. We will walk together from the church to his home, the place he was killed. We can’t bring him back, but we can make sure that what is good about our community does not also die. That evil exists should not change who we are. We are people who walk together in solidarity, who trust each other, who are not afraid.

And so we pray.