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Even if false, the lurid narrative itself reflects the distrust bubbling beneath the surface of everyday life, preventing standard law and order. Community rumors painted a disturbing liaison between street thugs and local authorities. Apparently the mother filed a complaint with local authorities, and before she could return home, someone inside the precinct had notified the gunmen. It was revenge for the indiscretion of Sasha’s mother reporting a crime to the police. Eva and I pieced together what people in the community were saying. Newspaper reports failed to capture the brutality of the murder. For those inside theirs was a certain death. The gunmen had formed a circle around the perimeter of the house, shooting at anyone who dared to save her and anyone brazen enough to try to escape. 2 The memory of her calling out for help left neighbors consumed with grief.
#Hourworld bloomington windows#
The local paper reported that Sasha, the youngest victim at age ten, stood in the windows in the wee hours of the morning screaming out the names of neighbors she could see, begging them to save her. Just nights before, on October 5, 2005, around 3:00 a.m., approximately forty gunmen had surrounded and firebombed the home of Gerald and Dorcas Brown, killing them, their granddaughter Sasha, and Sasha’s aunt Michelle Brown. She was concerned about patrons overhearing our discussion of the week’s events. But there were certain other conversations she preferred to hold behind closed doors-such as those about politics in Jamaica and community violence. We could talk about the concerns she had with her local church, even her failed marriage and the reasons for it. 1 We could talk out loud about the debts she owes for school and for other “lickle” things, she would say with her mixed Jamaican-English accent. She always called one of these, never taking the risk of hailing an unknown driver.Īs we talked in Island Grill, it became clear that Eva, whose assertive yet friendly Pentecostal affect seems to take over any room she enters, was always strangely cautious during certain public conversations.
#Hourworld bloomington drivers#
There were only a few cab drivers in Eva’s address book whom she trusted. Today, however, my friend, Eva, joined me for lunch, so we called a cab to ensure her speedy return to work, where administrative responsibilities demanded her attention. He seemed to make his living asking for food, money, or other items to sustain him under his cardboard shelter-his presence a nagging reminder of Jamaica’s dramatic needs. I usually walked the roughly one-mile jaunt along the busy thoroughfare in the heat up to the plaza-past the one-armed, one-legged homeless man with mangled locks who was obviously undernourished.
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Small, white city “buses”-which look more like minivans-continuously passed along the road packed with people. Bustling with strip malls offering clothing, electronics, and beauty supply stores along with bookstores, restaurants, and other retail establishments, Half Way Tree is marked by a constant flow of people and traffic. We lowered our voices to a whisper as we dined in Island Grill, a local fast-food restaurant serving on-the-go jerk and curried chicken in the heart of Half Way Tree in Kingston, Jamaica.