I Can’t Look Away and I Don’t Want To

On Gaza

The street was packed — cars and pedestrians stopped, all staring, talking, and crying. This was Flatbush Avenue in the spring. The sun was setting and the Ave was booming with the entire Little Carribean community making their way home, shopping for the last-minute items for dinner, or boarding the bus going to or coming from work. I don’t even know why I was there, but I was — eyes glued to the crowd across the street. I was sixteen and I’ll never forget it.

They always look like they’re sleeping with their eyes open, motionless on the ground. According to the murmuring couple to my right, two men argued inside a restaurant. Sharp words turned into balled fists, and the commotion spilled onto the sidewalk. A gun was pulled and the blasts were the last sounds that one of the men would ever hear. Despite the calls for the police to do something, the street went quiet for me. I’d heard all that I needed.

Then she screamed.

“Cover him! Why won’t you cover him!” The woman ran through the crowd with a white sheet, only to be met by the outstretched arms of the NYPD.

“Cover my brother! Why won’t they cover him!” she yelled into the crowd.

Why wouldn’t they?