I want to change the culture of silence

This story was originally published by The Trace, a nonprofit newsroom covering gun violence in America. Sign up for its newsletters here.

Melinda Abdallah is a Native Chicana, currently living in Wisconsin. She’s worked as a packer at a large worldwide facility but is currently an at-home nana and wife while healing from an injury. She is an activist advocating against gun violence in the Little Village community.

On November 10, 2019, my son Jacob woke up early, did laundry, and finished painting the room he and his girlfriend were preparing for the birth of their first child. A few hours later, he was shot while driving in Little Village. It was the middle of the day.

Five years later, I know he was the unintended target, but I still don’t know who did it. Even though detectives told us that the gun used to kill my son was used four other times—three times before Jacob and once after, killing a 16-year-old girl walking home from work—nobody has come forward to say they saw anything.

Because Jacob wasn’t from Little Village, no one there knew him, so detectives said they have few leads. What I’ve come to learn is that because there is so much violence in Little Village, people won’t speak up, even if they’ve witnessed it firsthand.

I want to change this culture of silence. Every day since Jacob’s death, I’ve fought to honor his spirit, to bring survivors and nonsurvivors to support each other in grief and to fight for safer streets. Just this year, as of the end of November, there have been 247 shootings, including 44 fatalities, in the Tenth Police District, which includes Little Village, according to the city’s violence reduction dashboard.

This crisis has shattered so many families, including mine. Last summer, Jacob’s girlfriend was killed in a hit-and-run. I am now raising my four-year-old grandson in Wisconsin. But because of Jacob, we are still very much a part of the Little Village community. If more people support survivors, by coming to vigils and marches or by stepping up to help police solve cases or by advocating for better gun laws, we could show the perpetrators of gun violence in the area that we’re not afraid of them. We could begin to solve the problem.

Losing Jacob

Jacob was driving a family friend’s car and stopped at a light when another car pulled up and opened fire. He was shot six times: once in the side of his head, twice in the arm, and twice in the chest. But he held on.

“When they pulled up with your son, we had to revive him,” a doctor at the hospital said. “Your son came back almost immediately.” The doctor told me that Jacob coded and came back again. The same thing happened after his X-ray.

“I don’t know how this is happening but, with that trauma, we should have never been able to bring him back the first time,” the doctor said. “I don’t know what it is, but your son’s hanging on for some reason.”

I believe he was waiting for his son to be born. When the baby came, Jacob was mostly unresponsive, but I whispered in his ear and told him his son had arrived. Jacob died two days later. We named his son Jacob Jr.

Those five days in the hospital were painful, but they also helped our estranged family reconcile. Jacob had always hated that we didn’t speak to each other. When she heard that Jacob was in the hospital, one cousin pointed out, “Jacob always wanted us to be together.” Everyone made amends for Jacob.

That’s what Jacob did—he brought people together, and I’m hoping to carry that spirit of unity to bring the people of Little Village together to fight for peace.

Forever tied to Little Village

Leading up to the birth of his son, Jacob would tell me he wanted to leave Little Village. He had moved there to be with his girlfriend, Perla, but he didn’t want to raise his son there. Perla had told him of her youth there—no family outings or trips, no community events, none of the things Jacob grew up with.

I didn’t know about Little Village before my son moved there. Now, the shooting that killed him there ties me to the area. As my relationship with Little Village has grown, I’ve learned that police there are understaffed, that many people there are afraid they might be targeted if they come forward as witnesses, and that others won’t come forward because of their undocumented status. Enlace Chicago, a nonprofit community group in Little Village, estimates that nearly one in four residents there is not a U.S. citizen.

Now, I work with Parents for Peace and Justice and Mothers and Families United for Justice (under the Little Village Community Council) to advocate for victims, support other survivors, and try to prevent gun violence. On July 27, we had the first ever Run for Peace in Little Village. Shortly after we left the event, in the middle of the day, a three-month-old baby was shot in the area.

Knowing that my son was killed with a gun that was used to hurt others both before and after has also made me an advocate for greater gun control policies. No one with a background of any gun violations should be able to own a firearm.

I’m gonna fight for my son until the death of me. We held another event in Little Village in November, the week that Jacob was shot. We march because we want a rebirth in Little Village. Jacob would’ve wanted that, too.

Baby Jacob reminds us of his father’s spirit, his joy and warmth and his wish that we would all come together. So, every chance I get, I go out there with my son’s pictures to protest and bring awareness.

It’s my hope that the more people who know Jacob’s story, the more they’ll see that we need change. Maybe someone will come forward with information about Jacob’s killers, maybe more survivors will come to our events. Maybe nonsurvivors will lend their support to the fight against gun violence.

Maybe no one else will have to lose a son.