COMMUNITY

            I don't have a computer at home, so I have to go to a neighbourhood community centre to get online.  It's a great service to have available, and the staff are very friendly. I go there often.

            I dropped in Monday morning after being out of town on the weekend, and saw a notice on the front door, with a photo of a smiling young man, and words to the effect of “in honour of....”   I went to the front desk to ask what it was about and was horrified to learn that the beautiful smiling man had been murdered on Saturday – shot on a downtown street of Toronto.  A co-worker told me there would be a memorial gathering there on Wednesday evening.

            I went to the centre that night, feeling a little strange and out of place.  I hadn't known the young man, called Nahom (pronounced na-home); I worried that I would seem like some kind of maudlin eavesdropper when I saw the chairs all set out in a circle; a staff member said it was meant to be an opportunity for people to express their feelings about the sad event. I thought of just slipping out before anything got underway. 

            But I stayed there, looking at photos, reading the cards that many people had filled out with comments about 'what I liked about Nahom'.  He was very well-liked, and respected; was involved in many programs; made friends with everyone, but the most common phrase was “His smile!, which apparently was magic, and lit up the world for many. 

             I waited a bit longer to add my name to a book set out in the hall, but the line-up was slow, and eventually the meeting got started.  Sitting on some stairs at the back, I was outside the circle, but was encouraged to move within the group, so I did.

            I had read the notice quoting the newspaper article, about how devoted Nahom was to the work he did, what an effective community worker he was, all the studies he had undertaken to do what he did, all the accolades.  But nothing came close to the raw emotion  that I witnessed over the next hour.  Person after person got up and spoke, with broken English and very broken hearts, telling of all the work he had done with them, the interest he had taken, the efforts he had made to make them comfortable, and the knowledge he shared to help them find their way as newcomers.  And once more....”His smile!”  I felt sorry that I hadn't met him, and at the same time felt I did know him, how bright he was, how much he gave, and how he made people laugh. One woman thanked his family through her tears for the fact that she had had time with him.  One young girl wept uncontrollably, but still managed to say, “Keep believing in him, keep loving him, keep talking to him!  And let him help you, he wants to help us now, and he will, if we listen.” There was a silence after that, a pause for everyone to recover. His sister entreated us to spread love, as he had, to let go animosity from the past. And then a young man got up and spoke of how Nahom had been like a brother to him, unlike his four 'real' brothers, who never spoke to him, or 'went out with' him.  Nahom gave him time and an ear.  He mourned the loss of this brother he loved.

            I left after the speakers were finished.  I didn't stay to hear what the official grieving team had to say.  They were sincere, and no doubt very capable, but I just felt that all their words were unnecessary, that the friends and co-workers and even people who had only met Nahom just recently, had all spoken very eloquently of his impact on them. What is there to say, really, when someone so valued and so promising and generous is simply taken out?

            As I walked along the Danforth, I was sad, and I thought, more sad than I had felt for people or relatives who had died.  I think it was that this young man had so much spirit, so much of the kind of spirit that we cry for.  And I think it was all magnified by the fact that the community who mourned him were made up of people from so many different countries and religions, all coming together with a single heartfelt sorrow and a plea for prayer. The other phrase I heard repeatedly during that sad hour was “I'll never forget you, Nahom, never!”

            You can read more in The Toronto Star, Sept.29, 2014

.  Nahom Berhane