The Loss of a Guardian, Sayyid Abdul-Haqq
$5,410 raised
108% of $5k goal
150 contributors
3 Years running
Sayyid was a 16-year-old high school student and a centerpiece for his loved ones. He was gunned down in the same community where he would lead and enjoy participating in games with youth in the neighborhood. We are accepting ...

Sayyid was a 16-year-old high school student and a centerpiece for his loved ones. He was gunned down in the same community where he would lead and enjoy participating in games with youth in the neighborhood. We are accepting donations to help Sayyid's mother travel to Indianapolis and offset costs to his family to lay him to rest. 

WTHR Video Link: http://www.wthr.com/video?autoStart=true&topVideoCatNo=default&clipId=9762327 

Sayyid and his Family

My baby brother was murdered this past Wednesday evening, just four minutes from home. He was found face down in the blowing snow, blood trickling from his soft nose, bullet holes angling his bones.

Sayyid was just learning how to navigate his world. I am so proud of him for just recently acquiring confidence enough to catch the city bus from Speedway to my downtown Indianapolis apartment alone.

"Don't worry, Aisha. Nobody will mess with me," he would say. And I would reply, "I know." Although I always worried. With his eyes bright, grin stretched mischievious and adventurous across his face, and body already set to begin his trek from wherever I was to wherever he would be next, he would boldly set off. It was during one of these increasingly independent journeys  from an after-school program, or from the Speedway Public Library, or from a shop for snacks, that my baby boy was approached in the dark, rough-handled, and then shot with bullets that ricocheted against the insides of his ribcage to exit cleanly. 

He wanted so badly to be sufficient enough for his own life. If given just a bit more time, Sayyid would have been the perfect epitome of gentle, intuitive, and resilient. What irony, then, that this sweet boy would be taken at the prime of his own personal development.

How tender he was. How gentle. How promising.

I've driven past the spot where he was murdered several times since. I've photographed his frozen bloodstains and wailed at the ethers in that space. What a desolate way to go. What emptiness impossible to fill now.

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Excerpt from sister Aisha Abdul-Haqq's poem "Early Engravements"

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