What does it feel like to stand where someone was murdered?
Around two blocks from me, a little girl was murdered. Her body was hidden in a nearby drainage tunnel. I’ve walked in that same tunnel, thinking about her. What kind of life did she live prior to her horrific murder? What did she want to be? I wonder about her mother and father, and how much they loved her daughter. They have created a memorial for her near the tunnel. It is well-tended.
The tunnels are tattooed in graffiti: gang names, slurs, motivational phrases, political ravings, children’s scribblings, and real attempts at street art cover every available inch. There is a thin puddle of stagnant water up the middle, a dark stripe of murky filth. Leaves, branches, and pistol casings clog the drains. The smell of rotting trash and runoff from street gutters fills the air.
The tunnel where she was found is here, black and inky, sunlight struggling to reach down the bend of cracked concrete. My footsteps don’t echo anymore. A breath out of the darkness, a crash. Waves of fear and anxiety drown out logical thinking and I run from the empty tunnel and the memory of the girl, abandoned in the algae puddles of the tunnel. The graffiti feels obscene now, as if mocking her
As I exited the tunnel and emerged near the road, a man walking his dog happened by me at a distance. He smiled and waved cheerfully. Did he know a little girl was murdered here? If he did, would he act any differently?
No. No, I don't think so.
However, we must always take some time to think about and respect the spaces we occupy. It might not just be a drainage tunnel to a local family.