For his mother and father, and all those close to him, Stephen Lawrence will remain forever young. Time will not change that nor custom take from him his youthfulness. Listening to Doreen Lawrence's quiet speech on the steps of the Old Bailey, yesterday, and then again today, one knows she will live for ever with her son in her sight, loving him and the things he once loved. Just as she always has, from the moment he was born.
Yesterday, when she quietly stated that, 'I miss him with a passion' unimaginable emotions lay glistening beneath the fabric of those simple words.
Six words to describe how the knife smote, not just Stephen, but his entire family.
Six words to describe the long dark years of a sentence they would themselves endure in their fight for justice.
Six words to describe the pain the family would bear for an event not of their making. What can anyone say that hasn't already been said, except to wish them all the peace they surely deserves?
Doreen wishes her son be remembered for the bright young teenager he was, not merely a black youth killed in racial hatred. She wishes for him to be stored in the world's memory as just a boy. For it was as a boy he had lived, carefree, young, laughing, joking with his family, as he waited for his future to begin.
And begin it did but not in the way any of them could foresee.
And, when all is said and done, and Stephen's murderers are returned to their cells, and the inches of comments have been written, and read, and begin to fade from our thoughts, Doreen Lawrence's latest wish will, in the strangest of ways, be granted.
For Stephen her son will remain forever young.
That much is certain.
While Dobson and Norris grow old in their prison cells, while their skin coarsens and sags and their swagger loses certainty, the memory of Stephen Lawrence will continue to shine down through the years. He will not be forgotten. Those who are loved are not, and so, in some, undefinable way one hopes, this will give the Lawrence family comfort.
But what of the criminals, those men who have stared out at us, on and off, for nigh on eighteen years? What of them? Were they born bad? Did their parents make them so? Is the society they lived in to blame? Someone must take that blame. Where was their remorse, their pity? Do any of them know how to love? While that ragbag of a mother tried to give her soon-to-be-found-guilty son an alibi, saying he was at home with her, was it because of a belated sense of loyalty? Maybe even love, perhaps? If this is so, if it was love that drove her to hinder the law, then can we sympathise with her?
If she had, in years gone by, ever cradled her son when he was a child, sung him to sleep, nursed him when ill, really, really loved him, then she will understand what Doreen Lawrence has and continues to feel. How does one woman feel witnessing the grief of another?
If she feels anything then the least she can do is visit her criminal child. Not once, not twice but again and again, week after week, year after year until she can no longer walk, until her last breath is drawn. To try to do her duty and make her aging son understand what he so carelessly took. It requires no great wealth to do this, no middle class social standing, no education, just a simply desire to do what is right as a mother. And however belatedly, she should try to talk to him of that most noble of human characteristics, the gift of empathy.
Six words to describe the long dark years of a sentence they would themselves endure in their fight for justice.
Six words to describe the pain the family would bear for an event not of their making. What can anyone say that hasn't already been said, except to wish them all the peace they surely deserves?
Doreen wishes her son be remembered for the bright young teenager he was, not merely a black youth killed in racial hatred. She wishes for him to be stored in the world's memory as just a boy. For it was as a boy he had lived, carefree, young, laughing, joking with his family, as he waited for his future to begin.
And begin it did but not in the way any of them could foresee.
And, when all is said and done, and Stephen's murderers are returned to their cells, and the inches of comments have been written, and read, and begin to fade from our thoughts, Doreen Lawrence's latest wish will, in the strangest of ways, be granted.
For Stephen her son will remain forever young.
That much is certain.
While Dobson and Norris grow old in their prison cells, while their skin coarsens and sags and their swagger loses certainty, the memory of Stephen Lawrence will continue to shine down through the years. He will not be forgotten. Those who are loved are not, and so, in some, undefinable way one hopes, this will give the Lawrence family comfort.
But what of the criminals, those men who have stared out at us, on and off, for nigh on eighteen years? What of them? Were they born bad? Did their parents make them so? Is the society they lived in to blame? Someone must take that blame. Where was their remorse, their pity? Do any of them know how to love? While that ragbag of a mother tried to give her soon-to-be-found-guilty son an alibi, saying he was at home with her, was it because of a belated sense of loyalty? Maybe even love, perhaps? If this is so, if it was love that drove her to hinder the law, then can we sympathise with her?
If she had, in years gone by, ever cradled her son when he was a child, sung him to sleep, nursed him when ill, really, really loved him, then she will understand what Doreen Lawrence has and continues to feel. How does one woman feel witnessing the grief of another?
If she feels anything then the least she can do is visit her criminal child. Not once, not twice but again and again, week after week, year after year until she can no longer walk, until her last breath is drawn. To try to do her duty and make her aging son understand what he so carelessly took. It requires no great wealth to do this, no middle class social standing, no education, just a simply desire to do what is right as a mother. And however belatedly, she should try to talk to him of that most noble of human characteristics, the gift of empathy.
A very touching message indeed. Let not the beast in man ever be allowed to roam the streets of London. Let us hope such incidents will never take place anywhere in the world.
ReplyDeleteMy sympathies go not just for the mother of Stephen but to the mothers of the convicts as well.
M.C.M. Iqbal
Touching indeed - thank you Roma for these heartfelt words
ReplyDelete