Gun violence is a scar that runs deep in the heart of our communities. It is not just a statistic but a story: a heartbreak, a funeral, a mother’s cry. As a Sangoma wellness practitioner and educator, I approach this issue not only as a professional but as someone whose spirit has been touched by the pain and resilience of our people. I write these words to honor those we have lost and to inspire the hope that healing is possible, even amidst an uphill battle.
I vividly remember my cousin Jamar Muse, a bright light whose laughter could fill a room. We grew up close, spending time at Aunt Trish’s house, playing basketball, and planting seeds, hoping he would understand and see a brighter future for himself. As part of a weekly community event, I taught him martial arts at the Gainsboro Library and introduced him to nourishing his body with healthy foods. But the pandemic created a distance between us. When we reconnected, something had changed. He was more guarded, more distant—a reflection of the world he was navigating.
Fate allowed me to mentor him while I worked with the Youth and Gang Violence unit in Roanoke. Yet, even then, I felt I was meeting someone I no longer fully recognized. He was a young man reshaped by his environment, carrying the weight of unspoken pain. Then came the call—the one no one ever wants to receive. Jamar had been murdered. At that moment, the world stopped, and all I could do was cry. Cry for him. Cry for our family. Cry for a community that has endured so much loss.
Gun violence in the Black community is not a random occurrence; it is the result of centuries of systemic neglect, cultural disconnection, and economic deprivation. It is the manifestation of a deep wound—one that has been inflicted over generations. According to the CDC, gun violence is now the leading cause of death for young Black males, far surpassing other racial and ethnic groups. This statistic alone reveals the severity of the crisis.
But these numbers don’t tell the whole story. They don’t tell you about the mother who collapses at the news of her son’s death. They don’t tell you about the siblings who now carry survivor’s guilt. They don’t tell you about the collective grief that ripples through the community, leaving everyone a little more fractured and weary.
When did we begin to see life as disposable? When did the joy and connection that once defined our communities give way to distrust and despair? Our elders tell stories of when the Black community was a village—where unity and love held us together. Over time, systemic forces chipped away at that foundation. Redlining, underfunded schools, mass incarceration, and media that glorify violence have created an environment where our youth are often left to fend for themselves.
Living in survival mode takes a toll. Many in our communities are already navigating the stress of poverty, systemic racism, and everyday struggles. Add to that the trauma of losing a loved one to gun violence, and it becomes almost unbearable. When a young person is killed, or when they take another’s life and end up in prison, the community loses twice. It’s a cycle of pain that perpetuates itself, generation after generation.
The emotional and psychological toll is profound. It leaves our people with frayed nerves, a sense of hopelessness, and an internalized belief that the world is against them. For many, violence becomes not a choice but a language—a way to navigate a world that seems indifferent to their existence.
Rap culture, mainly drill music, has become a reflection of this pain. Born out of Chicago’s most violent neighborhoods, drill music glorifies a life of guns, gangs, and drugs. It has spread like wildfire, creating a trance-like state for many youth. But let me say this clearly: this is not our destiny. This is not the truth of who we are. We come from a lineage of kings and queens, healers and warriors, visionaries and builders. We must remember this truth and reclaim our narrative.
Our music, art and stories should reflect the resilience and beauty of our spirit, not the despair of a broken system. We can shift the culture—starting with what we teach our children to value and believe about themselves.
Healing begins with acknowledgment. We must face the reality of gun violence, not with shame, but with courage. This is not just a Black problem; it is an American problem. The conditions that allow gun violence to flourish—poverty, systemic inequality, and easy access to firearms—affect us all.
But healing also requires action. Here are some steps we can take, individually and collectively:
We must create spaces where our youth feel seen, heard, and valued. Mentorship programs, after-school activities, and community events can provide a sense of belonging and purpose.
As a Sangoma, I know the importance of addressing the root causes of pain. Our community needs access to culturally responsive mental health care, trauma-informed schools, and spaces for collective healing.
Let us challenge the glorification of violence in media and music. Let us elevate voices that inspire, uplift, and remind us of our worth.
Advocating for policy change, we need stricter gun laws, better economic opportunities, and investment in our neighborhoods. Advocacy at the local and national levels is essential.
