Blood on the Door
Violence came to my doorstep, again. This time I met the victim.
I was just turning off the computer for the night, a little after midnight, when I noticed that the security light at the front door was on. Looking out the upper floor window I could not see anyone, so assumed a passing cat had set off the light. Then the door-bell rang, twice.
The windows looking out on the porch are occluded glass (I think the American term is ‘frosted’), so I could only make out a blurry outline of someone standing at the door. I called out, ‘Who is it, and what do you want?’, in a tone meant to convey suspicion and distrust. The response was, ‘I’m injured, and need some help.’
I looked carefully, to see if there was more than one person, in case it was a set-up. But, the tone of voice sounded convincing enough. I opened the door. A man stood there with bloody hands.
The story I heard in the next few minutes was this: he was walking home from his girl-friend’s house when three black men started chasing him. He finally got away by climbing over a wall just opposite our house—but the wall had barbed wire at the top. Thus, his hands were injured.
I got him in my car, and took him to A&E (ER), just five minutes’ away. It was the simplest thing to do. And, I was home and in bed within fifteen minutes of hearing the doorbell ring.
If you look closely at the picture above, you can see his blood on the door. Not a lot, though. The young man will recover quickly. I lost no sleep.
Ours is a violent world. News reports offer ample evidence every day of this fact. Terrorist acts are common occurrence in some parts; internal war is waged in many parts. For middle-class Westerners like me, this news is part of the morning rituals, alongside the mug of coffee and a flick through the on-line newspapers. The violence happens. I pour another cupful of coffee.
Seldom does it come to our neighbourhoods; certainly not our own doorsteps. Not even 9/11 happened near me.
But, my friend Leo, from the Congo, hears the news stories differently than I do. Violence came to his door one night, and he jumped out a back window to escape it, and ended up in my city, and my church. The tiny streak of blood on my door is nothing in comparison; the pounding came to his family’s door another time, and his wife had to flee for her life. His parents and child still await a time when he can return home, still fear the pounding on the front door.
It seems we do not really sit up and take notice until the blood is at our own door.
default - 
