It is now 31 years since the death of my son Stephen. Thirty-one years during which I have witnessed countless young people being knifed and shot on Britain’s streets, and seen the devastation that has been wrought on the families of those sons and daughters murdered in their youth.
While my story will resonate with others whose lives have been changed irrevocably, and whose grief has no ending, each story is unique. Mine has been shaped not only by Stephen’s brutal and untimely death, but by the long fight for justice and to expose the failings of the Metropolitan police. It has also been shaped by the institutional racism identified in the Macpherson report (1999) – and by the enduring disbelief that complete strangers could attack and kill my son for no reason other than their hatred of black people.
From the outset, it was evident that the police were less interested in identifying my son’s killers and securing a conviction than they were in positioning Stephen and his friend as potential criminals.
In April 1993 my life was changed for ever. My eventual decision to relocate to Jamaica for most of the year was driven by the pain of loss and by feeling unable to freely walk the streets of the city where my son was slaughtered. I wanted to be near where Stephen is buried, and hoped that a return to the country of my birth would afford me some solace.
In making that decision I left behind treasured friends and family. I inevitably worry about the safety of my children and grandchildren, and in the early days before I relocated I feared for my own life, having faced death threats and having had to move out from my home.
I find no real joy in life, and will not do so until justice for Stephen has been achieved. I am weary from the constant struggle to secure such justice.
Despite the kindness of friends, my life is empty and lonely. I am apart from my family and I miss them. You do not “get over” the death of a treasured child. When that death cannot even be rationalised by illness, serious accident or by the conviction of all those involved in a murder, the capacity to “move on” is limited.
But my story is also one of hope and tenacity. As well as being involved in the pursuit of justice for Stephen, I have spent much of the past 30 years going into schools and colleges to counteract negative stereotypes of black people and communities, and to discuss with young people the impact of knife crime, prejudice and hatred. I have been able to quietly support other families, especially black families, who have experienced the murder of their child or other loved ones. The learning from the investigation into Stephen’s death has made it a little easier for such families to challenge the police. It is part of my desire to draw something positive from Stephen’s murder.
I have “let go” of my anger towards Stephen’s killers and found forgiveness, because anger and bitterness are corrosive. I can find no such forgiveness towards the Met. This is not simply because of how they treated my family in the aftermath of Stephen’s murder, or even their failure to secure convictions. It is because, year after year, the racism embedded within the Met has been exposed – most recently by Louise Casey’s report last year into its standards of behaviour and internal culture. For 30 years I have been caught up in a swirl of miscommunication, untruths, inaction and indifference – 30 years of broken promises, apologies and false hope. Thirty years of fighting for the truth and to see fundamental change. As a result I have been unable to “come to terms” with Stephen’s murder or even to properly grieve. I do not say these things in order to attack an institution that is striving to change, but to identify the human cost of this.
I am now in my autumn years. I should be relaxing, spending time with grandchildren and looking back with a certain contentment on the achievements of my life. I have been denied that chance just as surely as Stephen’s killers denied me my son.
There has been a decision to review the Met’s handling of new evidence concerning a further potential murder suspect identified by the BBC last year. I expect to be part of the discussions about the composition of the panel, including the participation of a known and trusted independent observer. This is because I have little reason to believe in the integrity of a process in which the Met is involved, given my experience with the force over the past three decades. I want to have confidence in the review and to feel that it has a genuine purpose and full independence. This can be achieved only through the participation of an observer in whom l have full trust.
As my son lay dying, I doubt that the young men responsible gave a moment’s thought to the consequences of their actions. When individual police officers treated me and my family with such cruel indifference in the aftermath of Stephen’s death, I equally doubt that they would have given a moment’s thought as to how their behaviour eventually exposed the failings of the Met, their treatment of black families and the policing of black communities in general.
Stephen’s death, and the determination of his family, has been a catalyst for change – however small and lumbering those changes might be.
Neville Lawrence OBE is an anti-racism campaigner
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