Anger and Armed Robbery

It’s 4:48 AM.   I can’t sleep because I am angry.

The baby woke me up, inexplicably, at 3:30 AM.  Middle of the night wakings are not his style.  He prefers a straight 12 hours of sleep, thank you very much.

While waiting for him to chatter his way back to sleep, Ismael came running into the bedroom.  He wasn’t due home from work until 7 or 8 this morning.  He was chattering too, but it wasn’t a good story.

He was robbed tonight at gunpoint.  They took his wallet, his money, his backpack, his cell phone, and my fragile sense of security.  At least, they chose not to take his life.

I have hated Ismael’s work for a long time now.  Like many African immigrants in Indianapolis he has been working as a taxi driver.  In fact 90% of the drivers in our city are African Muslims, like Ismael.  The barriers to entry are low and you can earn a living.  It’s not a good living that offers benefits, promotions, or vacation pay, but you can survive.  Barely.

I understand why immigrants work these kinds of jobs.  Getting something better, even before the recession, is not always easy.  So  many jobs that pay a decent wage require some kind of education: either vocational, technical, or academic.  Those requirements are huge barriers to immigrants who come with little money and have no access to student loans and/or grants.  Ismael originally came to go to school and had to drop out after learning how expensive it was.  He went to work instead and eventually married a wonderful woman and had a beautiful baby. (yes, shameless self promotion here.  It makes me feel a little better.)

I have hated this job for a myriad of reasons, but mainly because his long hours have destroyed any kind of routine family life that we once had.  He works long hours, 12 hours a day, usually 6 days a week.  He works all night and every night I sleep alone.  I thought about demanding that he work days instead, but I realized that if he worked 7 am to 7 pm then he would never, ever see his son.  That doesn’t seem like a fair demand just to prevent me from being lonely.

In the back of my mind, I am always worried about his safety.  I worry that he will be in a bad accident.  I worry that he will be robbed.  I worry that he will be in the wrong place at the wrong time.  I just worry.  I call him in the night whenever I wake up and as long as I can get him on the phone, I feel better, safer.  When he comes home every morning?  I am relieved deep in my soul.  And when he gets the baby and let’s me sleep? I’m in heaven!

I wasn’t relieved to see him this morning.  I could tell right away something was wrong.

The first time these people requested a ride, he cancelled the run because the number they gave didn’t work.  The second time they called, he was able to reach them by phone, so it seemed like a normal, safe run and he went.  He pulled up to the address in the apartment complex and two men got into his cab.

They showed him a gun.

Demanded his money.  Took his wallet.  His bag.  His phone. The car keys.

He pushed the emergency button in the cab.  If he didn’t call the dispatcher within five minutes, the company would use the car’s GPS to locate him and send the police.

The two men left the cab with items that they didn’t work for, that didn’t belong to them, that they stole, and got into a waiting white van with another man and two women.

A Somali man who was nearby helped Ismael call the police and me.  For some reason, my phone turned itself off in the middle of the night and he couldn’t reach me to come get him.  A kind tow truck driver brought him home.

For their trouble the thieves got a phone that we will report stolen, a debit card that we have already turned off, a drivers’ license that will be an enormous pain in the butt to replace, and $100 that should have gone toward our phone bill and maybe a family dinner out tonight.

I hope they are satisfied.

I hope they get caught.

I hope they choke on their food, drugs, or whatever they buy with OUR money.

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