Say His Name; an encounter after the Minneapolis riots

SAY HIS NAME: Muhammed.
I apologize in advance for the length of this post. It is the story of an encounter from yesterday's five hour walk of our stricken city that moved me deeply. If you are looking for a one paragraph moment of humor, feel free to scroll by.

My companion physician Nina and I were walking down Lake street through areas of broken glass and smoke, areas of protestors and clean up volunteers... so much emotion everywhere. We offered help wherever we could.

As we approached the smoky destruction near I35 overpass, we saw a black man lying face down on the road, in front of a firetruck. He was bare chested, his arms behind his back as if they were tied together, while he yelled in pain. The firefighters - black, without helmets or weapons - seemed befuddled, upset and unsure of what to do. They were trying to talk to him, asking him to be safe, to get out from under the truck, to move to a calmer area. He wouldn’t respond. Face down on the pavement. Howling. Writhing.

A white photographer was hovering near the man, shooting photos as if he were a tourist (no press ID that I saw, just a bystander). A crowd was gathering on the corner to watch and cell phones were out, ready to record mistreatment. This scene was going nowhere good.

I was originally trained (almost 40 years ago! Lord, I am old!) as an EMT, and have responded to similar situations before; I know there are risks, and choices to be made, in that response. Now I'm also an experienced physician, a trained health coach/counselor, and (always) a Jew inspired by the ethics of building interfaith alliances, and of the OBLIGATION of respect and dignity toward my fellow man.

So I took my own pulse first. I moved in to assess if he was ok. I shooed off the smiling photographer.

As I moved in, realized the man’s arms weren’t tied at all. He was intentionally trying to make a statement, by reenacting George Floyd's posture. He was howling with a need to express emotion. He had no words, so he was speaking with his body.

I scooted in closer, to see if he seemed medically ok. I knelt beside him as he yelled, “They must hear me! They must hear me!” He was beyond further language, caught in his moment of anger and grief and despair.

So I lay down parallel to him and took a slow deep breath.

And I asked him his name. What is your name?
(say his name.)

Muhammed, he said.
As-Salam Alaikum, Muhammed, I said.
He took a breath and replied, Wa 'alaykum al-salaam.

I let the silence sit for a moment. He took a breath.

Muhammed, can you turn your head to breathe easier? Can you look at me?
No! They must hear me….
Muhammed, I don’t want to see one more black man hurt or suffering. I am here with you.

He stopped howling. He took a breath.

I asked him if had celebrated Ramadan and wished him a belated Eid Mubarak. I asked if his family was well.

He has a name. He has a family. He has a faith.
(Say his name.)

Silence. We both breathed, silently. I thought he might yell at me about George Floyd, that he might hate me as a white authority figure, that the crowd might yell at me to leave him alone. But there was some power in asking his name. He has a name.

He turned his head then. He looked at me with bloodshot eyes, with sweat coating his face. And in broken English, he said

YOU SEE HOW RED MY EYES! I have been crying all night! They are burning down my city!

This was his voice. Of pain. Of anger. Of outrage over the looting of his city. He needed us to hear him.

My eyes welled up. I told him I was crying with him. The firefighter, kneeling over us, put his arm on Muhammed’s shoulder and shared that he lived in the city as well, that he was feeling pain as well.

Muhammed breathed. He breathed. He breathed. In that minute of all of us breathing together, there was God.

Muhammed quietly said, i am ready to get up now. Will you sit with me? Will you be with me?

Of course.

We walked, together, the three of us, to the curb. We held each other (yes, I let myself breach the social distancing that would have protected me from the possible exposure to COVID virus). The three of us embraced. Muhammed cried, exhausted, held by a white physician and a black firefighter.

And then he breathed again.

God was in that moment, folks.

In our bubble of connection, we did not see how angry the surrounding crowd had become, assuming I was out to do Muhammed harm. Nina was trying to convince them otherwise, trying to calm the crowd. I wonder if the cellphone wielding bystanders may have felt some disappointment to see the un-newsworthy embrace, which did not fit a narrative of brutality. It spoke of love. It spoke of breathing. And of tears.

I am all right now, he said. I gave him my card and told him he could call me if he needed me.

And then Muhammed walked down the street to the rally at LynLake, He took the bullhorn and told his story of rage and pain.

Say his name.
Muhammed.
A black man - any man - should not have to die for us to say his name.

He needed to be heard.
So we need to listen. We need to ask What is your name? without requiring martyrdom. We need to listen to stories. We need to listen to voices that howl, and rage, without needing to close our ears or eyes.

Barrakallah, Muhammed. I gave you my number but never got your full name. I thank you for your courage and your voice. Go with God.