Jabbari W. recounts the story of how his brother was diagnosed with a mental illness, the impact it had on his family and the police shooting that changed everything. His brother can not be identified under the Youth Criminal Justice Act.

On an early summer morning in July 2012, my brother was shot by the police. He attempted to rob a veterinary clinic. Masked in a bandana and carrying a plastic toy gun, he demanded that personnel give him a poisonous substance in an attempt to end his life. After police were called to the scene an officer said he saw him drawing his weapon. Eight bullets were fired into my brother; two of which hit his liver and lungs.

I often think a lot about that moment. The officer has my brother in his line of sight, pulls the trigger not oncebut eight times. And before the final one lands I wonder what my brother was thinking. Why was he there? Did he want to die? Were the voices in his head too much to bear, or maybe I was, as I showed him nothing but impatience for the last few years. You see, my brother has Asperger’s syndrome and schizophrenia.

Growing up, my brother and I were pretty much joined at the hip, going as far as calling ourselves the “terrorsome two-o.” He was my little brother and he always did what he felt was right, while I would coerce him into testing my mischievous theories. Exhibit A: Examining the strength of tissue paper by lighting it on fire. I suppose “terrorsome” really was an appropriate title, however, our bond started to deteriorate as he grew older.

No matter how hard I try, I can never pinpoint when I started noticing changes in his behaviour. There was no “aha” moment. It was like his issues quietly settled in and became a part of the family. One day, he would talk about dogs chasing him that weren’t there, the next day, he would talk about people in the shadows, following him from school. However, I didn’t really think anything was particularly wrong until I overheard a conversation between my parents and a specialist where the phrase “positive symptoms” was mentioned. According to the specialist, the delusions and hallucinations my brother seemed to be experiencing were behaviours that are usually not present in other people. After a quick internet search, I discovered that there was also a thing called negative symptoms which were absent behaviours like decreased motivation and social withdrawal that are harder to identify. More importantly, I realized that these terms were usually associated with people who have schizophrenia.

It wouldn’t take long before his “positive” symptoms became worse as he gradually distanced himself from us. He became more obsessed with the idea of somebody watching him and he did odd things like collect bottles of liquids resembling urine in his room. For a while, I tried to reach out, asking him to play video games, go for a walk, anything! But he was so damn impenetrable.

Eventually, he was diagnosed with Asperger’s and schizophrenia and started seeing a psychiatrist once a month because his interpretation of life was different. Soon afterwards, his behaviour escalated. He started stabbing holes into walls, staring at nothing for periods of time or repeatedly yelling about how demons were haunting him. Maybe that was his negative symptoms acting up, I wasn’t too sure.

My parents tried everything, from having our house blessed with holy water to flipping through yellow pages for some charlatan that could read his fortune.  Nothing helped.

Day by day, I’d watch as attempt after attempt failed, while my resentment for my brother only grew and grew. As he pleaded for someone to eliminate the voices in his head, I ignored him. I wouldn’t be miserable like everyone else who came to his aid.  I was sure his delusions and his sporadic behaviour would land him in jail or he would just keel over and die.  Illness or not, in my mind he was driving the family apart and I wanted him gone. Today, I wish I knew more about his illness and I wish I didn’t give up on him.  

I was at a friend’s house when my sister called to tell me my brother had been shot and to come to the hospital. Was he dead? Alive? I didn’t care. I arrived there feeling completely indifferent. Shortly afterwards, my sisters, parents, and I were called in for a briefing by the Special Investigations Unit. They asked us if we had any guns at home. No. Owned any pets? Nope. Did he have any mental challenges? Yes. After the question and answer period was over, they told us he was found trying to rob a veterinarian clinic. Officers responded to the call and said a confrontation took place, ending with an officer discharging several bullets. Mom asked if he was okay, the officer responded he had no details at the moment. I took that as police-talk that he was dead.

I stormed out of the room. I didn’t want to hear anything else. All I could think about was how I hadfailed him. The tears wouldn’t stop coming down. My brother, my stupid brother… why was I crying over him? I was a mess, a mish-mash of feelings with no clear picture of how I felt. I shouldn’t have given up… but after everything he put me and my family through….No, it was my duty to protect him, not push him away.

While outside the hospital, I received a phone call from my aunt. I ignored it. I knew what she was going to say and I wasn’t ready to hear it. My phone vibrated again. I couldn’t pretend anymore. I answered. She told me that my brother was in stable condition. Although cautious, the doctor said he’d be okay. I didn’t know how to feel. Could we restart everything? These thoughts churned around in my mind but I knew my attention was needed elsewhere. I went back inside.

As I entered the room, I was met with a wave of anxiety. I saw my brother lying on the hospital bed. His body played host to feeding tubes coming out his throat, chest, and arms, while blood stained bandages barely covered the bullet wounds underneath. Look at what they did to you, I thought.He’d tell me all was forgiven but I’d already heard from family he wanted to end his life. The voices were too much and he thought it best to finally silence them.

A couple of years have passed since then. I visit him every weekend at a nearby mental health clinic. We talk for a bit, before he has to cut the conversation short to spit. I’m told the new medication causes him to generate excess saliva. He tells me the voices come back in waves and I doubt they’ll leave him, but I now understand his issues and I’ll be there whenever he needs me. Sometimes, we take walks, although I’m a bit cautious since he still stiffens up when he hears police sirens. A reminder for him as much as me how close he was to death.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t also think about the officer who shot him. I imagine meeting him and asking him why my brother deserved to be shot eight times.  In my mind he’s this faceless, elusive force that becomes real every time I see my brother’s wounds. Yet the odds overwhelmingly state my brother shouldn’t be alive because of his injuries but here he is, in front of me, and it quells any feelings of hatred with those of appreciation. I recognize my brother is not faultless but he needed medication not bullets. But it was those bullets that shook me into understanding that my brother also needed me.