On December 3, 1991, when Dr. J.J.B. rushed out of the Canapevert Hospital surgery room, I was convinced that the little bundle swathed in a yellow blanket that he so preciously cradled in his arms was the baby girl I had been wishing and waiting for during the last eight months. And when my mother-in-law came to announce that I had another boy, I thought she

My wife and I decided to call him Kareem, after the famous basketball player by the same name, and Xavier, because he was born on the day of the feast of St. Francis Xavier, although I didn’t know much about this particular Saint.

I soon came to the conclusion that Kareem Xavier was special. (Of course, all children are special in their parents’ eyes….) Kareem had light gray eyes, a feature that made us all proud because his eyes were a never-ending source of compliments, one more flattering than the next. Our baby almost never cried and slept through the night. He drank his bottles without fuss and seemed always happy, charming us all with that wondrously disarming smile exclusive to infants. When he turned one, the gray of his eyes changed to a soft tamarind tint, known in Creole as ‘je lwil’ (liquid oil eyes), giving him a look of inviting tenderness. His older brother nicknamed him “Kako”.

When he became old enough to go to preschool, I took real pleasure in watching him wear his school uniform wondering what he could possibly be learning at such a young age. And whenever I brought his older brother home from grade school, or came home myself for a quick lunch, Kako always waited to eat with me. I was particularly proud because he wouldn’t let anyone but me feed him with a spoon in those days.

Then came grade school and without hesitation, Kako announced that he wanted to attend the same elementary school as his older brother. From these years, I remember only a few little incidents that only confirmed what I already knew: that Kako, this child with the soulful eyes, didn’t let anyone bully him and was ready to defend his rights. I still remember the following comment made by Mrs. M.A.B.: “Mr. Gaspard, this child is really not like his older brother, he doesn’t back down…” But he also was a very attentive and conscientious student who earned excellent grades in school. After passing with flying colors the official exams for the 6th Year Fundamental, he decided to go to the same secondary school his older brother was currently attending, as if we would have kept them apart...

As time went on, I became more and more aware of the uniqueness of this child that wasn’t my daughter, but who was just as affectionate as I imagine a daughter would have been. He got me so involved in his schoolwork that because of him, I relearned all the subjects taught in secondary school (at least up to Second Year…). “Papi, you need to explain…” he would say whenever I returned home in the evening, exhausted after a ten-hour workday followed by another hour of bottleneck traffic jam, without even giving me time to take off my shoes…

During my moments of leisure, I would often pick up a rag to clean my car, or a hammer to reinforce a nail, or a paint brush to repaint a room in our house. Without fail or hesitation, Kako would drop everything to rush and ask me, “Papi, can I help you?” And if I were by chance to say no (since there are times when a child’s ‘help’ is mostly a hindrance), it was with genuine disappointment that he would reply, “but I really want to help….”

Whenever we ate at my parents’, he would be the one to set the table. My mother had taught him to prepare his favorite dessert, ‘Charlotte à la Crème’. And soon, his Charlotte tasted even better than my mom’s (sorry, Didie!). He loved cooking and he loved Haitian cuisine. Every Saturday morning, his favorite breakfast was: corn meal mash, avocado and fresh-squeezed limonade, all of which he always prepared by himself.

Kako loved family. He often said that his favorite vacations were the last two family reunions where he got to know his many cousins of all ages living in Canada and the U.S. Kako was privileged to live and grow up close to his grandparents on both sides of the family. I remember being a little bit afraid of my own grandparents as a boy. Not so with Kako. He loved spending time with them, cajoling them, teasing them, laughing with them and was quick to lend them a helping hand whenever they needed him.

His spontaneous and unrestrained shouts of laughter, which I still hear echoing in our living room, offered a puzzling contrast with the simplicity of his demeanor and the disarming sweetness of his smile. This laughter burst out especially when he would tease us affectionately with such nicknames as ‘Papounet’, ‘Manmounet’ and ‘Fabibounet’.

Kako had two other passions in life: music and basketball. I believe that he had the potential to excel as a basketball player. His mother and I encouraged him to join his school basketball team. Unfortunately, practice days conflicted with his other passion, music lessons. Indeed, Kako loved the trumpet and started playing at a very early age. So with the very adult tone that he sometimes used when he talked to us, he one day said to his mother: “I am choosing music over basketball because music will allow me to obtain a scholarship to study abroad someday.” Kako was the only boy the Sisters of the Sacred-Heard of Turgeau ever let join in their students’ band practices. And for all intents and purposes, he became an honorary member of that band.

In a sad coincidence, a cousin of my wife had already arranged for Kako to attend music camp in Minnesota this summer. Kako was supposed to travel on Sunday, June 15, 2008. For this special occasion, he had asked his mother to buy him a Haitian flag so he could, just like Wyclef Jean, proudly represent his country at this Minnesota music camp. The flag now sits, still wrapped in his original packaging, unused, useless….

I am writing today to celebrate the life of Kareem Xavier Gaspard, my son of 16 years, tortured and assassinated on May 21, 2008. It is my way to honor him, to tell him one more time how much I love him. I want everyone to know who he was and how he lived.

I was surprised to discover how large a role religious faith played in my son’s life. I had never previously paid attention to all the religious objects he kept in his room: pious images, a porcelain crucifix, a rosary and numerous other mementos from his First Communion he reverently kept over the years. Although our family went to church every Saturday afternoon, I never knew that my son recited the Angelus every day at noon. I never knew that he engaged in religious and Biblical debates with some of his classmates…

I am writing because it helps to write. I find writing therapeutic because I now realize that I only have wonderful memories of my son Kako. And although we could never have suspected that we would lose him so soon and so horribly, his mother, his brother and I lived and shared the sixteen years that he spent on this earth with us to the fullest.

I also write to express my sincere thanks to all those who supported us throughout this ordeal. I thank our family, friends and acquaintances, neighbors, work colleagues and the media. I thank all those who prayed with us and for us, who prayed for Kako and who are still praying today. I thank all the strangers who cared. In brief, I thank all those who felt touched by this tragedy. The sincerity of your pain and the fervor of your prayers have helped us and help us still to carry this cross. As they say in Creole, ‘nou wè tot bagay, nou konnen tout bagay é nou pa bliyé. Mèsi anpil. (We see it all, we know it all and we won’t forget. Thank you so much.)

I write also to testify to the power of God and the power of love. By an inexplicable paradox, my faith has been strengthened. The first person who prayed with me told me that man’s heart was created for one of two things: love or hate. The more you hate, the less room there is in your heart for love. And the more you love, the less room you have for hate. I don’t have room in my heart for hate. That doesn’t mean, however, that I don’t want this country’s judicial system not to do its job. That doesn’t mean that I will accept divine justice and not human justice. My son’s murderers need to be apprehended, judged and convicted according to society’s laws. I will not know peace until I know why they killed my son. I have a right to know.

We need to break this infernal cycle of absolute impunity that has caused so many tears from so many mothers and fathers in this country. It is not normal that I received more support and consideration from a foreigner (a security official from an international organization), whom I had never met prior to my son’s kidnapping, than from my fellow citizens at the National Police. It is not normal that this same foreigner called to ask permission to come present his condolences while the officials at the PNH appeared to view my son only as one more statistic, one more victim…

Kako is not a statistic. He isn’t dead because he lives in me the same way he lives in the hearts of all those who knew and loved him. He flew away to ‘go to the other side’ as he was heard singing the week before he died. That is why I found some solace in the touching simplicity of the following poem from my friend, J.D.: