In Buxton, where I grew up, it is the custom of the Anglican Church to sound a bell to indicate the death of a person. Every time you heard that bell, you wondered who had died, or, if you knew beforehand, you would often reflect on their life.
On Saturday when I saw the images of Marlon Fredericks, especially the one where his face is bloodied and he is staring into the camera, as a city constable has his hand around his neck and another man appeared to be saying something to him while placing handcuffs on him, for some reason I thought of the sound of the bell and then the slow beat of a drum. The image reminded me of men marching to their demise. It reminded me of Africans in chains during the Atlantic slave trade and more recently in Libya. Men drowning in their own blood because of the faults of the system. In Marlon’s eyes, I saw a man who was tormented yet focused, as if staring the monsters in the eyes. That image was after he was brutally beaten by the man handcuffing him. A video revealed Marlon being kicked repeatedly in his face. I wondered about the anger of the man who did the kicking. Was it personal for him, whatever offence Marlon was accused of committing? Was Marlon paying for the frustration of the abuser? What could justify someone repeatedly kicking a defenceless, crouching man? It was difficult to watch. But just when the night was over and the hours began to slip by on Sunday, flashes of the images would not allow me peace of mind.