Prudence Gentles (left), coordinator for Crime Stop, collects a cheque for $100,000 from Karin Cooper, corporate affairs and marketing manager of the Gleaner Company. The cheque was presented to Miss Gentles as payment for the arrest of a suspect in the murder of Oksana Douglas, who was featured in THE STAR's Hunt For Child Killers Campaign last year. Looking on is Dwayne Gordon, Star Editor. The presentation took place at The Gleaner. - Andrew Smith/Photography Editor

This is written from a heart broken by the deaths of so many in the name of madness, but ever hopeful that love and good sense will finally make a change for the future for our children. This is addressed to all gunmen, gun-boys, those who supply them, those who cover them, those who condone them, those who encourage them, those who pay them, be it in the name of politics, robbery, drugs, scams, whatever, the results are still the same. Wherever you aim a gun, the bullet has no eyes, it blindly hits where it hits and people die, children die.

In the name of the children of Jamaica, I beg you all the above, to put down the guns - let's have an election that shows how much we love our children, how much we love Jamaica, let the politicians sit together and battle it out on the debating floor, on issues that affect the country, most of all the children (they ultimately pay the price), and not battle it out on the streets of the communities they seek to 'represent', which in truth, they will rarely tread, once they are in power.

So many sad goodbyes - the saddest has to be Baby Devonte Lawler (three years) and Oksana 'Shaday' Douglas (seven years) - murdered in drive-by shootings.

Taken away

Devonte, a sweet boy with a slight lisp - a smile as wide as the Nile and a scowl as long - a laugh that shook his whole body, short and strong; a boy who would go places because he had a confidence and a quiet determination, wiped out, taken away, erased. And who but his family and a small handful even remember his name.

Oksana 'Shaday' Douglas, sweet, sweet Shaday - bright as a button, sharp as a razor and oh, her laugh. It began as a rumble deep in her belly, rolling up her chest where it gurgled up her throat to trickle off her tongue. Her eyes bright, whether sad, angry, happy, her eyes always sparkled. But she will no longer smile or scowl at anyone, no longer tugging at the back of my skirt with her constant 'Miss Moira' - I miss that, for all the new babies since, I miss Shaday.

Our first meeting was way back in 2002, too young to be there, but determined to be in "school". "Little girl, where are going?" "School, Miss". "What are you going to do in school?" "Learn, Miss". "A little girl like you can learn?" "Yes Miss, mi bright yuh know!" All with a determination that said she meant it.

I last heard her laugh, December 20, 2005, the whole afternoon she was behind me, chattering - "Miss Moira", Miss Moira", every minute until I turned, smiling, "Little girl, wha' happen, you feel say me a yuh muddah?" Hands on hips, she rocked back on her heels "But Miss Myra, yuh nuh everybody muddah?" Her laughter rumbled and trickled for ages, she would always make you laugh, always lighten and brighten any situation. That was Shaday.

Shooting on Tower Avenue

On December 22, I was out with a group of the children to Sonia's Homestyle. She had invited ten of our children to a Christmas dinner. We were waiting for the cab to go home, a phone call came, there was some shooting on Tower Avenue. I rang into the community to be told there had been a drive-by. Six injured, two of them children. Police not yet on scene.

I rang Hunts Bay, had they dispatched any units to Tower Avenue yet? A female voice told me "Yes, and you can tell them the baby is dead." She hung up. In shock not just at the news but the way it was delivered. One of my babies, as everyone calls them my 'pickney', gone, my belly bottom began to hurt, to burn. I have to take my children home, then find out what happened, which baby. Who? If only whoever was one of these children chosen to come tonight, if only, if only, a thousand if onlys, and all now I still didn't know who.

I took the children to their homes and walked with dread to the yellow police tape across the road, Little Tower Avenue to Jasmin Avenue. Richshena, shot in the back, mum and family gone to Kingston Public Hospital (KPH) with her. Shaday, dead, which Shaday? My mind couldn't take it in - it couldn't be - it couldn't be. The wrench of my heart told me yes, but my mind didn't want to accept the knowledge that the pain in my chest and belly told me was so. Where's Alice, where's Miss Pam? Gone to KPH, I can't do anything for them tonight, just make sure my numbers were available and went home, no sleep, but a rest of sorts, back on the road by 6 a.m.

I was not looking forward to this day, not one bit. I broke down as I hugged Miss Pam, deep heavy sobs that rocked us both, a pair of grandmothers in shock, in pain, drawing strength from one another as we went to Madden's to set about enquiring how to sort out the arrangements. As we were ready to leave, Shaday was over from KPH, would I like to see her, no, I wouldn't like, but I have to. Amazingly, she looks asleep, a little graze to her forehead where she dropped, still in her skirt and frilly socks, her chest bare. What looks like 'weal' marks, like someone had whipped her chest, the paths of the shot under skin, didn't look like much damage, but 24 pieces of shot shredded her little heart. I kissed her goodbye, the last I would see her whole, next time was January 15, 2006, the morning of her funeral.

I met Miss Pam at the house 7:30, collected my T-shirt and button and waited while her clothes were put together - like a princess.

We arrived at Taylor's before they were ready for us, but we didn't have to wait long and if you ever want to know that God is real and He will never give you more than you can bear, know it through this which I write, not to shock but to look at the reality that some mother, father, grandmother, aunt, sibling, friend, has to endure when a life is taken like this, a last act of love and farewell to this most beloved of children.

Prayed hard for strength

Now, I am a lady who can cope with most things, but I prayed hard for the strength to step forward and do what had to be done. I stepped forward into the preparation area, Shaday lay on a metal gurney, only not Shaday this time, she was smaller, her nose pointed, her little chest, a huge jagged 'Y' shape sown roughly back in place. I prayed harder, and like a light switching on, everything was different, Shaday again, asleep, so I spoke to her softly as we plugged her openings, wrapped to a board to support her as the day wore on, wrap her chest and injured arm, first in newspaper and then polythene, then satin, white satin, all to prevent leakage as she thaws through the day, dust on talc, put on panties, white merino, your princess dress, matching shoes and handbag (with $100 for ice cream), long satin gloves and your 'beanie' puppy. I leave them to set you in your casket, then I come back to fix your hair, but I can't do what I want because the hair is lifting from the scalp, so I just pat it down and set your headdress to cover it, now you look like a princess. Bye, bye, baby girl.

Back to the centre, blow up balloons, pink and white, carry them around to the house until the hearse comes. You are set up on the side, under the canvas. For one last time the children flock to see you and say goodbye, Nicholas your brother, holding it together, he's good at that. We hug, I feel his pain added to my own, and it's unbearable, I want to scream and shout and go on like I see others able to, but Nicholas and I know we just have to hold it together - for today.

One last goodbye kiss before they close your casket and I get through your eulogy. Mr. Fraser played his sax, but I couldn't witness them lay you in the earth, I held back there, sorry baby girl, it was too much for me, and so we said goodbye, one last time.

Love always.