when violence came to our quiet street

I live in a fairly residential area that, while not technically a suburb, feels like one. Our dead-end street rarely sees much action. A bike path connects us to one of the major parkways, making it accessible to much of the city. When we moved here, we fell in love with the neighbourhood immediately. We knew it was our forever home.

I know most of my neighbours. Many of us have dogs and often chat during walks. I've always felt safe here. As my girls have gotten older, I've felt comfortable letting them go to the park—visible from our front lawn—on their own.

Last Wednesday, an incident shattered that sense of security.

As we were leaving for school last Wednesday morning, emergency vehicles came racing down the road, stopping at the last house on our side of the street by the bike path exit. My heart stopped. A lovely older couple lives there. Both my girls were immediately worried. The woman who lives there loves our dog, Theo. When the firetruck pulled away before we left, I knew it wasn't a good sign. We all left that day terribly worried.

After the school and work drop-off circuit, I made my way home to find even more police. The street had been blocked off just before our house. After being let into my driveway, I started walking toward a neighbour across from where the emergency vehicles were clustered.

"You can't go down there. You need to return to your property and go inside. This is an active crime scene," I heard from behind me.

The same police officer who'd opened the road for my driveway was now advising me that my quaint, quiet street was the scene of a suspicious death. He shared the few details he could and assured me my neighbours were safe.

As the hours passed, two detectives and another officer visited, requesting footage from our security cameras. Slowly, more details emerged, most importantly, that it was a young man who had been killed. My heart broke for the family that had lost a loved one.

By the time my kids got home around 6 PM after their extracurriculars, the street had returned to normal. It was almost as though nothing had happened. But they had lots of questions about the morning's commotion. We explained that a young man had been found dead. Initially, we didn't share too many details because so much was unknown, but people talk, conversations are overheard, and now they probably know more than I'd like my 8- and 11-year-old to know.

In the days that followed, more details emerged—stories about the young man. An Inuk man originally from Baker Lake, Joshua Qiyuk was bright, kind, and had a promising career as a chef ahead of him. With every story, post, and message I read, I couldn't help but think about his mother, his siblings, his relatives, his community. Sudden death is so difficult to grasp; I cannot imagine being left with so many unanswered questions.

Very little has been said by police about the investigation, which has been unsettling. There's been an increased police presence in the neighbourhood, ostensibly for the community's appeasement, but this is the second homicide within a 1km radius in less than a month. It does little to ease our concerns.

Many of us in the neighbourhood are on edge. There are so many unanswered questions. Our hearts break for the family that lost a young man with so much promise. We worry about our community's safety and our families after a seemingly random act of violence.

But this tragedy has also reminded me of the importance of community. We've come together as neighbours—at first exchanging information and updates, but now getting to know each other better. We're looking out for one another and each other's children, identifying what safety looks like for us as a community.

Yet, I'm acutely aware that while my sense of safety being shaken, a young Inuk man lost his life. His family has lost him forever. At a more macro-level, as a Canadian, I struggle to come to terms with the disproportionate rates of violence faced by Indigenous people. My discomfort pales in comparison to their loss. The real question isn't just how my neighbourhood heals, it's how can we build a society where bright young people like him are truly safe, where their promise can be fulfilled, where their families don't have to receive the worst possible news?

This tragedy has also changed how I talk to my daughters about safety. I can't promise them nothing bad will ever happen here. A young man's life ended on our street, just four doors from our house. My children will remember that. 

But I hope they'll also remember that in the aftermath, people came together. That as a community we grew closer. To me, the only response to such senselessness is to build more connection, not less.