We Almost Died For This

It was the last night of our shoot in Chicago, and we were missing the final piece of the documentary. We came to film the city’s underworld: the drugs, the fast cars, the projects, the gangsters. We had everything except the guns…

Frustrated, Ali and I said something half-joking to our driver and now friend, Tye (not his real name): “Man, where are all the guns people rap about?”

Tye told us everyone was on edge. A month earlier, a rap video showing men flashing firearms had been used by the Feds to raid O’Block. Dozens were arrested. Many would spend a long time in federal prison.

Then he paused.
“But if y’all really wanna see some, I can take you. But we goin’ to the trenches.”

It was the first time I saw nervousness in his eyes, though I wouldn’t fully register it until later.

Ali didn’t hesitate. “Let’s do it.”

We drove west toward Cicero in a blacked-out Escalade with stars in the ceiling and Level 2 body armor. In our heads, that meant we were safe.

We stopped in a neighborhood that looked ordinary, classic Chicago layout. Two rows of homes facing a shared green space, one-way traffic looping the block. If someone circled too many times, you noticed.

Out of nowhere, Malik, Tye’s contact, walked up. Eyes wide. One hand gripping his waist.

“What’s good,” he said, scanning behind him. “If shit goes down, stay behind me.”

We followed him into the one-way street.

Tye’s phone buzzed.
“Look left at the next intersection. Two just got popped.”

As we passed, red and blue lights lit up the avenue. A shooting had just happened— two teenagers killed minutes before we arrived.

We learned how it works. Opps cruise rival territory waiting for someone to slip up. If they catch you outside, they hop out with AR pistols and unload. The streets call it “Swiss cheese.”

A few minutes later, we parked. Malik told us to get out.

The cold was dead quiet, the kind that keeps people inside. Gravel crunched under distant footsteps. Someone hurried to their car and sped off.

We tried getting into an apartment building for lighting. The tension rose. Questions were asked.

“You a cop?”

Before we could answer, a black Jeep slammed its brakes in front of us, rolled forward, then sped off, looping the block.

Malik pulled his pistol and chambered a round.

“Get behind me.”

Ali and I locked eyes. I put my hand on the alley gate, ready to run.

The Jeep returned, stopping this time in front of a woman carrying groceries. Then it disappeared again.

Eventually, more of Malik’s people arrived. The door opened. We got inside. We got the shot.

Later, we learned the black Jeep matched the description of the suspects from the earlier shooting.

We almost died that night.

I don’t glorify this. I don’t think it’s cool. But it changed how I see things, and the lesson didn’t land until the next day, standing in one of Chicago’s wealthiest neighborhoods, watching men insulated from real danger equate their struggles with those born into violence, gangs, and death.

Chicago has a higher-than-average murder rate. Nearly everyone I spoke with had lost someone close, often young.

One of the hardest realities here is that people aren’t given time to process death. Life doesn’t pause and responsibility doesn’t stop because you’re grieving.

Writing this, I feel like I’m straddling two worlds.

I come from a culture where trauma sits at the center of identity. Where pain becomes something to endlessly examine. That framework has value, but it can become a trap. Over-identifying with wounds can keep people circling their problems instead of living.

Then there’s the other world. The one I just sat in. Trauma healing isn’t formalized. Processing isn’t a luxury. If something happens to you, you face it, and you keep moving.

There’s a cost to that approach. Unprocessed damage leaks. But there’s also a truth these men understand deeply:

• Motion matters.

• Life requires action.

• Forward movement is non-negotiable.

When you over-identify with your problems, you get stuck. You start manufacturing new ones to reinforce a trauma-shaped identity. The mud becomes familiar.

The lesson is twofold:

• You are not your problems. Address them, then move forward.

• If a pattern keeps returning, stop and look at it. Walk through the fire. That’s how you put it out.

Never stop learning.

Below is a video that I helped produce with Ali covering Immigration in the U.S. Here you will see us:

• Visit An ICE protest in L.A.

• Visit The Deportee Slum in Tijuana

• Search for missing and presumed dead immigrants in two different regions of Texas

• Find the remains of a missing immigrant- we shared this with his family and were able to bring them closure from their tragic loss