Liberians came to Philly to escape war. Now our children are being shot.

I had not seen my friend Jonah Wamah for years until I met him recently in Southwest Philadelphia. We hugged, sat down, and filled each other in about our lives. When it was his turn, he told me that last July, his son, Joseph, was one of the alleged victims of Kimbrady Carriker, who is facing charges of engaging in a killing spree in the Kingsessing section of Southwest Philadelphia that ended five lives. He was devastated; as he talked about what happened, he began to cry.

I hugged him again. Sadly, I could relate to his story.

I told him that my nephew, Kafumba Kanneh, was murdered just weeks ago on May 9, also in Southwest Philadelphia, at 61st Street and Passyunk Avenue. That night, I happened to be driving toward the Passyunk Avenue bridge that connects with 61st Street when I saw a police barricade. I had no idea there was any gun violence in the area; I simply took another route to my destination in South Philadelphia. In the morning, I was shocked to learn that my nephew had been killed, right near where I had been driving.

Like me, my friend Jonah immigrated to Philadelphia from Liberia. We met here through other members of the Liberian expat community, many of whom made Southwest Philadelphia their new home.

I moved to the U.S. in 1995 and landed in the Bronx; I transferred to Philadelphia in 2000 as a member of the U.S. Navy.

Like many other people in West Africa, we came to the U.S. after surviving years of war in our home country, looking for a refuge to escape such violence. Just since the fall, community organizers estimate 1,000 people from Mauritania, Guinea, Liberia, and other West African countries have come to Philadelphia seeking asylum, most settling in Southwest Philadelphia.

For people born in West Africa, coming to the U.S. feels like a dream come true, a place to escape the armed factions at home, fighting for political and territorial control. The last thing on our minds was worrying about getting shot in the streets of our new home.

But yet, that is what’s happening. My nephew and Jonah’s son are simply part of the annual statistics of gun violence in the city: another weekend, another murder. More than 130 people have been shot and killed in the city this year so far. And people here seem to shrug their shoulders, acting like death from gun violence is normal.

Of course, as immigrants, life has not been easy. During the late ‘90s and early 2000s, there were many fights between young Liberian refugees and their peers, predominantly African Americans. We were both Black, but Liberians’ accents and different ways of living made us stand out. But thanks to interventions from both the African and African American communities — in-school programs, after-school programs, and community events designed to reduce violence — tensions eased.

Those of us born in West Africa may still feel more allegiance to other West Africans than African Americans, and spend most of our time in our community, but we have learned to live alongside each other. Communal tensions between Africans and African Americans are largely a thing of the past.

Our children’s lives have followed a different trajectory. Most of them were born here, have no accents, and dress and live just like their African American counterparts; they attend the same schools in the same neighborhoods. And they are now both parts of the negative statistics of gun violence.

The shooting death of my nephew felt like a shock wave in our community, in Philadelphia and beyond. Friends and families from as far as Minnesota came to attend his funeral. His father came in from Liberia.

Now, as a community, I’m hearing more and more West Africans talking about what we can do to prevent our young people from falling victim to the never-ending gun violence. Saving our kids has to be part of the agenda of our various community organizations.

As many of us are busy working to pay bills and take care of friends and families in Africa, our children are left to figure a lot on their own. Sometimes we don’t engage them in meaningful conversation about their future — their schooling, their careers, and how to be careful about who they are friends with. As parents, we are competing with our kids’ friends for their attention. If we are not engaging them positively, they may be having different conversations on the streets, which often results in the kind of gun violence we are witnessing today. Talking to our kids won’t be enough to solve the gun violence crisis, but it’s a great start.

In addition, the West African community should no longer keep silent on gun violence. We must approach it as individuals at home and through our community organizations, which should engage our kids in activities such as summer programs, so they understand they are part of a vibrant culture.

As immigrants, we made the hard decision to come to this country to create a better future for our families who were not able to make the journey. Our children are that legacy. They are the future we are struggling to build. We must do everything we can to save them.

Nvasekie Konneh is a writer and author of two books of poetry, “Going to War for America” and “The Love of Liberty Brought Us Together,” and “The Land of My Father’s Birth,” a memoir of the Liberian civil war.