In West Philly, circle of violence ends predictably

The first time Saleem Nurid-Din heard gunfire on his Overbrook street, it was the sound of the shots that killed his daughter.

Hafeezah Nurid-Din was struck by stray bullets fired in an endless fight between neighborhood street crews in October 2011, a spate of shootings maddening in their frequency and their triviality. Symbolic of the violence that cycles through some Philadelphia neighborhoods seemingly without end.

When the shooting started, Hafeezah and her father were getting into his car for a short trip to the grocery store.

Hafeezah was 31, a schoolteacher and a mother of four, including a 10-month-old boy. She had only recently achieved her dream of opening her own elementary school. She had her mind set on a doctorate.

Neighbors helped Saleem load his dying daughter into his car. Her sister cradled her in the backseat.

He dreams of her now. She is near, and he calls her name and then he remembers that God has called her to Him. Through the Lord's mercy, he says, his grief has become bearable.

Saleem again heard gunfire on his street a few weeks ago. This time, the retired SEPTA station manager was lying down, watching afternoon TV when the shooting started. His mind immediately went to his dead daughter and the night she died.

He did not know that the shots this time had claimed the life of the man who police say started the violence that claimed his daughter.

Down the street, Mikal Powell-Miller had been shot four times. He died in the arms of one of his brothers.

His killer has not yet been arrested. Police said the killing was not related to the shooting that killed Hafeezah. They say they believe it is linked to another murder.

Powell-Miller's grandmother spoke with me on her step on Tuesday. She said her grandson was loved by his family and neighborhood. Her family is lost in grief, she said. Then one of Powell-Miller's brothers came outside and ended the conversation.

Powell-Miller's death, just feet from where Hafeezah died, completes, in a way, a circle of violence.

Powell-Miller, 25, was a member of a crew from 58th Street, police say. In January 2011, police said he lured a 54th Street crew member named Anthony Shelley to a playground and shot him in the face, nearly killing him. The shooting stemmed from drugs and a decades-old feud between the crews.

In August of 2011, just as Anthony Shelley was scheduled to testify against Powell-Miller, gunmen fired 20 bullets into his home. Bullets whizzed over the heads of his younger brother and sisters.

Shelley and his brother, Daniel, then 18, told me at the time they lived by the code of the street. They didn't need the police. They would get their revenge.

A few months later, Daniel pedaled up to 58th and Malvern, where Powell-Miller's friends were - where Hafeezah and her father were walking to their car - and opened fire. The bullets found only Hafeezah, the teacher who had recently established a private elementary school.

Justice was delivered for Hafeezah. Daniel Shelley pleaded guilty to her killing and was given 22 1/2 to 45 years in prison.

But at Powell-Miller's 2013 trial, Anthony Shelley took the stand and stared out into rows crowded with Powell-Miller's friends and family and people from the neighborhood. He said he no longer knew who shot him. Powell-Miller smiled as he walked free.

Trouble surrounded Powell-Miller still. An assault-rifle shooting that injured his brother, Erik - the one who would cradle him as he died. A murderer who, knowing the Powell-Millers' reputation, tried to pin his crime - the shooting of a special-needs man for his headphones - on Powell-Miller's brothers.

Then, a few Thursdays ago, Saleem heard those shots that startled him from his afternoon rest.

He did not know that the man who had died so close to where his daughter had been killed four years ago held so close a connection to her death.

The news saddened him, he said. It was pitiful, he said, the ease with which young men today take lives. He spoke of his daughter's goals - the school she opened that closed after her death despite her family's efforts. He spoke of how he cries sometimes when he sees his grandchildren, some who still ask for their mother. He spoke about his dreams of her, still.

He was sorry, he said, for the dead man's family. For the pain he knows will come.

215-854-2759@MikeNewall