Melinda Abdallah

Dec 9, 2024 | chicagoreader.com | Melinda Abdallah

This story was originally published by The Trace, a nonprofit newsroom covering gun violence in America. Sign up for its newsletters here. Melinda Abdallah is a Native Chicana, currently living in Wisconsin. She’s worked as a packer at a large worldwide facility but is currently an at-home nana and wife while healing from an injury. She is an activist advocating against gun violence in the Little Village community.

Dec 6, 2024 | thetrace.org | Melinda Abdallah

Skip to content Close Gun violence journalism that informs and empowers. Your gift makes The Trace’s reporting possible. Give today to sustain our work. Donate Now Investigating gun violence in America. Donate Melinda Abdallah Melinda Abdallah is a Native Chicana, currently living in Wisconsin. She’s worked as a packer at a large worldwide facility but is currently an at-home Nanna & wife while healing from an injury.

Dec 6, 2024 | thetrace.org | Melinda Abdallah |Joy Resmovits

The Trace On November 10, 2019, my son Jacob woke up early, did laundry, and finished painting the room he and his girlfriend were preparing for the birth of their first child. A few hours later, he was shot while driving in Little Village. It was the middle of the day. Five years later, I know he was the unintended target, but I still don’t know who did it.

Dec 6, 2024 | thetrace.org | Rita Oceguera |Joy Resmovits |Melinda Abdallah

The Trace Melinda Abdallah’s son Jacob was shot while driving in Little Village in 2019. In the hospital, detectives questioned his motives for being in the area, and treated his fiancé with disrespect, Abdallah said. The officers’ demeanor changed when they learned that Jacob had grown up not in Little Village, but in the Chicago suburb of Round Lake Beach. Little Village is a predominantly Spanish-speaking community that faces a high number of shootings.

Dec 5, 2024 | thetrace.org | Jessica Brown |Juan Felipe Rendon |Juan F. Rendón |Estela Diaz |Melinda Abdallah

The Trace On an unseasonably warm night this past September, the room was quiet. The only thing the seven people sitting around the table knew about each other was that their lives had been marked by gun violence. That’s how it all started — seven survivors, gathering in Bronzeville every month to tell their stories as the streetlights glowed to life, casting yellow halos through the large conference room windows.