Thursday, July 8, 2010

A minute's thought for the mothers of the Raoul Moats of this world

As if the world does not already have its fair share of deranged pyschopaths on the loose, along comes a 37 year, old 6ft 3in, steroid pumped Godzilla who is currently prowling Britain's Northumbria countryside with the tag of Britain's most wanted man on his head as well as a £10,000 bounty for that same head.

Raoul Moat at the moment is probably not worried about himself. His violent demeanour, obsession and jealousy towards his former lover Samantha Stobbard and intense hatred for the police, have all clouded whatever good judgement he might have ever possessed. He is out to get whoever his sick head has labelled an enemy. Having so far murdered Stobbard's boyfriend Chris Brown, shot and injured Stobbart herself, critically injured a police officer (Pc David Rathbandas) in an unprovoked hate shooting and robbed a shop, Raoul is far from being concerned about his personal welfare nor that of his children or his heart broken mother.

It is totally impossible to try and fully imagine what Josephine Healey, the woman unfortunate enough to call herself Moat's mother must be going through. She has opened up to the media and even uttered words that no mother wishes they ever have to say, that her son would be better off dead. With all the buzz about helicopters and dog search parties being dispatched to hunt for Raoul Moat and high profile police snipers being instructed to shoot on sight, it surely is too much to bear for the womb that bore this cherub turned monster.

A victim herself of a death threat by Moat, Healey probably blames herself for the mess that he has become. She probably blames herself because she married the man that became step father to a young Moat, a man who tried to be a father to Moat but was never accepted by him. She probably wonders where she went wrong to the point that when her son was 19, she never knew the person that he had turned into.

There are so many Josephine Healeys out there all gazing into old photos of their sons and daughters at various stages of childhood's sweet innocence. These pain bearing mothers wish that they could extract the baby in the photograph and with it replace the grown up delinquent that sits in the dock, jail cell or electric chair. They look at the clock ticking on the wall and wish that miraculously, it could tick backwards. Their tears flow fast and more turbulently whenever they meet other mothers who weep tears of joy and pride at their offspring's great achievements and the inevitable question becomes: "Why me, why my son or daughter?"

To all the mothers in that situation, I can only say that as long as you have shown your child the best love that you could, as long as you have been there for them when they needed you, you have done your best. Blame yourself not for the bad decisions made by a grown up who had options. I hope that these words do bring some comfort though they will never be enough to heal the deep and gaping wounds of martenal hurt.

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