When Compassion Fails: Utica’s Bureaucratic Response to the Killing of Nyah Mway

Note about sources: The sources for this article wished to be kept anonymous for their privacy. 

On June 28, 2024, thirteen-year-old Nyah Mway, a Karen refugee, was shot and killed by Utica police. What followed in the days and months after his death was a tragedy of loss and the failure of the greater Utica community to support Mway’s family. In the year since the shooting, official responses have largely compounded the tragedy: the New York Attorney General decided not to press charges against the responsible officer, the Utica Police Department honored the involved officers, and the City of Utica moved to dismiss the family's civil lawsuit. Additionally, multiple local institutions—including a Christian foundation, a police chaplain, and a refugee resettlement director—declined to support the grieving family, citing neutrality, their official positions, and an unwillingness to take sides.

In the first week after the shooting, aunts and uncles (the wider community family) rushed in every direction: securing a funeral home, contacting the Attorney General’s office, vetting lawyers, fielding reporters from around the world, and even hosting a media crew from Burma, RadioFreeAsia. The family anticipated a high-profile and tense funeral, as is common in cases of police shootings. An uncle asked a parish he had grown up in to host the service. The church was the city’s largest, closest to the cemetery, and had a strong bereavement committee. But when the uncles visited the parish office, they were told, “Well, it’s a holiday weekend! We can’t do that.” One uncle replied to the secretary’s disappointing response, “You know, we asked the cops not to shoot him, but they insisted.” 

Though bishop approval had been granted and the church stood available the day after it was requested, the family was suddenly informed—through a church representative—that they could no longer hold the service there due to a miscommunication and/or a lack of volunteers. Instead, the funeral was crammed into a small funeral home in the inner city that fit only fifty people; an unfit amount of space for the thousands who had traveled to Utica to pay their respects. Ironically, when the bill came due, payment was due at the funeral home’s spacious New Hartford location—a venue which, if offered, would have been more than large enough for the funeral. 

The failures of compassion extended beyond the funeral. A local Christian foundation declined to offer any support, from rooms at their retreat center for the family to cookies from their “cookie ministry.” Staff said they were concerned about “the officers’ families” and did not want to take sides. One police chaplain said his position prevented him from helping. Even the director of the center responsible for refugee resettlement in Mohawk Valley told staff she could not be involved. 

Over the course of the year, almost no one has come to this family’s door in genuine compassion. Only one principal, one pastor, and one community center director have shown up for them. SNUG, the local anti-gun violence initiative, offered a small amount of help. SNUG later required reimbursement for even this small amount of relief, however, because a GoFundMe had been set up. Their presence raised painful questions: the shooter was not a peer, like the organization trains youth to de-escalate with, but a police officer. Why is SNUG training youth while the people armed by the state go untrained in compassion, de-escalation, or accountability? 

As students at Hamilton, we are told we are part of a broader community in Central New York. But community is more than a word — it is tested in moments of crisis. The question is whether we, and the institutions around us, are willing to stand with families like Nyah’s when it matters most.

The story of Nyah Mway’s family is not only about grief but about a community that chose bureaucracy, appearances, and institutional caution over humanity. At every turn, opportunities for compassion were replaced with excuses. For a family who came to Utica fleeing persecution, this past year has shown them that injustice can wear many faces — including those of the people and institutions meant to welcome them.