04 April, 2014
Just the next night I had entered the wedding party when I got a text message telling me that the journalist Raza Rumi had been attacked by “unknown assailants”. Surrounded by noise and music and people dressed in yellow, it took a while for me to process that the attack actually happened.
I knew that Rumi traveled under “threat’, that vague term one now uses for anyone who has the audacity to spout logic and reason in public. Most of the time I delude myself into beliving such threats are abstract. That is, until they happen.
Rumi, as most of you know, has been associated with this paper for years, and initially I thought it was very close to home. But the thing is, all the attacks are now close to home.
Negotiating with these terrorists is like being in a therapy group run by your rapist, or trying to talk to a cancer that has overrun your body. You don’t talk to cancer. When its cells divide and multiply and kill off your brave and innocent, you do not talk as if to a misunderstood child. You act or you cease to exist.