Hrant Dink, in memoriam
By Krikor N. Der Hohannesian
They snuffed him - Turkish style, a crowded street in Istanbul three bullets in the brain point-blank, draped his corpse in a white shroud weighed down with bricks at four corners, left him lying there for onlookers to gawk - to what end? Horror? Or, This Is What You Get for Being Un-Turkic?
He was a journalist just like you, hairig, and just like you seeking dialogue, no sinister agenda - quite the contrary, a life’s quest to opening doors to the blackened rooms where suffering abides, where grudges are held tight to the pained heart, where decades later old wounds still fester.
And we stand, unable to pity the assassin or forgive his maniacal hatred, waiting for light to come to the lightless.