Body of Russian journalist Anna Politovaskaya of Novaya Gazeta found in the elevator of her apartment building with a bullet in her head. It is accused that Vladimir Putin, who is against the freedom of press got the journalist shot. She was filing an article that accused the Russian military of inhuman torture. The day she was shot, everything in her house was sealed and the article was never published.
This is not the first instance:Ukranian journalist Georgiy Gongadze met with a similar fate. Yelena Tregubova is crying the same song,she eloped from Moscow after a warning bomb blasted at her door step, the death of a colleague seemed more real a future.
The free-press like political righteousness: simply does not exist. Not even when BBC goes Hard-Talk and American world saviour 'FBI' punishes coke kings. I am sure they appear as farcical to Yelena as they do to me. The nexus is just as strong, Bush, Blair, Patil and Putin had a back-door entry into their positions of political hegemony.
So when they claim to be elected:'the financial statistics elected them: the people were invisible.' nobody in their right sense sows bombs, toxic waste and poverty:unless all the three are going to feed your nincompoop generations to come.
Writers make everything a good read, it doesn't affect the nation anymore:the words leap out of the page and swim in the oceans for the whales to nibble.Alas,you know this when you are shot or when you know you will be shot.There are no options to this extreme intellectual and idealist pain, you swallow it like a pill and puke it in an anonymous blog and continue editing a glossy copy.
Dying for a dead cause:farewell.
“Bending borders of clinical capitalism and barking poverty,
I plot to buy artificial roses,
Consult difficult tulips,
And strike my bargain to be alive.
It is a very hefty packet that I am asked to carry.
It has shrouds folded neatly.
Silenced in cloth are truth, peace and a voice:
I am the mischief maker,
The complaint box.
“It’s my country they are butchering,
It’s my lands that they are laying bare.
My children can’t grow on toxic waste,
Can’t grow with deafening Chechen bullets.
I won’t let them empty those houses to fill their pockets…
I won’t let them please their foreign masters.”
I don’t fit into their plans,
So they clip my fingers,
Cut my tongue,
And call me a Pariah:
In a land that I nurse with my voice.
Silence sleeps over my people.
When the nation speaks of Jodie Foster,
I gobble up my last words in quick insight.
Indeed,we are failing bitches of a dying breed!
