Luckily they
didn’t shoot him. He got out alive. But his life as he knew it was taken away
from him for good.
Yes, houses got
blown up in the night, shop-windows got stoned, people disappeared. And yes, he
was of different ethnicity, but only on the paper. In real life, he was much
like any of his neighbours. He never cared much about history, tradition,
customs, religion or whatever usually comes up as a bone of contention among
people. What he strongly believed in was justice, fairness and the principle of
goodness. You don’t do any harm to anyone, no one does to you. And even though
most of the people of his ethnicity got scared enough up to that point and
fled, he decided to stay. He thought that if he kept a low profile and abided
by all the new laws they would let him and his family be. That was all they
wanted.
The man who barged
into his office with a gun one morning was of somewhat different world views.
It was as if a black hooded executioner came in with a death sentence. His face was
more than familiar. He was a local policeman, labeled by the authorities as a
little crazy but was nevertheless conveniently kept for the purposes of all the
dirty work that needed to be done. However, he decided not to shoot him. He came
up with a better idea. It was to make him remember his last day in the city
that didn’t want him. Whether he was obedient or rebellious, little did it
matter. With a gun pressed hard against his back and with his hands up in the
air, he was pushed out of the office into the busy city streets. It was a beginning
of a long and lonely procession through the familiar streets and squares, past
the familiar cafes and the familiar faces, friends and acquaintances. He
marched on and on yet nobody said a word as he quietly, one step after another,
walked out of the city and joined the thousands that had left before him.
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