A las nueve de la tarde: 1 way terrorism changed me
In the parking lot a bored young man is painfully scraping off the paint from a TV DSNG van – the kind we use to broadcast live from a location. Each day I drive in to work to see the letter-box red logo of my news organization slowly disappear, inch by inch. The van’s easily identifiable look is being deleted. Today I sat in my car for a long time and looked at it.
At 9:20pm, on January 17 this year, three of my news organization’s staffers were shot dead in that van. They were young men, DSNG technician Waqas , driver Khalid, and guard Ashraf. This was the third attack on our news organization in a few months. Some things feel as if they are shrinking, some spaces are disappearing. Names may remain but the people who populated them are gone. The red is rubbed from the van.
My sister called the other day and asked if I knew a man named GH, who was running a university. Oh God, I thought. Another educationist has been killed.
“No,” she said. “He’s single. I wanted to set you up.”