As I turned on the radio this morning, the name Benazir Bhutto was repeatedly said by the announcer. At first, I wasn’t recognized it at all as a breaking news, until I heard the word assassination sneaked through my ears.

The shooting. The bombing.
I remember in the past two months I heard the name Bhutto became a popular entity as she returned from her exile. Her supporters were in a great expectation as their hope of democracy flourished.

And yesterday, Bhutto once again [and the last time] became the main headlines in every papers, broadcasts, and online news, since a lone gunman set several shots at Bhutto as she left an election rally in Rawalpindi. Seconds later a suicide fireball engulfed her vehicle and killed at least 20 supporters.

The news about Benazir Bhutto’s death then continued with the flood and ground failure on some provinces in my country. The events caused 64 people were dead and 40 others were still buried underground. It’s another story of death then.

I just wonder how the death is so close to everybody. Close to a famous and beloved Benazir Bhutto, also to hundred of people who suddenly buried underground overnight. She never knew. They never knew. We never know.

As I sat back, I was staring at the Bhutto’s last minute photo above. I could picture what happened after the shot and the bomb.
So close …