What Politkovskaya writes in her last message to the Russians before she was killed by them is just as relevant here in the US:

Why is the word “terrorism” in quotation marks?


How is it that I don't sit in prison? How is it that I have so far avoided a finger pointing, which would sit me there regardless of evidence and circumstance? And why, if I am free, do I think only of how penned in I am? Of real prisons, the descriptions of which I can compare to my cell, I have with an ample sampling. And none compare; this is ease, while that is surely hard time, torture.


Mostly me—that lump that moves when they call Brad Borevitz. There is, or so I have heard, a Buddhist exercise wherein the question, “who am I?” is asked and answered until exhaustion. The enlightened result, I'm afraid, is still a mystery to me, having been unable to sustain the query beyond the repetitive strain of its boring recurrence and into that metaphysical realm where all notions of self are somehow gotten beyond.


“Do I ever deny you anything?” That's what I should have told him. He should know what the answer is. I do whatever he wants me to. That's just how it's been. Always. But that's not all I do, I do what I want too. That's what I'm doing now. If I am going to enter his story, I am also going to enter mine.


Why do i do what he says? He has his reasons for wanting things written down. I don't really care what they are. They are his reasons, not mine. Maybe he wants to be sure i'm paying attention. It's not so he can read this later, ‘cause he can’t. I guess that's it. Something is missing since he can't see any more. Something is missing and he's trying to replace it with something else. And I guess I do care after all, since the first thing I‘ve written, is all about his motivations. So in writing this, I’ve managed to figure something out about him. But what could he figure out about himself this way. And there is still the question of why I agreed to do this.

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