Avijit Roy’s death comes as no shock. He was an atheist advocating for secularism and free speech in Bangladesh – a “secular” Muslim-majority republic. When put together, these factors are a known recipe for impending disaster. That being said, the inevitability of this atrocity can never justify its occurrence. Having been raised in the shadow of the contradiction called the Islamic Republic of Pakistan, I am used to this political culture where self-censorship is accepted as the norm and acts of religious intolerance are justified as payback for speaking up. Such an upbringing truly exposes one to the paradox that characterizes the left in the region, particularly in Pakistan. The so-called “liberals” are proponents of free speech and expression, yet a majority of them congregate behind closed doors in elite drawing rooms criticizing the status quo, continually escaping the public eye. Every now and then, icons like Salman Taseer, Avijit Roy, Tariq Ali and Habib Jalib break the silence, and face the repercussions they “rightly deserve.” In the wake of the Peshawar attacks, the Pakistani nation, after decades of discord, joined in unison to mourn the death of innocent male (predominantly) Muslim school pupils. Countless vigils were organized both in and outside Pakistan to show support for the victims’ families and everyone affected by the events that unraveled on that chilling December morning. At the expense of sounding callous, the loss of one hundred and thirty-two innocent school children also highlighted the hypocrisy of the Pakistani people, who paid no heed when countless others died in a similar fashion. How many vigils were organized when ninety-four individuals belonging to the minority Ahamdi sect were slain in the mosques of Lahore? There wasn’t much of a public outcry when approximately one hundred and twenty Shia Muslims belonging to the minority Hazara community were blown to shreds in Quetta in 2013. Where was the outrage when Jamaat-ur-Ahrar (a Pakistani Taliban splinter group) bombed two Christian churches a few weeks ago, killing at least 14 people and wounding almost one hundred more? Nevermind the 80 dead and 140 wounded by church bombings in Peshawar in 2013, whose souls and bodies have already been forgotten by those not immediately related to them. It seems that for some in the subcontinent, human life is unequal. The religious majority is at the top of the hierarchy whereas religious minorities are placed at the bottom – marginally inferior to mules, who based on certain instances appear better treated. Those who identify as atheists or agnostics aren’t even worthy of consideration. Amidst such a prejudiced landscape, individuals such as Roy called for equality and liberation for all. At the same time, they also highlighted the disorganization and fear that lie at the core of the left’s inefficacy in furthering its aims. Focusing the lens on Pakistan in particular, we are exposed to a group of secularists that is understandably petrified of persecution. Being slain publicly at a book fair by machete –wielding Islamists understandably shatters the self-confidence of proponents of free expression, who risk being silenced permanently. However, with every loss of life, fear often leads to reflection, and in the case of Roy’s assassination it leads to the question, of whether his death could have been prevented. For many social commentators, the problem with the leftist movement in the Indian subcontinent isn’t so much the lack of leadership, but a lack of support; a lack of tangible voices that reach beyond anonymous social-media blogs, and posh urban drawing rooms. Social media has been bustling ever since Roy’s murder, but where was everyone before the event occurred? Strength exists in numbers, but in the case of the Indian subcontinent, the numbers fail to identify themselves. The numbers only appear in flashes each time someone is ruthlessly butchered and fade away as the mourning draws to an end. Perhaps another reason behind such irrelevance is the disconnect that exists between the proponents and the common masses. While Roy published his works in both English and Bengali, did his voice reach out to the masses that do not have access to education, let alone the Internet? For me, I killed Avijit Roy, and I killed Salman Taseer. My silence, my ignorance, my complacency led to their ruthless deaths. Silence translates into tacit agreement, which consequently extends legitimacy to the perpetrators, who like to confuse a lack of support for a lack of agreement. Agreement exists, but it is useless if it leads to death upon death, with nil results. I’m not advocating for a communist model, but every time resolutions have occurred, change begins at the grassroots. It is initiated by the educated like Mazhar Ali Khan, who despite being educated, give up a life of privilege to work amongst the farmers, to spread the message of the Pakistani Communist Party. Changes begin to occur when people like Avijit Roy go to the University of Dhaka to interact with zealous college students. However, it is quelled when the same students watch in silence as he is stabbed in the face. I am as guilty as the bystanders of Roy’s assassination, for I never had the courage to go to the ends that he did, to support the cause I believe in. I am part of the sub-sect of liberals who argue ardently in furnished drawing rooms, but am silenced as soon as I see a group of radical Islamists. Every time I bring up the topic of secularism or minority rights before my family, I am told that I am most “courageous” to think so. However, these words of encouragement are soon accompanied by caution typical of my father: “ You are our only son. I hope you are not expressing such comments in public.” Yes, father, this time around I am expressing my thoughts in public. But despite that, I represent incompetence and ineptitude that stems from the lack of courage to act. For, I am not Avijit Roy. This article was written by Alhan Fakhr. Send an email to [email protected] to get in touch. Photo Credit: Munir Uz Zaman/AFP/Getty