Journalist Alisher Saipov who had once worked for Ferghana.Ru was assassinated in Osh on October 24. Investigation is under way. There is no saying if the assassins are ever found or if whoever has marked Alisher for assassination is identified.

The matters Saipov as a journalist specialized in were hazardous to man's health and very life. It was Saipov who brought me to Ferghana.Ru in the first place, and here I'm writing this piece about Alisher himself. There will be other pieces, undoubtedly, covering the investigation and working hypotheses, but that's for later. For the time being, I just want the people who never knew Alisher personally to know him and share my grief.

Sultan Kanazarov, Chief of Ferghana.Ru Kyrgyz Press Bureau

When I was lowering your body into the grave, I saw the blood seeping through the white shroud. All I could tell you then was "Alisher, we will meet again in a better world. You're going there ahead of me, and you will meet me there, me, those who are here now and those who murdered you... I only hope that the murderers will never be able to wash the bloodstains off their hands now."

When we lowered you into the grave, people standing on its rim gave me their hands to help me climb out but I hesitated to do so because I was still hoping for a miracle. We began covering the white shroud with sods... and ten minutes later it was all over.

You will never come again, my friend. You will never be late again the way you inevitably were when visiting me in Bishkek, or smile while telling me about another piece in Uzbek media outlets branding you as a traitor. You will never meet me again in Osh airport terminal and take offense at my intention to stay at a hotel (I never made a hotel on my visits to Osh). You will never make me mad again at your reckless courage and surprising naivete... No more debates throughout the night over our ability (or inability) to change anything. No more stories about Kyrgyz Uzbeks' accomplishments. No more doting on you daughter. No more pieces in the media making officials definitely uncomfortable. No more joy over how your newspaper is gaining eminence and popularity - even in Uzbekistan. No more writing the truth. No more interference with dictatorial regimes. No more whatever it was that made you Alisher.

When we interred you and openly wept standing by the grave, not even the old mullah could tell us to stop because it was Allah's will. He could not tell us these ritual words he always said addressing whoever interred people who died of old age at home. The mullah couldn't say it to us who were interring you, youngsters who were barely 20 themselves.

No matter what Allah's will may be, it is NOT ALL RIGHT for grandmothers to inter their grandchildren who leave young wives and toddler daughters behind.

I remember how we celebrated your wedding. I remember who you phoned me to say you had a daughter.

Your weeping mother told me you had shown her the dress for your daughter that was a gift from my wife. The dress was too big for the kid yet, and you will never see her grow into it now.

I wanted to scream that it was NOT ALL RIGHT WHEN A WORD GOT ONE KILLED.

I was told that I should accept and bow to Allah's will, and all I kept seeing was the face of your weeping grandmother saying again and again that you had always said when you would come back even when you only had to walk to the nearest stall to get a pack of smokes.

"You came to stay with us when Alisher was alive. I hope I will see you again now," she told me. You have my word, Alisher, that I will visit your place and your grandmother whenever in Osh.

When we were taking your body to the cemetery, pedestrians both adult and juveniles kneed and prayed for you, Alisher. Thank you all for these last honors. Alisher deserved them.

We returned from the cemetery and I entered your daughter's room. She was in her crib, smiling, not knowing. I found I could not look at your wife, your widow at only seventeen.

I could only give your daughter a kiss, your only daughter. I remember how we intended to arrange a mock competition and see who would sire more children. You've lost, my friend, but what wouldn't I give to have it otherwise!

I hate Wednesdays now, the day when your father phoned me to tell me the tragic news. I remember how stunned I was and how I thought that it was already late to catch the last flight to Osh. Unable to wait for the morning flight, I got a cab and urged the cabby to go faster even though I knew that there was no point any more.

It is customary with the Kyrgyz, when they approach the late friend's place, to cry. I understood now that it was just more than a ritual because even a man needs to weep.

It was the first time, Alisher, when I saw your father in such a state. Avaz-aka, this huge man, wept like a kid and kept weeping even when I myself got myself under some sort of control.

Your brothers approached me, Alisher, your young brothers who had matured overnight.

I entered your room then, the one where women were weeping.

All around were weeping but not you. The impression was you were laughing the way you had always laughed, the way you must have been laughing in your murderers' faces, damn them.

Do your murderers really think they've made a point or accomplished anything? Hundreds will take Alisher's place now, hundreds speaking and writing the truth.

Attempts will surely be made to frighten these men into silence. They, too, will be threatened and some of them will be assassinated too.

I could never understand the journalists seeking political asylum in the West. I wish now you left for the West too.

And yet, I know that you would have never run away, not even knowing how it all would end.

My brother, forgive me my cynicism when I kept saying that the secret services who tailed you needed you alive rather than dead.

I was wrong. I overestimated their morale and common sense.

Could anyone persuade you that telling the truth was hazardous? I do not think so. You'd have dismissed all arguments, the way you always did.

You paid the highest possible price for the right to speak up. We cannot shut up now, or your death would have been for nothing.

Farewell, by brother. You will remain with us as long as we remember.