blogger dies in Iranian prison.

Friday morning I read an article about a man about my age in Iran who recently died in prison.  He was in prison because he insulted a "supreme leader" on his blog.  His name was Omid Mir Sayafi.  He was sentenced to two and a half years in prison, but he died long before those years came close to passing from improper medical attention.

All politics aside, this news bite stopped me in my tracks. I realize that I don't typically go off on political leaders or say overly racy things on my blog posts, but if I felt passionate about something like that, if I wanted to deride the President or make a commentary on religion, I could.  The only commentary would likely be banter, at most sparking a debate, but then it would all just move on through like a summer rain storm.  

I think about writing and how precious it is to me, the way the written word is in many ways eternal, an anthem that began before him and lasts long after the writer dies.  How God himself is the Word.  Everyone is a writer, really. We have the gift of speech and labyrinthine communication--how tremendous!  This is God's gift to the human race, and yet not everyone is able to practice his right to write, no pun intended.

After the story shocked me, I got pretty sad about it, just thinking about all the writers in the world who can't open the door and unleash their passion.  It made me kind of sick.  It still makes me sad, but I'm also thankful now too. Makes me want to write further, to extend my vocabulary and tell more stories, to contribute to this anthem that's been written for thousands of years since the light first separated from the dark.