I was sitting at home watching the news when Iqbal was mentioned. First I
thought he had just won another award or maybe decided to visit America again,
but I was wrong. "Shot dead on Easter Sunday." The words echoed through my
head. It didn't register in my brain that Iqbal was dead. For some odd reason
I thought he could never die. But he did. I felt, alone, but strangely enough,
I felt excited. Excited because I knew this wasn't the end. If they wanted
to strike at us, we're gonna' strike back. I knew that Broad Meadow wouldn't
let this slip away. We would pick up the fallen sword and continue the fight.