Death
On Saturday August 26, 2006, around 22:30 hrs (PST), Bugti was killed when a shell exploded in the cave in which his camp was set. The Pakistani government launched a missile and it resulted in the cave shattering down into pieces killing Nawab Saab and his men.
Pakistani President Pervez Musharraf termed his death a victory for Pakistanis and congratulated the secret service chief who carried out this operation. Pakistan's Information Minister Mohammad Ali Durrani, confirmed that the operation included both air and ground assault. In a short telephone interview, made to a private television network, the Pakistani Information Minister said that Bugti's death occurred as the cave he was in collapsed.
In a recent article the Pakistani Journalist Hamid Mir said that the last time that he talked to Nawab Bugti, he was in the mountains and had called Mir from his satellite phone. In this last conversation with Hamid Mir, Nawab Bugti told him Your commando general will rest only after he martyrs me but after my martyrdom he will be held responsible. So now it's up to you people to either choose Musharraf or Pakistan. The choice is yours."
Read more about this topic: Akbar Bugti
Famous quotes containing the word death:
“Ai! ai! we do worse! We are in a fix! And you’re out, Death let
you out, Death had the Mercy, you’re done with your century, done with God, done with the path thru it—”
—Allen Ginsberg (b. 1926)
“Every American, to the last man, lays claim to a “sense” of humor and guards it as his most significant spiritual trait, yet rejects humor as a contaminating element wherever found. America is a nation of comics and comedians; nevertheless, humor has no stature and is accepted only after the death of the perpetrator.”
—E.B. (Elwyn Brooks)
“But, when nothing subsists from a distant past, after the death of others, after the destruction of objects, only the senses of smell and taste, weaker but more enduring, more intangible, more persistent, more faithful, continue for a long time, like souls, to remember, to wait, to hope, on the ruins of all the rest, to bring without flinching, on their nearly impalpable droplet, the immense edifice of memory.”
—Marcel Proust (1871–1922)