Hazaras are being killed like birds in a cage. They cannot run, they cannot hide, they cannot defend themselves. I saw a poster of one of the victims of the Quetta tragedy and remembered this young man Irfan Khudi as a regular participant of civil society demonstrations. I looked at a Hazara child and wondered if he will live to be a man and die a natural death in old age. Or will he become another talkative dead body like the 86 who were speaking non-stop for the past three days, from their coffins placed on Alamdar Road in Quetta? Why are they talking and why won't they let their families bury them? Why was I thinking? I am only required to watch, anticipate, and act, I reminded myself.

Except for a brief encounter with students from a nearby madrassah yesterday, who took offence at anti Lashker-e-Jhangvi slogans, the marathon event had been largely uneventful and sober.

But there was nothing to do. Except for a brief encounter with students from a nearby madrassah yesterday, who took offence at anti Lashker-e-Jhangvi slogans, the marathon event had been largely uneventful and sober. Protesters were sitting on neatly laid rows of darris, listening to speeches from anyone who wished to say something. Occasionally, a speaker from Quetta or an overseas gathering would be heard through phone line. Apparently, similar protests were being held everywhere Pakistanis live. There weren't many Hazaras among the speakers though.

They sat motionless, or served the protesters food and tea with a hospitable smile, and spoke shyly and politely; too politely for a people being hounded relentlessly and murdered systematically.

They sat motionless, or served the protesters food and tea with a hospitable smile, and spoke shyly and politely; too politely for a people being hounded relentlessly and murdered systematically. It must be the reticence and compulsive politeness of the whole community that was infuriating the dead. Their decomposing bodies were yelling for the living Hazaras to speak up for their right to live. The effort pushed the remaining blood in their bodies to spill out of their pores, and the family mourners had to change their white cotton shrouds every few hours.

I thought of my village in Potohar and tried to imagine the reaction of people there if a 100 of them were murdered in one day. There will be mayhem. At least 200 of our enemies will have to pay a price with their blood. If we can't punish them ourselves we'll push the police, army, courts, and governments to do that. If that fails men will sell their fields and women their jewellery to buy weapons or hire a terrorist gang, but we will be avenged. And here, are these Hazaras who've lost close to a thousand people in a year and are being so apologetic for having to block a road, for protesters spending a freezing cold night under the sky, for not providing children and women with warm and comfortable bedding ... 'Oh poor Hazaras, poor poor Hazaras' cried the dead and choked on their own words.

No one cares for the Hazara, someone said in a small group of protesters standing close to me, having a smoking break. Others joined in:

"The chief minister is still abroad."

As if he could be of any help if he was here. The last time Hazaras were killed he said that all he can do is send them a truckload of tissue rolls to wipe their tears.

The prime minister says he'll meet with Hazara community leaders in a week's time and will listen to their demands.

Forget the governments, even the media does not care. Tomorrow's long march is more important for them.

Suddenly, the Alamdar dead's voice rose as one and addressed me directly. I could hear it clearly. It said what started with the Ahmadis is not going to end with the Shias. When all Shias are killed or forced out of Pakistan, or tamed into submission, then what? Who is next? It could be you, or your sons and daughters.

The BBC Urdu Service says the most popular story on its website is about adult filmmakers in Hollywood challenging the legislation that requires actors to use condoms.

Suddenly, the Alamdar dead's voice rose as one and addressed me directly. I could hear it clearly. It said what started with the Ahmadis is not going to end with the Shias. When all Shias are killed or forced out of Pakistan, or tamed into submission, then what? Who is next? It could be you, or your sons and daughters. If you want to live, you'll have to speak up for the right of others to live. Sit down with these protesters or run away from this country as fast as you can.

And that was when it happened. I never mix work with emotions. I always control crowds and never become part of one. And I never, ever listen to the dead ... I took off my service beret, wrapped a chador around my uniform and name plate, and sat down on the darri among my own.