This entire week has left me full of remorse. Remorse not just for the friend I thought I knew, but for the people he is allegedly accused of hurting, even killing. I feel remorse for 8-year-old Martin Richard. I feel remorse for Krystle Campbell. I feel remorse for Lingzi Lu. I feel remorse for MIT police officer Sean Collier. I feel remorse for their families and for every single person who has been hurt physically or mentally in the Boston Marathon bombings.
The Dzhokhar I knew was a young man who spent all night looking in his car for a new phone I clumsily lost. He left work early just to help me retrace my steps.
He was a young man who proudly shook my hand after I told him I was hired at the Boston Globe.
He was a captain on the Cambridge Ringe and Latin wrestling team, he was in the National Honor Society, he earned a scholarship to a four-year university. It seemed no one ever had a problem with Dzhokhar.
I didn’t know his older brother, Tamerlan, who was shot and killed by police
Friday, and I don’t know what kind of influence he might have had on him.
I don’t know what could have happened to Dzhokhar in the last year.
What I do know is I grieve for Cambridge, Watertown, Boston, and all of the families who call those places home, like I do.
I will always remember Dzhokhar, a friend who embraced me for a high school graduation photograph.
But it seems the young man I knew is gone.