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Paper Cut

As a young kid, I naively believed that a paper cut would hurt more than a broken bone. The horrid stinging sensation bestowed onto the webbing of your fingers from an act of amateurish envelope opening, equates to a traumatic torture session. Now before you are quick to judge, let me reiterate my mere naïve childish mentality, which lasted up until I was twelve years old and had just been released from sixth grade, free to roam wild until September once again grounded me with reality.

Summer is supposed to be a time of fun in the sun, relaxation and reckless mischievous adventures, especially for a young twelve-year-old boy. Well, my summer after sixth grade definitely started that way, but ended shortly after it began. An innocent game of one-on-one sidewalk handball quickly went awry after it was accidentally moved into the street.

The myth that your life flashes before your eyes prior to a near-death experience might be true for some people, but not for me. However, I did witness a flash; it was a huge white flash, much like that of a camera, which temporarily blinds you for close to a second. But the metaphorical photograph taken was not a pretty one. The graphic, high-resolution image of bone, skin and blood, laid out on a New York City street, was agonizing. Maybe even more so than the physical pain.  For the moment, my leg was the victim of a million torturous paper cuts. Although instead of paper slicing my skin, it was a tire that cut through my bone.

What a nightmarish experience for a physically active young boy. My summer was down the drain, and I was in and out of the hospital week after week for check-ups, cleansing of my 20-pound exterior leg fixation, X-rays, and of course physical therapy. I have never before in my life been so familiarized with hospitals. They were excruciatingly annoying, and depressingly intimidating. Little did I know, I was spoiled. I was taking healthcare for granted. I was a typical twelve-year old brat.

On Tuesday August 30th, 2005, I was in the waiting room before attending my physical therapy. The television located above and diagonal from the water cooler showed non-stop coverage of victims of Hurricane Katrina, and the damage it had caused throughout New Orleans. 80% of the city was flooded, and initially the authorities did not even attempt to release a death toll. Tens of thousands of citizens were shoved into the Superdome to live for weeks with minimal food, water, supplies and surprisingly enough, lack of healthcare. Authorities were so busy in their attempt to clean up the city that crimes were becoming increasingly consistent within the dome. There were reports of looting, rape and numerous deaths.

For a moment, I was mentally incapable of complaining and physically incapable of being in any sort of pain. I was one person, who for over the course of two months had met probably over 20 doctors, physicians, physical therapists and nurses. In New Orleans, there were 20,000 victims who were in need of immediate medical attention. I was spoiled. I had the luxury of sitting in a comfortable wheelchair. I had the luxury of meeting a new doctor every week. I had the luxury of being able to push myself over to the water cooler and sip from my cup while watching the television above. I had the luxury of getting paper cuts. People in New Orleans probably longed for a paper cut, because that would signify returning to a functional society: the webbing of your fingers from an act of amateurish envelope opening.

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A Waiting Room

The sun was about to rise in any minute. It had been few hours since April 14 ended for a year. The silence of the night took over mine. I could still see the fall of night into day and feel the wind breaking the silence of the night. I was  in a waiting room surrounded by heavy thick glasses watching my friends and family look at me with misty eyes. I never wanted to see them cry, however, then I was the reason what they were crying for. Those eyes like arrows literally pierced through my chest, causing a pain in my heart. I was hurt; my heart was bleeding.

 

My day on 14th April 2009 had started with so many plans: attending parade, being at Romna Botomul1 as soon as I could, meeting my friends and then having Panta- Ilish ( watery rice with Hilsha fish) together at Dhaka University campus. Eating Panta-Ilish is a traditional way of celebrating Bangla new year and the Dhaka University is the source of all functions to embrace the Pohela Boishakh- the Bangla new year. It was on 14th April.

 

The University of Dhaka was used to be called the Oxford of The East. Ever since I was in high school I had a dream of being a student at The University of Dhaka. I finally made it. That was the best thing ever happened to my life. I am indebted to the Dhaka University for who I am. It unchained and liberated me in thoughts. I learned words can be strong enough to move the mountains. It taught me to be responsible for my own actions and take the responsibility for the weaker people. I realized my two little shoulders could carry a little hope for everyone. I ran day after day, night after night from hospital to hospital with the bags of blood for the patients. When I got sick doing this my friends took care of me since I lived in a dormitory and my parents lived in my hometown. They fed me by their hands when I was too sick to feed myself, helped me with the study when I missed so many classes. Little by little they joined me doing that. They turned out to be the most reliable persons for the needy people. We all are tied with the relation of blood. They are the noblest and most responsible men I have ever met.

 

I became politically aware while I was in DU2. I took great interest in our local as well as international politics. I still remember reading March 17th 2009 newspaper about Madagascar’s president Marc Ravalomanana being forced to step down off the power and handed it over to the military. I wasn’t surprised at all seeing military take over the power in Madagascar as we already had had military coup 3 times after our independence in 1971. It is a very common scenario for Military to seize  the power in a politically unrest region.

 

An announcement suddenly brought me again into the reality of waiting room from my nostalgia. It was time for me to go. I was walking away from my family and friends, and after 18 hours fly I would be in another part of the world, in USA. As I was disappearing from the sight of those eyes, I whispered myself,” bye my favorite Bangladesh, friends and family. Forgive me for leaving you, and pardon me for being selfish.” My flight would be leaving shortly to USA.

 

 

 

 

 

1A prominent place in Dhaka, Bangladesh where the celebration of Bengali New Year starts at the moment when the Sun shines for the first time of a day.

2The abbreviation of Dhaka University

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English 3680 Spring 2013 First Post

Welcome to English 3680. You can find course readings and materials here. We’ll create links to your individual blogs form this main course blog. Check in regularly for announcements and other information.

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