Alhumdulillah, I reached Chittagong safely. The journey was not bad - a comfortable bus ride that lasted about 5 hours. Though sitting in the front has its advantages for feeling less bumps, hearing the horn every ten seconds can get a little annoying. We stopped at a rest stop where I had a chicken salad sandwich, chicken cutlet, and mithai for about $2. Surprisingly, the chicken interpretations weren’t bad.
I took a risk on the hotel by looking it up in lonely planet and it ended up being a good choice. About ten bucks a night, but with clean rooms, great staff, new furniture and tiles, and a decent view of the city from it’s 9th floor courtyard. I’m on the 7th floor. Namaz is on the 10th (more to come later on that).
I’m in the old heart of the city, where the train station is, the river not too far away, and more vendors than you can count. I went walking around and it was an intense experience in which every sense was on alert from the smell/stench of the dried fish market to the yelling of shopkeepers telling their prices. You name it, you can find it within walking distance. There is a fish market, produce market, traditional mall, vendors selling everything from bobby deol’s greatest hits (I thought you had to actual have a hit to have a greatest hits) to jewelry to fake purses. It’s like Chinatown, the fair, the farmer’s market, and the mall wrapped into one. The markets here are more of the Old Delhi style but even more congested. So many people were in this area that you have to use your traffic skills to get around. I even did some bargaining though the fact that the shopkeeper was only too happy to accept my counter offer of 100 taka for an 8 in 1 Bruce Lee movie collection and MP3 collection of the latest Indian songs (including Delhi-6 which I really wanted) made me doubt that I got a good deal.
The staff has been interesting. One guy is from Kolkata so he knew hindi and we talked a little bit. Another told me about where the staff prays namaz on the 10th floor. I went there at maghrib and they were about to start praying separately when they noticed me looking around waiting for the jamaat. In broken hindi, someone told me that none of them are imams, to which I replied we’re all imams (I know, give me an askar). I ended up leading namaaz and I’m not sure what kinda reaction they had. A couple were confused when I didn’t lead du’a after namaaz and they just waited until I got up to pray sunnah. But overall, I think I’ll be ok here. They have an overpriced restaurant which is convenient and internet in the lobby. Can’t ask for much more.
Ps. I need emails from you guys to let me know what’s going on there!
Monday, February 2, 2009
Sunday, February 1, 2009
maach, cha, and fried green tomatoes
I take back everything I said about the food of Bangladesh. I must revise it to just don’t eat out and eat at some momma’s kitchen. The home cooking in Dhaka has really spoiled me and has let me get to know what Bangladeshi food has to offer.
Their subzis have a common spice (I think haldi/turmeric) that is in most of them so they all have a similar taste. What’s in season these days is carrot, papaya, aloki, gobhi, bhaigan, lal saag, cabbage, etc. They’ve all been excellent which is the case abroad with most produce. The different one I had was this fried bhaigan dish that isn’t breaded and keeps the skin on. They have both purple eggplant and a green one as well. Still not fully sure if they taste differently.
The roties are extremely soft and can’t really compare to any taste as far as Indian roti. Apparently they put boiling hot water into the aata before making it and this makes it really soft. They almost look like flour tortillas, but use the same flour as rotis in India. Made fresh, these are pretty good. They have parotha (which I think is slightly fried and not like ours), puris (both plain and stuffed with beef, not complaining here), naan, etc. The main thing is that they’re not eaten often and usually at breakfast or dinner if at all.
Side note : Pizza hut in india is currently running a stuffed crust deal there that stuffs it with your choice of paneer or chicken sausage. And we thought we had it good.
They have something they call singhara, which is essentially a aloo samosa. Their samosas usually mean stuffed with beef and the aata is made differently almost given it a puri crispness to it, versus flaky singhara.
The only daals I’ve had have been yellow. I couldn’t really tell you what types, but I know I’ve had moong. Besides that, they seem to be local varieties that are slightly different from ours.
Mithai has been par excellance at the household. Saveyaan, shondesh, rosgollah, sooji ki mithai (which is kinda like the saveyaan consistency), firnee, this one where they took frozen mango pulp (preserved in the freezer from summer) and mixed it with milk powder (sounds weird, but tasted good once again). Haven’t had a bad mithai yet.
The fish. The first day I was here, they had a fish that had quite a bit of bones, but since then, auntie has made fish with easy to remove bones. I couldn’t tell you the name of them, but they’ve all been pretty good. One kinda like bass, one tilapia type. Most are of the white variety, some flaky, some a little tougher. They seemed to be cooked pretty similarly in a salan, cut in pieces from the head down to the tail, cooked with skin on which is easy to remove. Usually aloo, pyaas, tamatar are added in a haldi based salan.
I haven’t had two cups of “cha” that tasted the same. Cha without milk seems to be pretty popular. I’ve had cha with elaichi, wth cinnamon, with milk, etc. I guess the variety of tea leaves is pretty high as they do produce tea here and are close enough to india to get tea from there.
While writing this email, uncle just came back from a weeklong business trip along the northwestern district of Bangladesh. With him, he has brought an arsenal of food from the region. Huge bags of “super quality” rice, a damn tasty fruit called kewel (a combo of an amrut because of its consistency and apple because of it’s outward appearance and sweetness, but the size of an extra large grape), a special kind of matar, green tomatoes, green bananas (to cook with fish), green eggplant, 2 humongous fish from a friend’s pond, 2 King ducks, 4 boxes of mithai (types specific to their region which were mainly milk based), green coconuts (to drink the healthful milk) , a ripe papaya, and a partridge in a pear tree. Man, it’s like when pappa comes back from his meetings, except these things don’t have pharmaceutical companies written all over them and are edible. They were happy to see me excited (and thought I was a sheltered American boy though I tried explaining I like this kind of stuff). They also commented that it’s a good trait that I eat and enjoy whatever they feed me. The legend continues.
It is now 11 pm, and we are eating snacks while cooking dinner. I helped by cutting onions for a fish stew using rewey fish (cross between the white flaky nature of flounder and steak like qualities of tuna). It was first fried and then put in a salan with onions and tomatoes and may have been one of the best fish dishes I’d ever eaten. With the fresh green tomatoes, I cooked fried green tomatoes to share my food with them. I used a tempura mix, salt, and pepper and it turned out pretty good, owing mostly to the great tomatoes. Everything happens for a reason, and I have thoroughly enjoyed having my train cancelled for today. Though I had planned to lose enough weight to fit comfortably into my sherwani, signs are now pointing to doubtful.
Their subzis have a common spice (I think haldi/turmeric) that is in most of them so they all have a similar taste. What’s in season these days is carrot, papaya, aloki, gobhi, bhaigan, lal saag, cabbage, etc. They’ve all been excellent which is the case abroad with most produce. The different one I had was this fried bhaigan dish that isn’t breaded and keeps the skin on. They have both purple eggplant and a green one as well. Still not fully sure if they taste differently.
The roties are extremely soft and can’t really compare to any taste as far as Indian roti. Apparently they put boiling hot water into the aata before making it and this makes it really soft. They almost look like flour tortillas, but use the same flour as rotis in India. Made fresh, these are pretty good. They have parotha (which I think is slightly fried and not like ours), puris (both plain and stuffed with beef, not complaining here), naan, etc. The main thing is that they’re not eaten often and usually at breakfast or dinner if at all.
Side note : Pizza hut in india is currently running a stuffed crust deal there that stuffs it with your choice of paneer or chicken sausage. And we thought we had it good.
They have something they call singhara, which is essentially a aloo samosa. Their samosas usually mean stuffed with beef and the aata is made differently almost given it a puri crispness to it, versus flaky singhara.
The only daals I’ve had have been yellow. I couldn’t really tell you what types, but I know I’ve had moong. Besides that, they seem to be local varieties that are slightly different from ours.
Mithai has been par excellance at the household. Saveyaan, shondesh, rosgollah, sooji ki mithai (which is kinda like the saveyaan consistency), firnee, this one where they took frozen mango pulp (preserved in the freezer from summer) and mixed it with milk powder (sounds weird, but tasted good once again). Haven’t had a bad mithai yet.
The fish. The first day I was here, they had a fish that had quite a bit of bones, but since then, auntie has made fish with easy to remove bones. I couldn’t tell you the name of them, but they’ve all been pretty good. One kinda like bass, one tilapia type. Most are of the white variety, some flaky, some a little tougher. They seemed to be cooked pretty similarly in a salan, cut in pieces from the head down to the tail, cooked with skin on which is easy to remove. Usually aloo, pyaas, tamatar are added in a haldi based salan.
I haven’t had two cups of “cha” that tasted the same. Cha without milk seems to be pretty popular. I’ve had cha with elaichi, wth cinnamon, with milk, etc. I guess the variety of tea leaves is pretty high as they do produce tea here and are close enough to india to get tea from there.
While writing this email, uncle just came back from a weeklong business trip along the northwestern district of Bangladesh. With him, he has brought an arsenal of food from the region. Huge bags of “super quality” rice, a damn tasty fruit called kewel (a combo of an amrut because of its consistency and apple because of it’s outward appearance and sweetness, but the size of an extra large grape), a special kind of matar, green tomatoes, green bananas (to cook with fish), green eggplant, 2 humongous fish from a friend’s pond, 2 King ducks, 4 boxes of mithai (types specific to their region which were mainly milk based), green coconuts (to drink the healthful milk) , a ripe papaya, and a partridge in a pear tree. Man, it’s like when pappa comes back from his meetings, except these things don’t have pharmaceutical companies written all over them and are edible. They were happy to see me excited (and thought I was a sheltered American boy though I tried explaining I like this kind of stuff). They also commented that it’s a good trait that I eat and enjoy whatever they feed me. The legend continues.
It is now 11 pm, and we are eating snacks while cooking dinner. I helped by cutting onions for a fish stew using rewey fish (cross between the white flaky nature of flounder and steak like qualities of tuna). It was first fried and then put in a salan with onions and tomatoes and may have been one of the best fish dishes I’d ever eaten. With the fresh green tomatoes, I cooked fried green tomatoes to share my food with them. I used a tempura mix, salt, and pepper and it turned out pretty good, owing mostly to the great tomatoes. Everything happens for a reason, and I have thoroughly enjoyed having my train cancelled for today. Though I had planned to lose enough weight to fit comfortably into my sherwani, signs are now pointing to doubtful.
strangers with kindness
I’m starting to think there is something in the water here (besides arsenic) that makes the people of Bangladesh extremely helpful to strangers.
Today was a long day. After waking up early, I headed to the Bangla Biman office which is more like a train station type setting with the busy crowds there. (the actual train station on the other hand is extremely clean and well organized unlike India’s). I looked at the ticket number being served, “143” and looked at my ticket, “253” and headed to one of the empty spots on the leather couches. After waiting what seemed like an eternity, my number was called and I got my flight changed in 5 minutes. The employee was nice and helpful, though she didn’t really react when I complemented her bracelet.
Waiting in line at the office for longer than planned, forced me to rush back to my place to finish packing, eat lunch, and leave. After gathering my things, we were about to head out when the electricity went out. We were on the 8th floor of the building with my super size suitcase, pilot case, and messenger bag. Without a choice, we hauled the bags down the stairs. Mithun put me on a rickshaw and I held on to my belongings as we headed to the station.
After reaching the station, I thought I’d be cool and take my bags myself as I am an American and that’s what I’m used to. Once I quickly realized that I have no idea where I was going, I agreed to pay the ~15 year old coolie 20 taka to help me out. While trying to confirm if I was at the right platform, I approached a well dressed man and asked if he spoke English or Hindi. He said English and I asked him if this was the right place. He looked at my ticket and said he was in the same car as me and he’d help me out. We got to talking and he told me about his family and job, I told him about mine. He talked to the ticket person to put our seats together so we could sit together and he’d help me once we arrived. After watching a couple of trains arrive with thousands of people from Biswa Ijtema, things were not looking too good. (Biswa Ijtema is basically a tabligh-e-jamaat worldwide conference in Dhaka once a year. It’s the second largest gathering of Muslims after Hajj so around 1-2 million people make it here.) Out train had been delayed and then had technical issues with all the people riding on top of it. At this point, the earliest my train would come was another 2 hours (in addition to the 2 I already waited). The uncle told me I could return my ticket and try again tomorrow, as he rushed to catch a bus.
I reached one of the ticket counters and asked again, Hindi or English, and then he told me to go to another area of the station to return my ticket. Someone happened to overhear this and seeing that I was clueless, he told me to follow him, and he took one of my bags. The queue was pretty long, so Raqul (the nice person) told me to stay with the bags (including his) and he took my ticket to wait in line. After consulting with some people, they advised me to take the bus the next day (which Raqul was planning to take tonight). He returned my ticket, and then said for me to follow him again, this time to the bus station to get a ticket. We took two rickshaws, and he actually even had one of my bags ( I know I should never trust someone this much, but I just did.) We reached the bus area, and he was waiting and looking for me. He told me to wait again as he left me with my bags. After coming back with a general class ticket, I told him I wanted A/C coach (I know, I know, forcing a stranger to get me A/C). He said no problem, asked for more money and came back with a ticket confirmed for tomorrow morning. After exchanging numbers and thanking him, he put me on a rickshaw to go back home.
I have now come back home, am lying down and typing on my laptop, while auntie is making noodles and cha for me. God bless Bangladesh.
(note: the family I’m staying with is usually really helpful, but one son had to defend his thesis today, the father is out of town for work with the car, and the other son and uncle are on vacation)
Today was a long day. After waking up early, I headed to the Bangla Biman office which is more like a train station type setting with the busy crowds there. (the actual train station on the other hand is extremely clean and well organized unlike India’s). I looked at the ticket number being served, “143” and looked at my ticket, “253” and headed to one of the empty spots on the leather couches. After waiting what seemed like an eternity, my number was called and I got my flight changed in 5 minutes. The employee was nice and helpful, though she didn’t really react when I complemented her bracelet.
Waiting in line at the office for longer than planned, forced me to rush back to my place to finish packing, eat lunch, and leave. After gathering my things, we were about to head out when the electricity went out. We were on the 8th floor of the building with my super size suitcase, pilot case, and messenger bag. Without a choice, we hauled the bags down the stairs. Mithun put me on a rickshaw and I held on to my belongings as we headed to the station.
After reaching the station, I thought I’d be cool and take my bags myself as I am an American and that’s what I’m used to. Once I quickly realized that I have no idea where I was going, I agreed to pay the ~15 year old coolie 20 taka to help me out. While trying to confirm if I was at the right platform, I approached a well dressed man and asked if he spoke English or Hindi. He said English and I asked him if this was the right place. He looked at my ticket and said he was in the same car as me and he’d help me out. We got to talking and he told me about his family and job, I told him about mine. He talked to the ticket person to put our seats together so we could sit together and he’d help me once we arrived. After watching a couple of trains arrive with thousands of people from Biswa Ijtema, things were not looking too good. (Biswa Ijtema is basically a tabligh-e-jamaat worldwide conference in Dhaka once a year. It’s the second largest gathering of Muslims after Hajj so around 1-2 million people make it here.) Out train had been delayed and then had technical issues with all the people riding on top of it. At this point, the earliest my train would come was another 2 hours (in addition to the 2 I already waited). The uncle told me I could return my ticket and try again tomorrow, as he rushed to catch a bus.
I reached one of the ticket counters and asked again, Hindi or English, and then he told me to go to another area of the station to return my ticket. Someone happened to overhear this and seeing that I was clueless, he told me to follow him, and he took one of my bags. The queue was pretty long, so Raqul (the nice person) told me to stay with the bags (including his) and he took my ticket to wait in line. After consulting with some people, they advised me to take the bus the next day (which Raqul was planning to take tonight). He returned my ticket, and then said for me to follow him again, this time to the bus station to get a ticket. We took two rickshaws, and he actually even had one of my bags ( I know I should never trust someone this much, but I just did.) We reached the bus area, and he was waiting and looking for me. He told me to wait again as he left me with my bags. After coming back with a general class ticket, I told him I wanted A/C coach (I know, I know, forcing a stranger to get me A/C). He said no problem, asked for more money and came back with a ticket confirmed for tomorrow morning. After exchanging numbers and thanking him, he put me on a rickshaw to go back home.
I have now come back home, am lying down and typing on my laptop, while auntie is making noodles and cha for me. God bless Bangladesh.
(note: the family I’m staying with is usually really helpful, but one son had to defend his thesis today, the father is out of town for work with the car, and the other son and uncle are on vacation)
Friday, January 30, 2009
ami tamako baalo bashi
Salam all,
So I finished my two weeks in Rajshahi, and I am now in Dhaka for a couple of days break before heading to Chittagong. Chittagong is the second largest city here so it should be a lot different than my experience in an old town with mainly rickshaws. I’m going to write this email with a couple of stories (vignettes if you will) to give a more detailed experience of a couple of experiences rather than a little about a lot.
Scene one – going to get something besides Bangladeshi food
So walking distance from my guesthouse is a sketchy looking place with a sign that said “mini Chinese and fast food” restaurant. I didn’t think it looked good, but desperate times called for it. It was early by dinner standards as it was only 7 pm. There were three young employees/workers watching Sri Lanka vs Pakistan in a very dimly lit restaurant. After conversing in broken Bengali/Hindi, I finally received a menu. I picked what I knew and went for the “Cheken Chow Mein” which I guess is a different meat from the “Chikin Chop Suey”. They leaped into action. One of them picked up what looked like an old antifreeze container, and all three left the restaurant and handed me the remote. I switched through the channels and settled on watching “Zara Zara” from Run. Five minutes later they came back with the jug full and an unopened box of noodles. They went back to the kitchen and started cutting vegetables, singing, and preparing my food. Ten minutes later, my food was packed and ready to go. The food tasted like cheap Chinese here which is a mixture of Ramen noodles, desi food, and meat all mixed together (which isn’t that bad). Though I was pretty sure the water probably had cholera mixed in, I couldn’t complain about the freshness.
Quick comment, though I’ve been lamenting on the subpar quality of Bangladeshi food, there have been some bright spots. Once, I had this Tuna sabzi almost that was amazing. Another time, these cabbage pakore/tikki that actually looked more like Latkes.
Scene two – children’s ward in the hospital
To survive in developing and third world countries, many have to numb themselves to poverty and what surrounds it. In the case of the hospital, one does this frequently (this is more worldwide) as getting emotional can sometimes influence your decision making capacity and skill. Though I go between what is the right balance, I was put to the test while on the pediatrics ward at the hospital.
The situation in the peds ward is much the same as it is in the medicine ward. Approximately 20 beds in one big room, 30 beds in another bigger room, with each maxed out forcing 2 patients to a bed at times and many on the floor. It’s one thing to see sickness and poverty in adults, and another to see it in kids. The unsanitary ward, patients eating what looks like watered down kichari, babies crying, families talking. There is a constant hum and a specific smell of antiseptic, body odor, latrine, rice, and sickness all in one room.
Like I said before, they present very late in their sickness so usually they already have a diagnosis and the disease is known. The kid which made me break down was an approximately 10 year old kids with his eyes practically swollen shut and his stomach protruding about the size of a 36 week pregnancy. He was so full of fluid that he couldn’t get up on his own. Why did they not come earlier? Why was this not detected by the local level doctor? How did this kid live life for the past month? For simplicity sake, his kidneys had failed and therefore fluid was staying in side of him. He was now laying on the floor as all the beds were taken. I wanted to talk to his family but unfortunately, Hindi/English can’t get by with gaonwale.
The next day, I tried communicating with him the way all kids know how to – by making funny faces. At first, he was like who is this guy that is rounding with his team but is making a face at me. I tried again when my team moved to the next patient and this time he smiled and copied my face. This continued for some time and other nearby kids and mothers started smiling as well. I pulled out my camera (as it’s the only toy I keep on me) and he allowed me to take his picture. I attached it to this email.
Scene three – Medicine Department Grand Rounds
We’ve always heard that there is no such thing as a dumb question. I think we may have been wrong.
Following a lack of participation from residents and students, the frustrated medicine chairmen had this to say. “You must ask question, not foolish one, but intelligent ones”
Scene four – Kismat
I guess I’ve always believed in fate but sometimes things happen that strengthen your belief even more.
I was hanging out on the medicine wards one day and it happened to be the day medical students were being tested. I decided to watch one student stand by his patient and get grilled by the attending. He performed with a smile and did ok as I saw the professor write “80” on the score card (it ended up being the highest grade in his class. Unlike in the states, there is no desire to have a certain number of A’s or high marks). He came up to me afterwards and asked me in bengali how he did. I told him I don’t know Bengali, and he talked in English. Ends up being that he is a foreign student from Calcutta doing his medical school here in Bangladesh. We decided to meet later that day and I hung out with him and his future wife who is also in med school. We instantly clicked and learned a lot from each other. It always amazes me the perception people here have of Americans so they were happy to see me change what they think. It also happens to be that they want to go to America eventually to practice there. We ended up meeting several times the rest of the week and it felt like I had family there with me basically. They took me out to dinner my last night and then dropped me off at the train station the next day. He even wrote me a letter to read when I was on the train.
While on the train, I was worried about how I would get to my friends apt. He couldn’t pick me up at the station as he was too busy working on his thesis which he had to defend in two days and all other male family members were out of town. When I was about an hour away, the person sitting next to me told me that Dhaka wasn’t safe. We got to talking and it ends up being that I had met his brother that works as a doc at the same hospital I was visiting for 2 weeks. This fellow worked as a government employee, basically the IRS, and was visiting family in Dhaka. He told me to come with him and he’d take care of me getting back. A government car and driver were at the station to pick him up and after driving together to drop him off, he paid the driver to take me to where I had to go. God is great.
The hospitality and care I’ve been receiving here is more than I could’ve asked for. My roommate/servant also came to drop me off at the station and then has called me three times since yesterday to make sure I’m doing ok. I’m sure there are crooks and cons out there, but I thank God that so far, so good.
So I finished my two weeks in Rajshahi, and I am now in Dhaka for a couple of days break before heading to Chittagong. Chittagong is the second largest city here so it should be a lot different than my experience in an old town with mainly rickshaws. I’m going to write this email with a couple of stories (vignettes if you will) to give a more detailed experience of a couple of experiences rather than a little about a lot.
Scene one – going to get something besides Bangladeshi food
So walking distance from my guesthouse is a sketchy looking place with a sign that said “mini Chinese and fast food” restaurant. I didn’t think it looked good, but desperate times called for it. It was early by dinner standards as it was only 7 pm. There were three young employees/workers watching Sri Lanka vs Pakistan in a very dimly lit restaurant. After conversing in broken Bengali/Hindi, I finally received a menu. I picked what I knew and went for the “Cheken Chow Mein” which I guess is a different meat from the “Chikin Chop Suey”. They leaped into action. One of them picked up what looked like an old antifreeze container, and all three left the restaurant and handed me the remote. I switched through the channels and settled on watching “Zara Zara” from Run. Five minutes later they came back with the jug full and an unopened box of noodles. They went back to the kitchen and started cutting vegetables, singing, and preparing my food. Ten minutes later, my food was packed and ready to go. The food tasted like cheap Chinese here which is a mixture of Ramen noodles, desi food, and meat all mixed together (which isn’t that bad). Though I was pretty sure the water probably had cholera mixed in, I couldn’t complain about the freshness.
Quick comment, though I’ve been lamenting on the subpar quality of Bangladeshi food, there have been some bright spots. Once, I had this Tuna sabzi almost that was amazing. Another time, these cabbage pakore/tikki that actually looked more like Latkes.
Scene two – children’s ward in the hospital
To survive in developing and third world countries, many have to numb themselves to poverty and what surrounds it. In the case of the hospital, one does this frequently (this is more worldwide) as getting emotional can sometimes influence your decision making capacity and skill. Though I go between what is the right balance, I was put to the test while on the pediatrics ward at the hospital.
The situation in the peds ward is much the same as it is in the medicine ward. Approximately 20 beds in one big room, 30 beds in another bigger room, with each maxed out forcing 2 patients to a bed at times and many on the floor. It’s one thing to see sickness and poverty in adults, and another to see it in kids. The unsanitary ward, patients eating what looks like watered down kichari, babies crying, families talking. There is a constant hum and a specific smell of antiseptic, body odor, latrine, rice, and sickness all in one room.
Like I said before, they present very late in their sickness so usually they already have a diagnosis and the disease is known. The kid which made me break down was an approximately 10 year old kids with his eyes practically swollen shut and his stomach protruding about the size of a 36 week pregnancy. He was so full of fluid that he couldn’t get up on his own. Why did they not come earlier? Why was this not detected by the local level doctor? How did this kid live life for the past month? For simplicity sake, his kidneys had failed and therefore fluid was staying in side of him. He was now laying on the floor as all the beds were taken. I wanted to talk to his family but unfortunately, Hindi/English can’t get by with gaonwale.
The next day, I tried communicating with him the way all kids know how to – by making funny faces. At first, he was like who is this guy that is rounding with his team but is making a face at me. I tried again when my team moved to the next patient and this time he smiled and copied my face. This continued for some time and other nearby kids and mothers started smiling as well. I pulled out my camera (as it’s the only toy I keep on me) and he allowed me to take his picture. I attached it to this email.
Scene three – Medicine Department Grand Rounds
We’ve always heard that there is no such thing as a dumb question. I think we may have been wrong.
Following a lack of participation from residents and students, the frustrated medicine chairmen had this to say. “You must ask question, not foolish one, but intelligent ones”
Scene four – Kismat
I guess I’ve always believed in fate but sometimes things happen that strengthen your belief even more.
I was hanging out on the medicine wards one day and it happened to be the day medical students were being tested. I decided to watch one student stand by his patient and get grilled by the attending. He performed with a smile and did ok as I saw the professor write “80” on the score card (it ended up being the highest grade in his class. Unlike in the states, there is no desire to have a certain number of A’s or high marks). He came up to me afterwards and asked me in bengali how he did. I told him I don’t know Bengali, and he talked in English. Ends up being that he is a foreign student from Calcutta doing his medical school here in Bangladesh. We decided to meet later that day and I hung out with him and his future wife who is also in med school. We instantly clicked and learned a lot from each other. It always amazes me the perception people here have of Americans so they were happy to see me change what they think. It also happens to be that they want to go to America eventually to practice there. We ended up meeting several times the rest of the week and it felt like I had family there with me basically. They took me out to dinner my last night and then dropped me off at the train station the next day. He even wrote me a letter to read when I was on the train.
While on the train, I was worried about how I would get to my friends apt. He couldn’t pick me up at the station as he was too busy working on his thesis which he had to defend in two days and all other male family members were out of town. When I was about an hour away, the person sitting next to me told me that Dhaka wasn’t safe. We got to talking and it ends up being that I had met his brother that works as a doc at the same hospital I was visiting for 2 weeks. This fellow worked as a government employee, basically the IRS, and was visiting family in Dhaka. He told me to come with him and he’d take care of me getting back. A government car and driver were at the station to pick him up and after driving together to drop him off, he paid the driver to take me to where I had to go. God is great.
The hospitality and care I’ve been receiving here is more than I could’ve asked for. My roommate/servant also came to drop me off at the station and then has called me three times since yesterday to make sure I’m doing ok. I’m sure there are crooks and cons out there, but I thank God that so far, so good.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Today, we are all Palestinians...
Israel's offensive on Palestine has created more of a wasteland situation in a land already saturated with hopelessness. In one of the most densely populated areas in the world, Palestinians are now being bombed relentlessly and face a dire situation with scarce provisions, meager health care, and little to no security for civilians. Over 100 civilians have already been killed, including 87 children according to hospital authorities.
Even if Israel is our ally, what does this say about us if we do not condemn this sort of war? It is one thing to defend your country and selectively attack, but another to punish an entire state and deprive them of the necessities for life. Why were we selectively "all New Yorkers" on 9/11 or "all Georgians" as Senator McCain put it last year when they were attacked unethically? Why are we not all Palestinians?
Obama commented last year that if rockets were being fired at his home while his daughters were sleeping, he would do everything to stop that and would act in a similar manner to Israel. Why not ask if his daughters were one of the seven school children that died in the December 27th bombing outside of a United Nations school in Palestine? Are the values of justice, freedom, and pursuit of happiness entitled to a selective race or people?
Countries around the world are dealing with terrorism and the innocent deaths it causes. Other countries are dealing with state-sponsored militaries causing the deaths of innocent civilians. Though the means are different, the end is the same.
A human is a human is a human. We cannot be selective in our principles of humanity. Today, we are all Palestinians.
Even if Israel is our ally, what does this say about us if we do not condemn this sort of war? It is one thing to defend your country and selectively attack, but another to punish an entire state and deprive them of the necessities for life. Why were we selectively "all New Yorkers" on 9/11 or "all Georgians" as Senator McCain put it last year when they were attacked unethically? Why are we not all Palestinians?
Obama commented last year that if rockets were being fired at his home while his daughters were sleeping, he would do everything to stop that and would act in a similar manner to Israel. Why not ask if his daughters were one of the seven school children that died in the December 27th bombing outside of a United Nations school in Palestine? Are the values of justice, freedom, and pursuit of happiness entitled to a selective race or people?
Countries around the world are dealing with terrorism and the innocent deaths it causes. Other countries are dealing with state-sponsored militaries causing the deaths of innocent civilians. Though the means are different, the end is the same.
A human is a human is a human. We cannot be selective in our principles of humanity. Today, we are all Palestinians.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Yes We Can...
"This election had many firsts and many stories that will be told for generations. But one that's on my mind tonight is about a woman who cast her ballot in Atlanta. She's a lot like the millions of others who stood in line to make their voice heard in this election except for one thing — Ann Nixon Cooper is 106 years old.
She was born just a generation past slavery; a time when there were no cars on the road or planes in the sky; when someone like her couldn't vote for two reasons — because she was a woman and because of the color of her skin.
And tonight, I think about all that she's seen throughout her century in America — the heartache and the hope; the struggle and the progress; the times we were told that we can't, and the people who pressed on with that American creed: Yes we can.
At a time when women's voices were silenced and their hopes dismissed, she lived to see them stand up and speak out and reach for the ballot. Yes we can.
When there was despair in the dust bowl and depression across the land, she saw a nation conquer fear itself with a New Deal, new jobs and a new sense of common purpose. Yes we can.
When the bombs fell on our harbor and tyranny threatened the world, she was there to witness a generation rise to greatness and a democracy was saved. Yes we can.
She was there for the buses in Montgomery, the hoses in Birmingham, a bridge in Selma, and a preacher from Atlanta who told a people that "We Shall Overcome." Yes we can.
A man touched down on the moon, a wall came down in Berlin, a world was connected by our own science and imagination. And this year, in this election, she touched her finger to a screen, and cast her vote, because after 106 years in America, through the best of times and the darkest of hours, she knows how America can change. Yes we can.
America, we have come so far. We have seen so much. But there is so much more to do. So tonight, let us ask ourselves — if our children should live to see the next century; if my daughters should be so lucky to live as long as Ann Nixon Cooper, what change will they see? What progress will we have made?
This is our chance to answer that call. This is our moment. This is our time — to put our people back to work and open doors of opportunity for our kids; to restore prosperity and promote the cause of peace; to reclaim the American Dream and reaffirm that fundamental truth — that out of many, we are one; that while we breathe, we hope, and where we are met with cynicism, and doubt, and those who tell us that we can't, we will respond with that timeless creed that sums up the spirit of a people:
Yes We Can."Friday, September 26, 2008
Ramadan and India/Pakistani History
A Pakistani uncle shared this story at the masjid and I wanted to share it as it is an interesting fact that I had no idea of (i'll try paraphrasing as best as I can).
"Sixty three Islamic years ago, I went to sleep in my country of India. The next morning I woke up, and my country was now called Pakistan. The date was the 27th of Ramadan, and was a Friday like it is today. A super super Friday if you will since it was both jummat al wida (farewell jumuah) and the 27th night of Ramadan. The leaders and politicians probably had no regard for the date being in Ramadan. Many Muslims probably had no idea as well. But it makes me think of how far we have come since then. It has been a painful 63 years for me. I look at India, I think of the tough times my Bangladeshi brothers have been through, and where Pakistan is now. I think of how the Prophet's life was 63 years long and how much he had accomplished during that time. Where do we go from here and what is the outlook for our countries, only Allah knows."
"Sixty three Islamic years ago, I went to sleep in my country of India. The next morning I woke up, and my country was now called Pakistan. The date was the 27th of Ramadan, and was a Friday like it is today. A super super Friday if you will since it was both jummat al wida (farewell jumuah) and the 27th night of Ramadan. The leaders and politicians probably had no regard for the date being in Ramadan. Many Muslims probably had no idea as well. But it makes me think of how far we have come since then. It has been a painful 63 years for me. I look at India, I think of the tough times my Bangladeshi brothers have been through, and where Pakistan is now. I think of how the Prophet's life was 63 years long and how much he had accomplished during that time. Where do we go from here and what is the outlook for our countries, only Allah knows."
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