This is Dexter. He is 2 years old. He loves to be Batman and Superman and Spiderman. He’s a real boys’ boy. He pretends he is flying, and he captures the baddies who threaten us.
He is the sweetest little troublemaker you’ll ever meet.
Some other things you might like to know about Dexter:
He is a fabulous big brother. He was a later bloomer vocabulary-wise. He used to be terribly shy but has recently begun to come out of his shell. He loves new people and enjoys greeting them with a big “HI!” when he meets them.
His favorite color is pink. He loves Dora the Explorer. He has been known to wear my skirt as a dress, and he delights in cuddling with his mama. Continue reading “What Happened When My Son Wore A Pink Headband To Walmart”
The most remarkable man I’ve ever met. If ever a man deserved a Nobel Prize… but then he’s a bearded muslim from Pakistan, so Kissinger and Obama and Peres will be given the Nobel Prize, but Edhi will not. Neither of course did Gandhi! Pakistan: Hope amidst the chaos What Matters Humanitarian to a nation
At the end of 1956, generally conceded to be the cultural birth year of rock ‘n’ roll, the best-selling album in America was not?Elvis Presley?or?Elvis, it was Harry Belafonte’s?Calypso. Belafonte was one of America’s most popular entertainers of the mid-twentieth century and parlayed his commercial success into civil rights activism. Calypso music had come from Trinidad and Tobago, with roots in West African Kaiso music and the migration of French planters and their slaves from Martinique and Dominica: Continue reading “Harry Belafonte – "Banana Boat Song (Day O)" – 1956”
PARIS ? FOR a period of my life, from my 27th to my 39th years, I slept alone: I had no sex. I wasn?t unhappy. Or frustrated. In fact, I found no sex preferable to disappointing sex.
Just before giving up, I had a boyfriend. He often said that we were happy sexually, but frankly he was blind to my unhappiness. So that winter, I went skiing without him.
Alone in all that sun and snow, absorbing energy from the sky and mountains, I let my body breathe quietly. The freedom and whiteness of the snow and mountains produced a kind of ecstasy. And the special pleasure I found skiing in this paradise made me think about the possibilities of my body, my sensuality. And I asked myself, ?Sophie, is your sexual life so very stimulating, actually?? And my answer was, ?No.? I realized that even when I took pleasure, I was not ecstatic with my sexual life. In fact, I seemed to be going through the motions of lovemaking because, I thought, that?s what everybody did. I decided to take a break, to recover a true desire. Continue reading “Life Without Sex”
When I reported from South Africa in the 1960s, the Nazi admirer B J Vorster occupied the prime minister?s residence in Cape Town. Thirty years later, as I waited at the gates, it was as if the guards had not changed. White Afrikaners checked my ID with the confidence of men in secure work. One carried a copy of?Long Walk to Freedom, Nelson Mandela?s autobiography. ?It?s very eenspirational,? he said. Continue reading “Nelson Mandela?s greatness may be assured ? but not his legacy”
I would kiss her on the lips and she would perk up and say “Ah, a real kiss”. Chotomami (little aunt) had always been special. Luise Morawetz-Rafique (1.1.1929 – 9.7.2013) was the only white person in our family, and we were naturally curious. My mama (mother’s brother) had many foreign friends, and I would occasionally be taken to the Dhaka Club, an old colonial club that I now avoid on principle. As a child, going to the swimming pool, having marshmallows and seeing naked white men changing in front of us, were all things that led to endless conversations amongst the rest of the kids. Chotomama and mami had two daughters Laila and Laeka and a son Akbar. We were all close in age, but Akbar and I, boys, mischievous and with boundless energy, were the closest of pals. We were also constantly fighting. The two girls were the heartthrobs of all the older boys, and I by being a close cousin and thus a stepping stone, got special treatment from the boys. They were fun days.
She is a murmur in the wind, which touches the rain-ravished lake in a quite late afternoon; she is the benevolent shade in the burning rays of mid noon; she is the peace that enchants in the mist of twilight; she is an enigma that engulfs the nocturnal. She is a friend, who lives in my heart, who breathes in my thoughts, touches my senses, stays in the ripples of my tears. She is a friend whose voice I will never hear, whose face I will never see, whose hands I will never ever hold again even for once. Even as she continues to visit my memories, she will never face me in the present or in the future because time has hijacked her to an unknown land, where there is no email, no facebook or phone, no address what so ever.
Our friendship took wheels when she was diagnosed with cancer back in the last week of November 2009, few days before my mother passed away. Few months later we really become close, we used to go together for her radiation therapy. I befriended her knowing she might not lose her battle with cancer, but never believing that she will one day. And truly never considering it will affect me to the core.
Our friendship was not always smooth, there were rocky rides also, but it was pure, the love was never fake, which we shared. Yes there were jealousy, cruelty and foolishness lurking in the back ally of our relationship; but our friendship always had the upper hand. We shared more than a cup of tea, we shared dreams to grew old together, do childish things, be there for one another and my friend abandoned me in the middle of life, leaving me lost? all alone? perhaps she is the only member of the same gender I believe to be my best friend. Lisa at Hospital on her last birthday with her friend Momena, on 30 June 2011
She kept a smiling face so many did not know the pains she went through, the physical pains of the inhuman treatment, not once but twice, the mental pain of seeing friends and family?s indifference. But the most dreadful pain was seeing one?s life vanishing before one?s eyes, the time escaping like sand through one?s tight clutch? the pages of one?s life disappearing?
She was like a butterfly who was caught in heavy rain, her love for life kept her going but the aggressive cancer was giving her no chance. After a yearlong treatment and with a clean card from her doctors she was picking up on life, making plans, but in the early part of 2011 the cancer returned, worse than last time. Within a few months she went in for another surgery and the second chemotherapy, this time her body was not taking it any more, she almost died a few times but she pulled through, the smile was returning but only for a few days, in late December of 2011 the virus was back. And this time Lisa was losing the battle, she became aloof, her temper was short, most likely the cancer had reached her brain, in fact it was spreading all over her body; doctors refused treatment saying it would not help. The last three months we lost touch, we met very little, on 30 March 2012 Lisa?s mother called my sister, who is a doctor to come and see if Lisa was alive. Her family was taking care of her in the home, when we went the house was echoing in Lisa?s mother sobs, my friend was lifeless, and she had departed around 10 am. I never thought I would tie her toes together to keep her lifeless feet together.
I can go on writing forever but I will end for now, saying today is her birthday and she will never grow old, she will be forever young and beautiful, my beloved friend! I pray to Allah that may she get a place in heaven. At her last birthday in 30 June 2011, Nazmul and I celebrated her birthday in the hospital at the first day of her second chemotherapy. She joked that this might be her last birthday, well guess what, it turned out to be just so. Unbearable but true!
Lisa you are deeply missed happy birthday, stay well wherever you are, love.
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The writer Momena Jalil was a co-worker at Drik. She is a Pathshala alumni.
The phone call was unexpected, and the caller was unsure. Way back in 1999, I had no previous contact with Norway. More importantly, the person calling had already had a hiccup. His research had led him to someone who didn?t speak English, hadn?t travelled much, and wasn?t familiar with any of the issues that he was meant to have authored. It was a case of mistaken identity, but Per Kristian Lunden wanted to be sure it was the REAL Shahidul Alam this time round. We photojournalists share a common language, and soon, the doubt disappeared. While we were strangers, there was enough common ground to know we walked similar paths and in this case, had a common goal. We were going to build on a database for media practitioners of the south, that I had started.
More phone calls followed and eventually I found myself opposite a tall Norwegian (all Norwegians are tall by Bangladeshi standards) at Kristiansand, and Per Kristian Lunden and I drove off to the city of Ris?r. The idea of a city with 3000 people was novel to me. But it was summer and they had a wooden boat festival. I was fascinated by the long nights. Continue reading “A meal without rice”
The faux red carpet had been laid out for the famous and the wannabe-famous. Politicians and journalists arrived at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner, bedazzled in the hopes of basking in a few fleeting moments of fame, even if only by osmosis from proximity to celebrities. New to the Washington scene, I was to experience the spectacle with my husband, a journalist, and enjoy an evening out. Or at least an hour out. You see, as a spouse I was not allowed into the actual dinner. Those of us who are not participating in the hideous schmooze-fest that is this evening are relegated to attending the cocktail hour only, if that. Our guest was the extraordinarily brilliant Oscar-nominated director of?Beasts of the Southern Wild, Benh Zeitlin. Mr. Zeitlin’s unassuming demeanor was a refreshing taste of humility in a sea of pretentious politicians reeking of narcissism. Continue reading “My Racist Encounter at the White House Correspondents' Dinner”
I came across this man yesterday. He was sitting on the footpath on VIP road (near the Tourism Department) carefully adjusting the rocks he had placed on his legs. There were smaller pieces he used to make fine adjustments to weights. He was neither begging, nor seeking attention, but merely trying to treat himself.
He had apparently been hit by a bus, had gone to Mohakhali hospital, but received no treatment.
Al Amin injured in road accident went 2 Mohakhali hosp bt received no trtmnt. Puts rocks on legs 2 ease pain. #Dhakatwitter.com/shahidul/statu?
