I Won't Ask Why You're Separated Or Your Baby Died

English: The gossip seems to interest baby, to...
English: The gossip seems to interest baby, too!  (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“You told her?” I said to a friend who is in the middle of a prolonged separation from her husband.

My friend is a wonderful listener. One on one, we have talks of such range and depth, I often feel like I’ve left the therapist after we have lunch. Unlike me, in a crowd, she’d rather watch than take the limelight. While I might set my husband’s car on fire, tell the world about his sins, or write a plot based on our breakup (were he to do to me what hers dared) she is internally grappling with a range of emotions.

“Yes,” she said. “I had to.” I was surprised to hear her say since she is a very private person.

“She asked what happened. I didn’t know what to say.”

“People ask you that?”

Even extroverted me, who is an impulsive blurter-outer of all and sundry phrases,  was shocked to the core. I might wonder what happened but even I would restrain  from asking my boss, co-worker, or fellow nursery parent, for the details.

“You won’t believe how many people ask,” she replied.

Fuming for my friend, as news of the latest installment of intrusion came, I did what I do when I have observations on humanity. I tweeted.

Immediately a few people Tweeted back, wondering why “What happened?” is a less than optimal response (the feed). In short, the question seems a poor cover up for obvious nosiness.

No doubt the fishbowl nature of expat life makes me queasy at the idea of people in the carpool, workplace, neighborhood having more information than they need. In a social setting where people know the most intimate details about each other, where you go on vacation and with whom, how long cars have been parked in a spot in a neighborhood, who is eligible for a promotion, who was fired and who really did resign, I cringe every time my friend says she didn’t know what to say when someone asked her what’s going on.

Yes, I understand that life’s tragedies will come out eventually. The very nature of the word means they are not something we can hide from.

Surely we all cringe at the over share of details during these traumatic moments; changed Facebook statuses, Tweets, or otherwise.

Word to wise, (as I’ve learned from another acquaintance’s loss, a year plus now, of a baby she never discussed with me): friendship has a variety of meanings, depending on the individual. If someone wants you to know the back story of a particular personal event, s/he will tell you.

Until then, best keep the quest for details to writing related tasks.

PS my short list of optimal responses to life tragedies:

  • “Sorry to hear that.”
  • “Can I help in any way?”
  • “You’re an amazing person.”
  • “This too shall pass.”
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Hierarchy of Sorrow: Boston, Delhi, Damascus

Syria
Syria (Photo credit: ewixx)

 

Last week from a sofa in a hospital room, after having delivered our second baby boy, I woke up at 1 a.m. Adrenaline or jetlag like false sense of sleep saturation had me reaching for my phone in the pitch black of the room. Across the coffee table, a good friend who had volunteered for night duty was resting. The baby was in the nursery. I went on Facebook.

 

The news feed of many of American friends, at home and abroad, was filled with the news of the bombing at the finish line of the Boston marathon. I couldn’t believe my eyes at the photos and had to turn off the phone to stem off the hormonal induced shock at the images, facts, and sounds.

 

As the facts unfolded – 3 dead, many more wounded – a puzzled reaction swept the part of the world I live in, the Middle East.

 

What about people in Syria, Afghanistan, Iraq, was the question circulating on Twitter, Facebook, and the blogosphere. Where is the empathy, shock, horror, concern for them?

 

A former student and now friend posted “I’m sorry to hear about Boston, sorry for all the casualties. Pray for Syria, it deserves far more sympathy. Pray for Syria twice as much!”.

 

Having studied Arabic in Damascus a few years ago, I have been watching the escalating tensions there with dread and anger at a “leader” who would treat his people as pawns.

 

But the assertion of my student made me uncomfortable.

 

Can we weigh on a scale those who are more deserving of empathy? Is it judged by the number of causalities?

 

Or, as mainstream American media seems to suggest, do we rate based on a scale of how the tragedies happen? Are civilians in peace time, running a marathon or going to work, more deserving than those who are living in a country entrenched in civil war?

 

I don’t know. I do know from my hospital bed, recovering from having a baby, that most frail and dependent of creatures, the symbol of all that is possible of humanity, I resisted the notion that my loyalties predict my sympathies and said as much to my friend on his wall:

 

“I understand what you are trying to say but let’s remember our hearts can juggle compassion for all. Clearly the media, government and politics cannot. I stand with Syrians as the land where I learned Arabic and hope that governments will stop turning blind eyes. Sympathy is not a competition. The more we learn that, the more we can come together as one. (not intending to lecture, your post did strike a chord with me as a new mother X2 from this past Sunday). I want my children to live in a compassionate world, better than the bi-partisan one I inherited. Now we pray for Iran, regardless of how we feel about nukes/presidents/etc.”

 

We had a great discussion (yes on Facebook wall posts as he was abroad).

 

Later in the week the question came again on Twitter: “Boston boston. Pls send your view: rape in Delhi why again and again?”

 

The commenter was talking about the rape of a 5 year old girl whose body had been dumped in a dumpster and found with foreign objects, including a candle, inside. I had read of the case with horror and posted about it on social media as well. As an Indian woman, mother, wife, and daughter, I was ashamed, distraught, and troubled by not only this incident but all of them since the watershed December case with a pharmacy student on a bus. Indian media commentators were asking: why did we care so much about her? What about the 5, 6, 10 year olds (and the ones we never know about about)? Don’t we care about them?

 

All of which brings me back to the same question: how much room do we have in our hearts? Can we only care for those who know immediately? Or is there some larger, universal ability to feel compassion that comes with our “advanced” technologies in the era of 24 hour media?

 

I do know when I saw the photo of the 19 year old, Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, the remaining bomb plotter, my heart clenched. Somewhere, something went horribly wrong for this younger brother. I couldn’t help but think of my own boys, presently 2.5 and 1 week old. What would they grow up to do? Would the older one mislead the younger? And could the younger use this as his excuse for wrecking havoc?

In the end, it all comes down to relationships. Right?

 

 

 

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Wordless Wednesday: Shame on Facebook

I’m not guaranteed a clear radio signal in my car in Qatar for the two channels that broadcast the BCC World Service. When the moisture in the air and frequencies do cooperate, however, driving the hectic byways is transformed from the mundane to the educational.

Exactly the case today when this episode of “Slut Shaming” seared my ears. The broadcast was made all the more poignant by the fact the reporter was a teenager living in New York. Have a listen and let me know if you are as shocked at Facebook’s inane replies to the epidemic of sexual photos of minors online.

 

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