Periscope Home in the Global Village

Welcome home. The immigration official smiled up at me as he handed my passport back. Just those two words and a smile, no questions about why I am living in Bangladesh, why I have entry stamps from various countries in the Middle East, Africa and Asia in the last few years; he did not ask me any of the questions which I had prepared answers to in my head during my airplanes descent into the OHare Airport in Chicago. While grabbing my luggage, I was further welcomed by a dozen or so smiles, nods and greetings of how ya doing from strangers (these friendly Americans must not have received the memo sent to the denizens of the foreign clubs in Dhaka). Then the cherry on top, the greeting that I have been dreaming about since I boarded my plane; with a heart rending (for I have not heard his voice in a while), joyous shout of Baba, Baba, Daddy, Daddy from my little man, a whirling dervish of mad cap hair, long eyelashes, missing tooth, hugs, kisses (he momentarily forgot in his excitement that he was too big to kiss his dad in public), manic energy pouring forth in a burst of stories, plans for games that we are going to play, books that we are going to read together, places we are going to go, and food that we are going to eat. As I took my wife in my arms and was greeted by the warmth of my mom-in-law, it hit meI was home! Since my move to Dhaka, and my wife and sons continued transition to life in Dhaka (with extended and much needed breaks in Wisconsin), I would sometimes trip over statements referring to my life back home when talking about my life in the US, or coming back home when talking about coming back to Bangladesh. During those times, I somehow did not feel comfortable with referring to or thinking of both places as home, especially thinking of Wisconsin/America as home after I left it a couple of years back. I had fallen victim to a particular emotion when thinking of America that seems to only affect liberals, especially ones who look at America from outside its borders a sense of disillusionment, a feeling akin to unrequited love (where the object of the love not only rejects the love, but also all of the values of the lover). Like many progressives, I have been devastated by the reports in newspapers and friends blogs about the rightward shift in American politics since the enthusiasm generated on the left by Obamas election; I have been deeply disturbed by the Islamophobia that seems to have risen to the surface at the prodding of the Park 51 controversy in New York; I continue to be bemused by the irrationality that pervades every discussion as to where the country is heading (and whose fault it is as to why we are here). Every newspaper opinion piece, dinner

conversation, online discussion to which I was dragged into while I was away, all seemed to focus on all that ails America, making my detachment from America all that much easier. By the time I boarded my airplane in Dhaka, I was thinking of America as the other. However, all that started changing after hearing the first shout of Baba when I walked out of the airport terminal. My change in perception has continued in my last few days in Wisconsin as I have been reminded why I love home. I now find that I can be happy in my home in Wisconsin while looking forward to going home to Dhaka. Coming home to America, my country which has succored me my whole adult life, educated me, trained me, helped find my place in this world and picked me up when I fell, has wiped out all the doubts, the feelings of disillusionment and of unrequited love, which I have felt while I was away for the last couple of years. Breakfast every morning of oatmeal, brown bread and fruits with my family while watching the morning sun stroke the autumn leaves golden; walks by the river in the cool day while breathing out steam, visit to my sons school and sitting down at lunch with his classmates, driving fast on the highway and singing to old songs on the radio with my wife and son, breaking bread and laughing with old friends, with the joy and laughter wiping away the years in between; the fond memories of living and growing up in a place for over 20 years, has bonded me back to this country. I am again amazed (like I was when I first landed on these shores 22 years ago) at the courtesy and affability of strangers, the diversity and energy that is present everywhere I go and that seems to belie all of the pundits who are ringing the death knell of the great American experiment. Home is where my son and my wife were born; home is a place which resonates with yes and can do, where impossible becomes i.m.possible; home is where my mom-in-law is my sons best friend and greatest teacher; home is where I looked into my wifes eyes 20 years ago (while being married by our African American theology professor) and vowed to celebrate with her through times of illumination and love, and support her during darkness and turmoil, and be with her until death; home is where my friends are; home is where I will vote on November 3rd and hop onto to a plane to fly home that very day. Home is Wisconsin, America. Home is where I was born; home is where my ancestors are buried; home is where my mother relishes the food she feeds me, and bestows on me her blessings by softly blowing on my head after her prayers; home is where my sons dadumoni is waiting to help him grow, where his cousins are there to help him feel he is part of something bigger; home is where my friends are; home is where I

go back to work on November 4th. Home is Dhaka, Bangladesh.