Lessons While Flying
4 Sept 2010
I ended up sharing what should really be generously called a love seat for the transatlantic flight with Agan, a Bosnian man. He had a much longer trip than me, originating from his home in upstate New York, to DC, to Zurich, to Sarajevo, and then on to his final destination, a town north of Sarajevo a hundred miles, the name of which I did not catch, to visit relatives. It was a full flight and I had a window seat, so one can only hope to share the row with someone of diminutive size. As I approached my seat, I was a bit disappointed to see a somewhat large and stoic looking eastern European man in the seat next to me. His appearance was made that much more imposing due to the dark green, shrapnel-like scars on his face, concentrated around his light blue eyes. I would later learn that this was the remnants of a land mine that a friend of his had stepped on during the Balkan War. His friend died as did another, and Agan spent two and a half months in a hospital, losing only his vision. He had come to this country after the war and has lived in New York for ten years now. He is now a US citizen, for which I congratulated him. We talked a bit about the war, life in the US, and such things.
As I drifted off into a red wine and Benadryl cocktail induced haze of something that resembles sleep, I thought about how lucky we are. As Americans, we have never and perhaps may never know what it is like to be a refuge in our own country. We will never know what it is like to leave your home with nothing, perhaps never to return. We will never know what it is like to start one's entire life over in a new country. It is imporant to remember this every so often. What circumstances might have to exist to be in that situation? I think of the Kenyan woman who fled the post-election violence several years ago and whom I had the privilege to represent in gaining asylum status. I think of my own grandparents who left what was by all accounts a dismal existence in Ireland. I think about the peace and abundance we so easily take for granted. As the ever-present and never-ending debate over immigration simmers and boils, perhaps we might remember that afterall, we are a nation of immigrants.
And add to the list of things to be thankful for: the ability to observe the brilliant orange horizontal swath across the sky and the emerging sparkling lights of civilization below as we fly into the sunrise.
I ended up sharing what should really be generously called a love seat for the transatlantic flight with Agan, a Bosnian man. He had a much longer trip than me, originating from his home in upstate New York, to DC, to Zurich, to Sarajevo, and then on to his final destination, a town north of Sarajevo a hundred miles, the name of which I did not catch, to visit relatives. It was a full flight and I had a window seat, so one can only hope to share the row with someone of diminutive size. As I approached my seat, I was a bit disappointed to see a somewhat large and stoic looking eastern European man in the seat next to me. His appearance was made that much more imposing due to the dark green, shrapnel-like scars on his face, concentrated around his light blue eyes. I would later learn that this was the remnants of a land mine that a friend of his had stepped on during the Balkan War. His friend died as did another, and Agan spent two and a half months in a hospital, losing only his vision. He had come to this country after the war and has lived in New York for ten years now. He is now a US citizen, for which I congratulated him. We talked a bit about the war, life in the US, and such things.
As I drifted off into a red wine and Benadryl cocktail induced haze of something that resembles sleep, I thought about how lucky we are. As Americans, we have never and perhaps may never know what it is like to be a refuge in our own country. We will never know what it is like to leave your home with nothing, perhaps never to return. We will never know what it is like to start one's entire life over in a new country. It is imporant to remember this every so often. What circumstances might have to exist to be in that situation? I think of the Kenyan woman who fled the post-election violence several years ago and whom I had the privilege to represent in gaining asylum status. I think of my own grandparents who left what was by all accounts a dismal existence in Ireland. I think about the peace and abundance we so easily take for granted. As the ever-present and never-ending debate over immigration simmers and boils, perhaps we might remember that afterall, we are a nation of immigrants.
And add to the list of things to be thankful for: the ability to observe the brilliant orange horizontal swath across the sky and the emerging sparkling lights of civilization below as we fly into the sunrise.
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