A Family from 1963 to Forever

As I prepare for the Peace Corps 50^th anniversary celebration in Washington, D.C., my mind is filled with so many, many memories of Peace Corps and Bengali friends, travels throughout East Pakistan as part of the National Nutrition Survey, daily life in Dhaka, and wonderful vacations in Nepal, India, Thailand, and Malaysia. Then there was the four-month trip in 1965 with Cyndy Tice that truly took us “the long way home”, including stops in India, Sri Lanka, Iran, Iraq, Egypt, Lebanon, Syria, Jordan, Israel, and Greece, which was the launching point for the rest of our travels all over Europe/Scandinavia/UK/Ireland. Our families probably thought we’d never appear on the horizon!

Since all these memories are way too much for an entry in this blog, I decided to share a special part of my Peace Corps experience that began in July, 1963, and endures to this day – my Bengali family.  The moment I walked into the Majid house in Dhaka for my 10-day homestay, I became a member of the family – no ifs/ands/buts, exceptions, or time limits. As an only child with lots of cousins, it was wonderful to have two sisters as well as another large extended family. One of the nicest things that happened early on was my Bengali Abba (“father”) writing my American father a lovely letter, telling him not to worry about me because I’m now part of a family in East Pakistan who also cares for me. I can’t begin to describe how much that letter meant to my father – over the years, he kept it in a special place and showed it to me many times. They also continued to correspond – when my dad died in 1979, I found Abba’s letters in his desk; when I visited the Majids in 1992, Abba reached into his desk and pulled my father’s letters out to show me.

Being a daughter/sister had its responsibilities, which of course were educational as well as fun – weddings, holidays, iftar during Ramadan, Eid, birthdays, shopping, going to an occasional movie, and drinking lots and lots of tea.  When my sister Monju married several months after my homestay, I joined Farida in doing all the things that sisters do – pre-wedding, during the wedding, and post-wedding. In late February, 1965, Cyndy and I were at the airport, in the midst of saying goodbye to Peace Corps friends, my “boss”, Dr. Kamaluddin Ahmad from the University of Dhaka Biochemistry and Nutrition Department, Cyndy’s homestay family, and my dear friend Peary Rahman and her family, when I looked up to find about ten members of my Bengali family walking in to see me off. Needless to say, the Majids, Ma’s extended family, and I were in tears by the time Cyndy and I headed for the airplane – we literally took off into the sunset.

When I left in 1965, I had promised to return “someday”, and in the early 1990s, I realized that my Bengali Abba was in his 80s, as were Peary’s parents, so I shouldn’t wait any longer. I’ll never regret my decision to return then, because a few years later Abba passed away – although I couldn’t be there, I sent a special message that was read at his memorial service. He was a remarkable, visionary man with a worldview.

By the time I returned to Dhaka in 1992, Monju was the mother of a son and daughter in their 20s, and had gone through an amicable divorce from Dr. Hafiz in London, where Miti and Abrar had been born. Monju met me at the Dhaka airport with her new fiancé in tow, and said they were waiting for me to arrive before having the wedding. So, there I was, once again in the sister’s wedding role, only this time I also was an aunt. And, as usual, Monju, Ma, and I were sitting around, drinking tea and eating sweets – Ma speaking in Bengali with a few English words to help me out, yours truly speaking in English combined with as much Bengali as I could remember, and Monju translating when we got stuck!

Thanks to email, letters, and visits elsewhere, Monju and I keep in touch. As always, there’s a sharing of sisterly advice with added concern about age-related health issues, plus reminders of birthdays, weddings, births, and, sadly, when to send condolences to relatives who’ve lost family members. Just family stuff after all these years.

Jennice Marks Fishburn

Bangladesh 1963-65

1963: Monju wanted us to have a formal picture to remember. 

1992: Monju and Rana picking me up at the “new” Dhaka airport, a long way from the 1963 airport.

1992:  Wedding planning, tea, and sweets with Monju and Ma at Ma’s house.
 

1992:  During the wedding – Monju, son Abrar, a London musician, and daughter Miti, graduate student at the time.

1992:  Immediate family at end of wedding – Abba in the middle, an uncle at the right.

1992:  Visiting Peary at the Rahman home.

2004:  I met Monju in London while she was visiting Miti, Abrar, and their families. The third generation was represented by Miti’s three-week-old Jyotsna, who shares her grandmother’s name.