I’ve been watching developments in India (and as I write that I can hear in my mind my Indian professors and graduate assistants say the word “development” with their own unique pronunciation) and at first I thought, as many probably did, that these events were unrelated to me, far away, not my worry.  But the more I listened and the more I became engaged with the story, the more I realized I knew people with families and friends in India, and I didn’t know where they were or if they were OK.  And that made the whole horrific thing more real, more tragic and much more scary.

One of the librarians I work for is Indian, and just last Tuesday she was talking about a trip back to India, so she must have family still there.  My sister-in-law has friends in India, that she recently visited, though she assures me they are all safe in another city.  And my second semester of graduate school, January 2007, I had an Indian graduate assistant that taught a discussion section I attended.  I suddenly remembered him as I listened to the Indian comandos describe their search inside the bloody  hotel, the accent as he spoke in English exactly the same as the graduate student explaining algebra to me.  I know that “T” went home to India in the middle of the semester because his father died, so obviously he has family there as well.  I don’t even remember his last name which I’d need to find him to inquire if his family is safe, but I think of him now and sincerely hope they are.

It’s sad to think that only by recognizing that I know people who might be directly affected by the terrorism in India did I begin to pay attention.  The world is small, and we are all closer than we think to events everywhere else.  What is frightening to them should be frightening to us.  Is frightening to us.  Because they are us, and we are them, and it is only by grace that we have not faced similar atrocities in our own neighborhoods.