The excerpt below is a scene I had observed one morning during my commute to class. It has left a significant mark on my memory. More than anything, it reminds me to be grateful for my comfortable life and trivial problems, in times where the world is facing one catastrophe after another.
"It was a cold, windy January morning. I was on the Worcester/Framingham commuter rail heading towards South Station, located in the heart of Boston. The train was packed with people ready to start another day in the office or classroom. Immersed in their phones, newspapers and laptops, the people rode the train sharing a collective silence. Suddenly, a man yelled, “Jesus!” Heads snapped up and people got up out of their seats. Those who sat in the back of the car craned their necks to see what was going on.
Between the swarm of people was a man sitting on the floor, kind of leaning over with his legs stretched out in front of him and arms limp at his sides. He was positioned between a row of seats in the middle of an aisle. It seemed as though he had fallen, fainted perhaps. All the signs seemed to point to it except for one: his eyes were wide open. It was perhaps this minor detail that had people looking at one another with perplexed faces. For as soon as the man fell, people rushed to his side in order to revive him. While one man crouched down near him and started to rub his hand, another sitting in a nearby seat pulled out a water bottle from his shoulder bag and held it out. But the man remained silent.
He stared ahead with pupils dilated, and then began to wheeze. Huge drops of sweat rolled down his face. By this time, one of the conductors had arrived while speaking into his walkie-talkie, ordering for the train to stop. People talked to the man as the train halted to a stop, asking him questions and waiting for some sort of response. A woman came forward to check for a pulse, but claimed to feel none. It was clear that everyone was terrified – it was written on their faces. Someone called out for a doctor and a few moments later an EMT opened the door of an adjoining car and stepped in. At this moment the man, who looked like he was about to burst, snapped out of his trance. He looked around, thoroughly confused and frightened, and took several ragged breaths as the sweat continued to drip down his face.
The EMT immediately came to his side and asked a series of questions: Do you know where you are, sir? Who is the President of the United States? Other questions were asked as the man was helped up and directed to a seat. People cleared the way, giving him room to breathe. The water bottle was accepted and finished in a matter of seconds.
The people weren't the only ones who were confused, as the man himself began to admit he had no idea what just happened. He refused to seek medical attention and the train started moving again. Some tried to make conversation and console him. He moved towards the door to get some air. When the train came to a halt at South Station, the man received words of concern from leaving passengers. Finally, he agreed to seek medical attention as he exited the train."
This scene, which lasted about 20 minutes in real time, has been purposely etched into the collection of forever memories I keep in my mind. Every emotion that was felt, every facial expression that was made, is stored within reach for when I find myself being desensitized by current events around the globe. Lately, I have been less and less mindful of the countless news stories that pour out of the media spout. Is it because the world has become a terrible and scary place and it's easier to dismiss the stories rather than become emotionally invested? Or is it because I can't really relate to the atrocities hitting every part of humanity? Either way, ignorance is not bliss, and when I begin to feel guilty for my lack of political hashtags and involvement in candlelight vigils, I go back to the scene on the train.
I was an observer who felt fear because of how immediate the situation was. Today, hundreds of thousands of people around the world are feeling the same fear but on a much larger scale. They aren't able to get off the train and continue their normal lives like I was. Once again, I wear the shoes of the observer, and I feel grateful for it. It's the least I can do for those who have to keep riding that train, without receiving any acknowledgment from the rest of the world. I make it a point to appreciate the comfortable life I was born in, because there are people who see death as an everyday occurrence. Most importantly, I am working towards using my position as an observer to bring light to these difficult times, and no longer be an innocent bystander, as there is no such thing. To end with a quote by Martin Luther King, Jr., "The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy."
