A Stranger on a Subway
by Enver Rahmanov
I met a stranger on a subway station in Oakland as I was waiting for my train to Berkeley late at night. It was one of those stations where people would switch trains to get to the line they needed. A train heading in the opposite direction stopped, and I noticed how a young man with dreadlocks woke up just in time to jump out to switch trains. He asked me if he was on the right side of the tracks for the Pittsburg/Bay Point train. He was. I told him he was lucky, for it might be the last train before the rapid rail system closed for the night.
Since we had to take the same train we continued to talk. He was a man of an Asian descent in his early 30s, of very kind and friendly disposition with beautiful dark features, wearing a hoodie that covered his great dreadlocks. I learned that he worked very long hours as a cook in San Francisco and lived in the East Bay because he wanted to try and save money.
He was Tibetan, and I happily greeted him with the Tibetan greeting, “Tashi Delek!” I had volunteered for the Tibetan Aid Project for a couple of years and learned a little bit about this wonderful culture in exile. We had the immediate heart-to-heart connection of brothers. He told me about his strong love for an American woman that he met in India, their life in San Francisco, and their recent separation after several years together; he said nothing negative about her. He wished to have a family with her, but it seemed she did not want this. I did not know what to say, but my heart ached with sadness.
I asked him about India and Tibet and mentioned that I was in Bodh Gaya, India this past January, helping with distribution of Tibetan books for the monasteries and libraries. He happened to live there for a couple of years and remembered the unbearably hot summers in that holy place, where it is said the historical Buddha achieved enlightenment. After escaping to India from Tibet when he was 17, he never saw or heard from his family again—that was why family was very important to him now. He was in his mid thirties and longing for a family of his own. He took a deep breath and tears rolled down his strong face. My heart broke as I remembered the time when I could not see my family for 15 years.
I was not born here either. Coming to the United States from the former Soviet republic in my early twenties, I would often wake up in the middle of the night in tears, thinking that my parents would die and I would never see them again. When I turned forty, as a US citizen I was fortunate to return to the place of my birth and see my parents alive, spending hours with my mother and father in the kitchen sharing stories over a cup of tea, and tasting my mother’s unforgettable food. For all those years, my mother even kept my room the way I had it before I left.
I did not mention that to him. After all, I was lucky to be able to see my family again, and I knew it was different for those who fled from Tibet. All I could do was extend my hand and give him a hug. My forehead touched his in an expression of deep, mutual empathy. It was an act of compassion and I think we both felt it.
His stop approached and he had to leave, so he thanked me for making him “feel happy.” I knew what he meant; I have learned from many Tibetans that happiness is nothing more than a simple understanding of one’s life as it is, an act of kind presence and generosity of spirit, and for that lesson I am grateful.
Enver Rahmanov is completing his studies at the Graduate Theological Union and the Jesuit School of Theology of Santa Clara University in Berkeley and working for Maitri Compassionate Care, a residential hospice and respite care facility for people living with AIDS in San Francisco.
by Enver Rahmanov
I met a stranger on a subway station in Oakland as I was waiting for my train to Berkeley late at night. It was one of those stations where people would switch trains to get to the line they needed. A train heading in the opposite direction stopped, and I noticed how a young man with dreadlocks woke up just in time to jump out to switch trains. He asked me if he was on the right side of the tracks for the Pittsburg/Bay Point train. He was. I told him he was lucky, for it might be the last train before the rapid rail system closed for the night.
Since we had to take the same train we continued to talk. He was a man of an Asian descent in his early 30s, of very kind and friendly disposition with beautiful dark features, wearing a hoodie that covered his great dreadlocks. I learned that he worked very long hours as a cook in San Francisco and lived in the East Bay because he wanted to try and save money.
He was Tibetan, and I happily greeted him with the Tibetan greeting, “Tashi Delek!” I had volunteered for the Tibetan Aid Project for a couple of years and learned a little bit about this wonderful culture in exile. We had the immediate heart-to-heart connection of brothers. He told me about his strong love for an American woman that he met in India, their life in San Francisco, and their recent separation after several years together; he said nothing negative about her. He wished to have a family with her, but it seemed she did not want this. I did not know what to say, but my heart ached with sadness.
I asked him about India and Tibet and mentioned that I was in Bodh Gaya, India this past January, helping with distribution of Tibetan books for the monasteries and libraries. He happened to live there for a couple of years and remembered the unbearably hot summers in that holy place, where it is said the historical Buddha achieved enlightenment. After escaping to India from Tibet when he was 17, he never saw or heard from his family again—that was why family was very important to him now. He was in his mid thirties and longing for a family of his own. He took a deep breath and tears rolled down his strong face. My heart broke as I remembered the time when I could not see my family for 15 years.
I was not born here either. Coming to the United States from the former Soviet republic in my early twenties, I would often wake up in the middle of the night in tears, thinking that my parents would die and I would never see them again. When I turned forty, as a US citizen I was fortunate to return to the place of my birth and see my parents alive, spending hours with my mother and father in the kitchen sharing stories over a cup of tea, and tasting my mother’s unforgettable food. For all those years, my mother even kept my room the way I had it before I left.
I did not mention that to him. After all, I was lucky to be able to see my family again, and I knew it was different for those who fled from Tibet. All I could do was extend my hand and give him a hug. My forehead touched his in an expression of deep, mutual empathy. It was an act of compassion and I think we both felt it.
His stop approached and he had to leave, so he thanked me for making him “feel happy.” I knew what he meant; I have learned from many Tibetans that happiness is nothing more than a simple understanding of one’s life as it is, an act of kind presence and generosity of spirit, and for that lesson I am grateful.
Enver Rahmanov is completing his studies at the Graduate Theological Union and the Jesuit School of Theology of Santa Clara University in Berkeley and working for Maitri Compassionate Care, a residential hospice and respite care facility for people living with AIDS in San Francisco.
