NO

It's over.

PC Bangladesh has been suspended (read: shut down). I am typing this from a room in Washington, DC, where we have all been consolidated and await our Close of Service seminar. Why? Because someone in one of the towns in B'desh got threatened by a member of an Islamic extremist group.

My grief, and the grief of other volunteers, has at times been overwhelming. We had just gotten through some of the toughest times; we were excited about actually starting to do some things that we could be proud of for the rest of our lives. This was our home.

Why did I ever waste a single day feeling sorry for myself? More often than not I was annoyed by the legion of little kids outside my door constantly trying to get whatever piece of me they could. On my way to the bus station they chased my rickshaw repeating the same "Halllo, Uncle!" just like any other day. Some days I would smile and reply back in Bangla, but most days I'd just ignore it if I was in a bad mood. On this day I just stared. It was a lot easier not to get down about the state the world's in when I could tell myself I was at least doing my part to stem the tide.

No one understands why we have left. I will be forever replaying the mental tapes of the faces of my colleagues and friends falling one after another when they learned the news. There was a pattern: First, the eyes would fall as the information was processed. Immediately following, the eyes would flit about the floor in order to assess the believability that such an unsuitable thing was really happening. Next, the eyes would return to my face and the mouth would protest: "But Bangla Bhai and Sheikh Abdur Rahman were captured!" After my flimsy explanation, the eyes would lag off to the side and the mouth would stall, wishing it could speak better English or that mine could speak better Bangla so we could sit down together and work out that Peace Corps was WRONG, I COULD stay and this was all a big mistake. The eyes would come back and ask, "You're really leaving? For good?" Yes. And then the face would change to match mine. "Oh, this is very sad news for us."

And I had nothing to say.

When I first touched down in Bangladesh, I'd never have admitted it but I was filled up mostly with what should be called dread. Leaving on the plane yesterday, the only thing I could think was

NO

No. This is not right. It feels like someone has died. While this is not as dire a loss as the loss of a friend, spouse, or fiancee, I am reminded of Laura G.'s loss of her love a few years ago. They had only been "together" for less than a year. But in that time they had found a love that made them happy to think about the future. YES! I'VE FINALLY GOT SOMETHING RIGHT! THIS IS WHAT MY LIFE FROM NOW ON WAS SUPPOSED TO BE LIKE. Then not.

And that's only for me. It's less than a picnic for the hundreds of friends and colleagues around the country whose hopes for their respective towns--well founded or not--were resting on the work of some kids from America. So many want to leave the country as it is. Every day someone would ask me to take them--sometimes as a joke, sometimes not. Most who are fortunate enough to leave the country to get a good education don't come back. How can things ever get better?

And yet this is a nation that has come back from floods, war, oppression, and extreme overpopulation and continues to thrive. Maybe they're better off without us coming and raising false hopes among the educated few with whom we fraternize.

*****

What's next for me? I don't know. If anyone's got any crazy ideas, jobs, or plans that involve doing something either foreign, humanitarian, or artistic, or insane, let me know--because once I finish a two week bender during which I question the existence of justice, I'll be an open book. Okay I'm probably kidding about the bender thing. I'm not quite tortured genius enough for a existentially-motivated bender.