Mejonana.
by Sajaa and Mahaa Ahmed
Introduction (by Sajaa)
My sister, Mahaa, and I have been texting, FaceTiming, Instagram and Twitter Direct Messaging nonstop since we heard the unexpected news of our Mejonana’s death on Tuesday, April 28, 2020. Dr. Jamilur Reza Choudhury, also known simply as J.R.C., was our great-uncle, the middle brother of the five-sibling Choudhury clan, hence our loving “Mejo” moniker for him. Even typing the word “was” just now — I wish more than anything I could delete and replace it with the word “is”. Mahaa was gutted when she saw someone had already updated his Wikipedia page. I noted that he must have done it himself from heaven because if anyone could get WiFi there, it would be him.
Humor aside, Mejonana will always remain the larger-than-life cheerleader that we both, and countless others, were so blessed to have in their lives. In digitally-powered communications, Mahaa and my feelings roughly vacillate between profound sadness and disbelief. Sadness for the loss, disbelief because despite our Mejonana’s painstaking contributions to bettering the planet’s infrastructure through science — bridges, buildings, airports, disaster shelters, you name it — somehow those physical structures dedicated to connectivity are not able to be used for us to mourn together as a family or international community. The necessary social distancing barriers imposed by a global pandemic feel cruel in this moment. And yet, despite our mandated isolation, the computer literacy for which he tirelessly advocated has led to many of us — family, friends, and strangers — to reconnect and congregate virtually to honor his life.
What follows is a collection of a few significant memories and thoughts from Mahaa and me, personal written and actual snapshots of our extraordinary Mejonana who we were so lucky to have as a constant in our lives.
I. The Newseum, Summer 1997 (by Sajaa)
Visits from any family member during my childhood were eagerly anticipated and theatrically mourned. The joke that my waterworks upon people’s departures could have solved global droughts persists in the family to this day. Trips from Mejonana were no exception. In Summer 1997, we — without six-month-old Mahaa or my mom, drove to D.C. mainly to check out the newly-opened Newseum. For me, then just eight years old, a more suitable first-choice might have been the Air and Space Museum with its displays of fighter jets and rockets, over a museum dedicated to the media, but I was happy to tag along nevertheless. I remember asking Mejonana why he preferred the Newseum over Air and Space, which was more obviously suited to his background in engineering. He answered that the achievements in flight and space travel could not have been possible without the international exchange of ideas, which to him was dependent on the availability and accessibility of a free press and international cooperation.
We had a lovely experience touring Newseum exhibitions of the first printing press, about the powerful nature of the First Amendment, and seeing a section of the Berlin Wall. I couldn’t quite grasp all of those concepts at that age, but it was the first time I recall thinking critically about journalism. Mejonana had that special quality of making children feel heard and seen at ages when engaging with an adult was not always easy. Needless to say, when that trip came to its inevitable end, my tears were definitely enough to water all our houseplants and then some.
Our unique rapport was born during this trip. We regularly corresponded via emails and letters, cards and phone calls, and I recall specifically his encouragement of my writing, after I prepared a short story in dispatch form about the saga of his son, Kaashif Choudhury, who went through a ridiculous ordeal to obtain an I-20 Visa in order to travel to the States for college that continuously met bureaucratic mishaps.
Late last year, twenty-three years after our visit, I learned that the Washington D.C. Newseum was to shutter on December 31, 2019. Now, omens are not generally in my arena, but I remember, upon reading the news of its closing, thinking back to our trip fondly, marveling at the passage of time, and apprehensive about the end of this particular institution.
II. First Day of Kindergarten Send-Off Prompts Poetry, Fall 2003 (by Mahaa)
This year, my January 19th birthday coincided with the first confirmed case of COVID-19 in the U.S. Since its unprecedented proliferation, we have all subconsciously carried the overwhelming weight of anticipatory grief, mourning something not yet lost. Mejonana’s death now makes that grief unbearably tangible. In the past, Sajaa and I have written about our memories with our paternal grandparents, our Dadu and Dada, for their funerals in 2015 and 2016, respectively. For those sad occasions, we were able to share those thoughts aloud with each other in our childhood bedrooms and home, surrounded by trays upon trays of comfort food sent from our loving southern New Jersey community. Now, we are attempting to recreate that same processing of grief that has served us well so far via a collaborative Google Doc, but seeing each other’s flashing red and green cursors simply isn’t the same.
My earliest memory with Mejonana is from age five. I can still remember the yellow school bus pulling up at the stop on Longwood Drive. As I climbed aboard and took a seat by the window, I felt reassured to see the smiles of three of my most beloved supporters: my Nanu, Emy Nanu, Mejonana’s amazing wife, and Mejonana. They waved vigorously as I set off on my first day of kindergarten. Three hours later when I returned, they were all at the bus stop to greet me. Nanu held my hand as we walked home. Mejonana was first to ask how my day had gone and unleashed query after query about what I had learned, kicking off his routine check-ins on my education that continued from 2003 until last week.
On a Sunday a few months following my first day of kindergarten, I was in class at our local Bangla School. During breaks from learning the choreography for Lal Jhuti Kakatua, a traditional Bangla song, I decided to write (with assistance from my parents) a short poem about Mejonana with hopes to impress him:
III. Harvard Club Rejection, Fall 2006 (by Sajaa)
I hadn’t taken the subway much yet and definitely not on my own within the first few weeks of college at Columbia in New York City in Fall of 2006. Mejonana was staying at the Harvard Club during one of his trips to the U.S. and asked me to meet him there. I had no idea what Harvard Club meant and just wore my regular college-student uniform of jeans. After emerging from the subway unscathed and our affectionate greeting on 44th Street, the host at the dining room took one look at me and said, “I’m sorry Ma’am, but no jeans.” Upset about this development, and about being called ma’am, Mejonana said not to worry, we could get room service but that I’d probably be called ma’am more often than not for the remainder of my life. Eating at our trays with the view of the surrounding skyscrapers of midtown Manhattan felt more fitting anyway, since the glistening windows of the buildings seemed to wink at him, thanking him for his research on the structural integrity of high rises.
He asked me about my science coursework (during this bygone era I was still pre-Med) but caught on to the fact that I was becoming politically active, as Columbia was entangled in its controversy du jour in the aftermath of the publication of David Horowitz’s 101 Most Dangerous Professors. Following that visit, I received notes from him every time a political protest broke out on campus (which was all the time).
Two years later, I was interviewed as a student activist for Fox News’ Hannity and Colmes before President Obama and Senator McCain came to campus during the 2008 election cycle. Last night, rereading Mejonana’s subsequent email to me after he watched the footage made me both laugh and cry, especially in the current political moment:
By 2008, Mejonana was the celebrity in the family. His ingenuity and intellect had transformed Bangladesh and the world had taken notice, as he was called upon to meet the world’s most influential figures like Nobel-laureate Dr. Mohammad Yunus, Bill Gates, and soon, the Queen of England.
III. Entrance Essay Fodder, 2014–2020, Mahaa
Over the past six years, I have submitted countless essays for college and scholarships, with prompts asking why I’m pursuing the sciences. The introductory sentences are always about how Mejonana was one of the lead engineers for the design of Bangabandhu Bridge. The same spirit of patriotism embodied in this engineering feat has inspired the emphasis on science and math in our own household, since both of our parents, Dr. Tariq Ahmed and Dr. Kauser Jahan were also his students at BUET. The trope of the Bridge and his involvement in building it is the comforting cornerstone I return to time and time again for each essay necessary to pursue the next academic chapter.
Mejonana always demonstrated genuine curiosity in all my interests. As many of us have experienced firsthand, his knack for starting an intense conversation and his keen interest in all knowledge, with no knowledge left behind, was unmatched. He is among the few who took an enthusiastic interest in Tangled, my final dance composition piece as part of my Dance minor. In the dance, I wore the ghungroos I have worn on my ankles for over ten years in my study of classical dance around my wrists to represent how illness can lead to feeling like a prisoner in one’s own body. He pushed me on what every movement meant, what I thought about the intersection of modern dance and Bengali and Indian dance forms, and what point of view I was sharing. Mejonana always took the time to prepare for his conversations and interactions, a rare quality that speaks to the compassion, generosity, and deep investment he brought to every relationship he had.
IV. Witness: 2014–2018 (by Sajaa)
In Dhaka six years ago, on a three-week long trip following my graduation from Law School, I went for morning walks with Mejonana in Ramna Park. I was incredibly on edge throughout that trip, anticipating bar exam results and my impending engagement. Mejonana served as his usual calming, grounding force, instead focusing on what type of legal concepts I’d address in my upcoming judicial clerkship with Judge Alexander Waugh and what I had learned from my recent job at the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey. Mejonana was among the few that was so proud of my work at the Port Authority, who knew its significance globally in infrastructure and didn’t think I worked at the 42nd Street Bus Terminal. He asked questions about my then fiance, Justin Tracy, about his music, about his family in the UK and told me how much he looked forward to meeting them. When I passed the bar a few weeks later, he was the first person I emailed. He eventually did one year later at our wedding, making his strong impression on my in-laws. Mejonana joyfully served as the second witness to our nikah standing at the altar with us on August 9, 2015. He immediately added Justin to our family tree.
The last time I saw Mejonana, he and Emy Nanu came here, to Hurley, New York, to visit a 3-month-old Ray Charles Tracy. For the first time, I was getting to host Mejonana in my own home, scrambling to do a deep clean of a house turned upside down by new baby, to put the hand-embroidered Bangladeshi bedcovers on the bed he’s be using and dress Ray in a onesie with a the Bangla text “Bongsher batthi!” (Light of the Dynasty!). Ray was soothed immediately in his arms, and Mejonana loved exploring our house and our new adopted home in Ulster County, taking a ride over Hurley Mountain to see the Ashokan Reservoir.
Upon his return, he of course noted our “Delgado for Congress” sign on the lawn, and commended me for continuing the political involvement and wished us luck with the election. Over tres leches cake from Bistro To Go, which he adored, he asked lots of questions about now-Congressman Antonio Delgado and was impressed to hear he was a Rhodes Scholar, ironic coming from a man who himself had just received the highest civilian honor in Bangladesh, the Ekushey Padak. When he and Emy Nanu departed with my Abbu to head to New York City to attend a banquet being held for him in Queens, the sobs of my youth were no more, just affection for him taking time out of the heavy itinerary that had them crisscrossing the States to spend quality time with us and plans for the next trip, when we planned to walk the rail trails and Walkway Over the Hudson. That is how I’d like to remember him. Making plans for the next time we would be together.
V. The Last Lecture, Spring 2020 (by Mahaa)
Most of my early memories of Boston, what was supposed to be my home currently, stem from visiting Charisma Khala, Mejonana’s daughter, while she was a student at MIT. I always admired both their brilliance. I felt silly for resting my hand on the foot of John Harvard’s statue — an act believed to bring good luck. Last year, Mejonana was among the first to celebrate my admission to Harvard for graduate school; while I was still wondering if it was a mistake, Mejonana assured me that he could not picture me elsewhere. He was glad that I would be in Boston, the birthplace of his grandson, Aashaz, and landmarks like the Charles River or the Yard I regularly frequented, pre-COVID, always triggered fond memories of him.
Mejonana lived a life committed to serving others and improving the overall health of Bangladeshis, whether through constructing essential infrastructure, bolstering access to education and technology, or addressing the challenge of climate change. Our correspondence had become far more regular since I began my public health coursework and research in September 2019; by mid-March, with the pandemic well underway, we communicated on a weekly basis. Our final conversation followed a seminar on April 17, 2020 conducted by his friend who is also my professor. We had both attended via Zoom — me because I had to, and him because of his inquisitive nature. The seminar revolved around the response to COVID-19 in South Asia and we discussed our anxieties about the negative outcomes the pandemic may have in Bangladesh and potential solutions. We were excited that despite being thousands of miles apart and across different time zones, we were able to listen to something so very important to both of us. Mejonana had been the older relative who was more adept with technology than me.
It was surreal to be part of a one-thousand person meeting on Zoom, the same platform that let me feel so close to Mejonana and allows me to continue classes and continues to serve as the location of many memorials and duas for so many who have died recently.
Conclusion (Mahaa)
The pain of Mejonana’s loss is profound. We will mourn his death not only for us but also for his family and relatives, his students, his friends, and all Bangladeshis, and beyond forever. All wounds heal but this one will always hurt. We are heartbroken in knowing that we will no longer receive his emails, no longer see and hear him on Viber calls, I’ll no longer see his comments on @doctorjahan’s Instagram posts, no longer receive his warm hugs and forehead kisses. Most of us have never lost someone with whom we have a Dropbox full of emails, a digital record of our relationship that is available instantly simply by searching “JRC”.
To his immediate surviving family members — our Emy Nanu, Charisma Khala, Zia Khalu, Kaashif Mama, Tabassum Mami, and Aashaz — we wish you the greatest strength during this difficult time compounded by the strange contours of global emergency.
To many, he was a pioneer in engineering education, Bangladesh’s National Professor, a dedicated mentor, and a fierce friend; to my sister Sajaa and me, he was our Mejonana, always challenging us intellectually, always in touch, and always loving us completely unconditionally.
To learn more about Dr. Jamilur Reza Choudhury, visit the Daily Star.