Over the past week, Bangladesh has been in the headlines in and around the 3rd or 4th story. Before 2 months ago, I think these particular clips would have passed me by, in that, when hearing the words, “… And in Dhaka…”, I would have zoned out (“Where’s Dhaka?”), and continued my mental list of things to get done today, as I fed my dog breakfast or frothed my made-at-home Illy latte.

But instead, my ears perk up, I dash to the kitchen counter, lean in, my face inches from the radio, my hand on the dial, cranking up the volume. The 20-second story clues up and I am already scooting over to the computer to surf my various online sources for more details on this news.

Bangladesh has over 130 million people, all stacked in an area about the size of the island of Newfoundland.

My brother is a helicopter pilot with CHC. He is currently stationed in Bangladesh.

Thanks to the advances of technology, I can flip open my skype and have a conversation with him almost every day, as he’s tucked away in his hotel room (more recently between 11pm and 5am because of the implemented country-wide curfew). So I know he’s okay most of the time. I also get the real skinny on what’s happening, and more importantly, what’s *not* happening.

Experiencing life from the extremes of a poverty-stricken people who struggle for survival in Chittigong, to cruising the shores over the Bay of Bengal in search of oil rigs, my brother will have many stories to tell from his version of the front lines, as they were. For me, I can’t express how grateful I am for email, blogging, flickr and my new best friend, skype. Strangely and fortunately, Rob doesn’t seem so far away.

I’ve learned one thing for certain: Though I like to think I hear all that crackles into my kitchen via the radio waves, I will pay closer attention to the world report and the sometimes unimaginable description of some form of chaos from half way around the world, in places I have never been and likely will never know… because inevitably, somebody’s brother is there.