Last Saturday, around 6 a.m., I suddenly felt a sharp pain in my stomach. I thought it was just gastric. I drank some water and took Segel 20, hoping the pain would go away. But it didn’t. From 6 a.m. to 10 a.m., I struggled alone, curling up in pain, wishing for some comfort — someone to bring me warm water, someone to say, “You’ll be okay.”
In those silent hours, I missed my Amma (mom) more than ever.
If I were in Bangladesh, she would’ve stayed beside me, putting her warm hand on my forehead, making me light food, and whispering gentle words. But here in Busan, I was alone in my room. No one knocked. No one knew I was in pain.
I had work at 10:30 a.m. I texted my manager and explained I was sick and needed rest. At first, she replied, “Today is Saturday — it’s rush day.” I understood, but the pain was too much. I couldn’t walk, let alone stand at work. I replied honestly, saying, “I can’t work today. It’s a high-level pain.”
Thankfully, she understood and gave me the day off.
Later, at 4 p.m., another manager messaged me, asking about my condition. She even apologized for the late message because it was a busy day. That small gesture — a simple “Are you okay?” — felt big. That’s the kindness of Korean people I’ll never forget.
The next day when I returned to work, something touched my heart deeply. My second manager and all the staff came to me with soft voices and warm concern:
“Han (Borhan), are you okay now?”
“What happened yesterday?”
“Did you go to the hospital?”
“Did you take medicine?”
I smiled, held back the emotions, and replied, “Yes, I feel better now.”
They nodded, still watching me with care. A few hours later, someone brought me a warm sweet potato and placed it on the table:
“Eat this, it’s good for your stomach.”
That moment — that simple act of care — made me feel like I wasn’t truly alone.
In this foreign land, where I have no family, these small acts of kindness become big moments in life. They remind me that humanity and warmth exist beyond borders.
Yes, I missed my mother.
Yes, I cried a little in silence that morning.
But I also felt something else:
Hope. Connection. Care.
This is the life of an international student.
Lonely at times.
But also full of surprises and silent love.
Last Saturday, around 6 a.m., I suddenly felt a sharp pain in my stomach. I thought it was just gastric. I drank some water and took Segel 20, hoping the pain would go away. But it didn’t. From 6 a.m. to 10 a.m., I struggled alone, curling up in pain, wishing for some comfort — someone to bring me warm water, someone to say, “You’ll be okay.”
In those silent hours, I missed my Amma (mom) more than ever.
If I were in Bangladesh, she would’ve stayed beside me, putting her warm hand on my forehead, making me light food, and whispering gentle words. But here in Busan, I was alone in my room. No one knocked. No one knew I was in pain.
I had work at 10:30 a.m. I texted my manager and explained I was sick and needed rest. At first, she replied, “Today is Saturday — it’s rush day.” I understood, but the pain was too much. I couldn’t walk, let alone stand at work. I replied honestly, saying, “I can’t work today. It’s a high-level pain.”
Thankfully, she understood and gave me the day off.
Later, at 4 p.m., another manager messaged me, asking about my condition. She even apologized for the late message because it was a busy day. That small gesture — a simple “Are you okay?” — felt big. That’s the kindness of Korean people I’ll never forget.
The next day when I returned to work, something touched my heart deeply. My second manager and all the staff came to me with soft voices and warm concern:
“Han (Borhan), are you okay now?”
“What happened yesterday?”
“Did you go to the hospital?”
“Did you take medicine?”
I smiled, held back the emotions, and replied, “Yes, I feel better now.”
They nodded, still watching me with care. A few hours later, someone brought me a warm sweet potato and placed it on the table:
“Eat this, it’s good for your stomach.”
That moment — that simple act of care — made me feel like I wasn’t truly alone.
In this foreign land, where I have no family, these small acts of kindness become big moments in life. They remind me that humanity and warmth exist beyond borders.
Yes, I missed my mother.
Yes, I cried a little in silence that morning.
But I also felt something else:
Hope. Connection. Care.
This is the life of an international student.
Lonely at times.
But also full of surprises and silent love.