Can we care for victims of crime while simultaneously fighting for the rights of convicted criminals? It's a paradox - that we want to punish those who do wrong to the community, or to our loved ones, or to ourselves, so how can we possibly want to improve the conditions of their punishment and return to society?

The answer to that first question is a resounding YES. We can care about and attend to both. Victims deserve justice. But even "criminals" deserve basic human rights. Solitary confinement, labor abuse, and physical & psychological violations from prison guards are all examples of human rights violations occurring in US prisons. When basic human rights are violated, prisoners become the victims, too.

The answer to the second question is more complex - How can we possibly want to improve the conditions of their punishment and return to society? 

I recall a discussion with a friend on state-funded college in prisons, in which he said, "Well how is it fair to victims, that someone hurts them in irreversible ways, and then that person gets to go to a place where he gets a free ride through college?"

My response was that there is a zero percent recidivism rate for people who earn college or higher degrees in prison. (And still, whether or not you have reform programs at your disposal, prison is an ugly place). I feel deeply for victims of crimes, which is why I believe prison should be a place where offenders can change, so when they get out, they won't create more victims.

First, one must understand this basic concept: Most offenders will get out of prison, and if they are not quote "reformed," then they are likely (70% likely) to re-offend. So victims and society stand to benefit from encouraging reform - such as making family visitation easier, allowing education and job training programs, stopping excessive solitary confinement, and promoting better support systems for a person's return home. This has all proven to reduce a person's tendency to re-offend - which means fewer victims and less suffering. A system that works is better for society as a whole.

On a final note, I think people find this conversation to be easier when we rule out the vilest of crimes - rape, torture, pedophilia, serial murder, etc. So the difficult question here, especially when it comes to human rights,  is: People who commit heinous crimes don't respect humanity, so should we respect theirs? Perhaps people who commit crimes like that should be in a separate discussion from people who are in state and federal penitentiaries for drug offenses, petty crime, mental illness, poverty-related crimes, and crimes related to education (68% of state prison inmates did not receive a high school diploma) and behavioral issues. I'm not a psychologist, but I don't believe psychopathy can be fixed. The "heinous" crimes also make up a small portion of actual offenses of those incarcerated; therefore we should not use heinous crimes as an excuse NOT to address the serious issues occurring in our justice system. We need to focus on how to protect society from people who can't be reformed, and enhance society through the people who can.

What makes it so hard to talk about prison reform? It's not just sympathy and respect for victims. It's that society groups all offenders into one category: criminals. Less than citizens. Less than human. That label will stick with them the rest of their lives, no matter what their offense. But I have seen people change, repent, reconcile, and rebuild - and shouldn't that be the point?

Her last story begins with: Freedom has a price, but only those who are truly captive understand what it is. That line keeps ringing in my head, among others. This book has that sort of effect.

In Brick Walls: Tales of Hope & Courage from Pakistan, Saadia Faruqi brings us seven short stories with heartbreaking verisimilitude of life in modern Pakistan. It is both a love letter to her home country and a stark, critical look at its current challenges. As Saadia puts it, "Little is known about Pakistan’s rich culture or colorful daily life. Nobody seems to know or care to discuss the strides being taken in education, social services, and even politics that are improving the nation every year...It is also a nation full of kind-hearted individuals struggling to make their society better with optimism and resolve. That’s the Pakistan I want people to know about."

Saadia frequently brings back the motif of time - from the first story to the last, time is always churning behind the scenes, whether through the image of a broken or stolen watch or the endless counting of days by a woman in Karachi jail for a crime she didn't commit. My interpretation? I believe Faruqi is pointing to the time it takes for true change to happen on a macro level, but individuals don't necessarily have time to wait. Time works against every protagonist in this book. An impoverished woman needs time to hone her sewing skills so she can find a new job and take care of her sick child.  Another struggles with the fact that "it's time" to leave Pakistan. Some characters win, some do not.

Another hard-hitting concept from Brick Walls is the presence of privilege through money, class, politics, and gender. Saadia is subtle yet deliberate in her portrayal. In "Tonight's the Night," we learn about a musician who is hired to play in the homes of the upper class, who "could circumvent Peshawar's strict norms and have parties in their secure homes." Details like these stuck with me. My favorite story, "Bittersweet Mangoes," tells of a boldly curious young woman who steps away from her privilege to learn about the true woes of her country. Like many of Saadia's characters, I came to look at her with admiration and appreciation.

This is Saadia's first work of fiction, but she writes regularly for a number of nonfiction publications including State of Formation, The Islamic Monthly, and Tikkun Daily. She is also the editor of the Interfaith Houston blog and Blue Minaret literary magazine. You can learn more about Saadia's work at www.saadiafaruqi.com. 

As an American reader, I was grateful for the opportunity to explore these perspectives and learn more about a place that US news typically doesn't empathize with. Yet it's critical to acknowledge how many of our problems, hopes, dreams, loves, and passions parallel each other. That is the importance of world literature and this book: to let us hear these voices and feel their existence, no matter what physical distance separates us. Beyond the political critiques, Saadia hits on something even more important and memorable, at least for me: the shared beauty and common kindness of humanity.

So often when we hear about someone's life with disease, we see the word "Positive." I keep a positive attitude - I maintain a positive lifestyle - Despite all I've been through, I remain positive. Positive, positive, positive. Even my book With Every Breath stresses "positive thinking."

Recently I read an essay on a girl's life with CF. The author wrote (and I'm not quoting exactly), "On top of CF, I have scoliosis, asthma, arthritis, diabetes, and god knows what else. I take a lot of pills every day and do a lot of treatments, but I keep a positive attitude." After the first sentence, seeing the words positive attitude made me stop and think. To me, the essay didn't exude positivity in any way. The words "and god knows what else" indicate the author feels that there is probably more wrong with her than she even knows, that something bad is bound to come along eventually, and worse things will probably happen to her. Despite all that, she believes she maintains a "positive attitude." I'm not saying she is wrong; I'm saying the contrast made me consider how our perspectives on these abstract concepts vary widely.

So what is positivity? Is it the absence of negativity? Is it the perpetual presence of encouraging thoughts? The avoidance of negative thoughts? Is it constant reinforcements of clichés like, 'What doesn't kill you makes you stronger,' and 'Live each day to its fullest'? Is it the avoidance of sadness? Is it denial?

To me, positivity is about proactivity. In times of good or neutral health, we seize opportunities to feel fulfilled - like finally riding that bike path, or learning how to make a Souffle. It means thinking about the things we CAN do rather than the things we can't. It means counting blessings rather than problems.

But overall, our true "positivity" shows in times when we are challenged the most. When we get bad news from the doctor, will we hang our heads and think 'This is probably it for me'? Or do we put a fake smile on and cling to those clichés...Life, do your worst...? Personally, I don't think either of those are positive responses. In fact, I don't believe positivity is the "absence of negativity." As humans, we are prone to some negative thoughts - some more frequently than others - self-pity, constant worry, regret, or resentment toward the situation.

I say if you find yourself in the face of terrible news, let yourself grieve for yourself. It sounds like a selfish concept, but if you don't allow yourself a little time to grieve, you won't allow yourself to move on from buried feelings. When you live with disease, many benign things like the common cold can be life or death, and it does no good to pretend that we're not affected by that constant reality. Confront those feelings head-on. Maybe you were just listed for transplant, and it's scary. Or maybe you've been denied a transplant, and you feel like it's a death sentence. Maybe you are back in the hospital again for the second, third, or fourth time this year. You're allowed to feel angry, sad, tired. Feeling those things doesn't make you a negative person. To be proactively positive, you'll feel them with awareness, confront them, and eventually shift your focus to the things that you can change.

As for me, my trachea has had trouble healing since the transplant. I've experienced the rare side effect of tracheal stenosis, or closing of the throat due to scar tissue build-up. It was frustrating and terrifying not being able to breathe again - especially with so many expectations of the new lungs. My lungs are so clear and strong! It's my trachea that is now the problem. Once again, every breath was a struggle. The doctors tried three different stent placements to hold the trachea open - each one larger than the last - but they didn't work. So eventually I had to go back to Cleveland Clinic for a tracheostomy. I remember lying on the operation table, watching the anesthesiologist hook a syringe to my IV, knowing that sleep was seconds away, and my head was shouting: "I DON'T WANT THIS. I DON'T WANT THIS." But I needed it, and everything moved forward quickly, and when I woke up, the stoma had been successfully inserted through my neck. I couldn't talk for a month, but I regained my voice once they switched to a smaller tube.

I still feel beautiful. I go about my day with normalcy. People stare at it when I leave it exposed - clothes that cover it are irritating, and sometimes scarves are just too hot. I don't remember it's there until others point it out, with pity, asking, "When do you get it out?" Some people are fixated on that question. I am pretty sure the answer is never; but I don't tell them that. 

"Soon," I say. "Depends on how the next appointment goes." If they knew the exhausting suffocation I experienced before the trach was put it, they would know that in comparison, I don't mind having this thing in my neck.

I'm not going to pretend I didn't have a period of grief with the trach - not just for the memories that resurfaced by being back in the ICU, or for the new changes I would have to work into my life, or the fact that I couldn't swim or do certain things, but for the fact that my post-transplant expectations that things would get progressively better without any setbacks was given a wake-up call. Yes, things do get better, but that doesn't mean complications won't arise. 

Eventually, I confronted the facts and accepted the situation. The trach is part of my life, part of who I am to the world and part of my beauty, and that's not the end of the world. It would be ridiculous to hold onto sadness - there is too much joy I would miss if I did that.