An unholy encounter in the air.

I am hot and very tired, for I have been travelling in the air and road for the last two weeks; I yearn a cool room and a bed where I can sleep for a good six to seven hours. I get a break in Mauritius; British Airways bumps me up to business class just because the check-in counter girl is impressed with my travel itinerary and feels sorry for me; I encourage her by trying to look more sad and distressed.

It’s about a five hour flight from Mauritius to Johannesburg, so I try to get comfortable, moving pillows and blankets at strategic corners from the vacant seat next to mine. Just when the doors are about to close, in walks a flustered women who stops at my seat and peers at the numbers above and then at her boarding pass. She looks at me as I desperately pray she goes away. No such luck, for she frowns, looks at me again, makes a face, blows out her cheeks and slowly but deliberately lowers her body next to me. I see she is pretty, very pretty, so I avert my eyes and begin the process of dismantling my comfortable nest and pass her pillow and blanket over. She seems angry or upset at this, for she grabs both and turns her face away in an apparent insult. Being used to this behavior from her kind in the past, I close my eyes and try to make myself sleep.

I must have dozed off, for the next time I open my eyes, dinner service has begun; the steward bending herself over me to ask if I will eat. The choices are chicken or fish; I order the later. My beautiful neighbor is already eating, delicately placing bits of lettuce between two very pink lips onto an even pinker tongue. I guiltily look away but when she places an offensive smelling glass of white wine very close to my tray, it is my turn to make a face and nudge the glass away; an act she notices.

‘What,’ she asks, ‘is this bothering you?’ It is not a casual question, not a conversion starter; her face is tense with an unfriendly frown between two immaculately plucked eyebrows. ‘Yes’, I say. ‘Yes’, I repeat, looking straight into her eyes, which sets my heart aflutter. ‘You are drinking alcohol, which is unclean in my religion, and the smell from it is offensive, so I would appreciate it if you keep the glass on the other side.’

She flushes red and I take a strange satisfaction from my rudeness for a change, short lived as it is. She extends a shaking hand to grab at the fine glass but, to my horror and immense dismay, knocks it my way and the naajis content splashes onto my recently served fish and onto my clothes and seat. I utter an offensive curse; she utters a string of even more offensive curses, some so vulgar, I cringe away from her.

The steward comes running, grabs a fistful of napkins and begins patting me down, embarrassing the hell out of me. With the rest of the cabin watching us with amused interest, Miss Pink Lips joins in patting me down as well. This is getting downright silly so I firmly tell the duo to quit, which they seem reluctant to do; I can’t remember the last time I was showered so much attention from two women, let alone one.

My neighbor is now all meek apology, seemingly all genuine. ‘I am so, awfully sorry’, she keeps repeating. ‘You must think I am the very devil for doing this to you’, she says. ‘I am so, so sorry, I did not do this on purpose, honest’! ‘Okay, okay’, I say irritably. ‘Just let me go clean up’ and speed towards the washrooms. When I return, my seat is cleaned up and a new food tray awaits me. Miss Pink Lips has lost her appetite, she tells me and is now all attentive.

She extends a hand of friendship, ‘My name is Margaret Tall (not really, about my height), and again, I am so terribly sorry. Please forgive my rudeness to begin with and for spilling the wine on you.’ I make eye contact again. ‘It's okay; you are forgiven for you have apologized. I am Yusuf Yusufali, but you can call me Ali for short. I am sorry, I cannot shake your hand, not out of anger or malice, but because I, as a practicing Muslim, cannot make skin contact with the opposite sex who is not my wife or very close relative…’ What a mouthful.

Margaret drops her hand as if she has touched fire and slumps in her seat; a look of bewilderment, shock and disbelief on her face. I really feel bad, but say nothing. ‘You must be Moslem’, she states with conviction. ‘No Ma’am, I am a Muslim, please do not be offended for not shaking your hand but the laws of my religion are more important to me that man made etiquette.’ ‘Really,’ she snorts, ‘the Arabs in London do not seem to have the same vigor for their religion that you seem to. They want to much more than shake hands with me and almost all of them have me undressed with their eyes in the first few seconds I meet them.’

It is my turn to look away and become quite for I do not know what to say; I look outside my window at the darkening sky; it would be magreeb soon and I am uncomfortable that salaat would have to wait until I got to my hotel room and showered.

‘You are not some Mulla or Imam, are you? You don’t preach at some fundamentalist mosque do you?’ Margaret asks, but her voice is much cordial and soft and amused. ‘It is Mullah, not Mulla,’ I reply. ‘No, I am not one, for my knowledge is nowhere near that of a Mullah. I simply try practicing being a proper Muslim’.

‘Okay. What is it that you do then, what takes you to South Africa? Do you live there?’ For a person who ignored me and made a face when we initially met, this is a real turn around. She has however, asked me a question that I am passionate about, Comfort Aid International, a gift that Allah (swt) has bestowed on me and is very close to my heart. So I tell her about CAI and what I do and the role I play. She asks me a lot of questions, about Kargil in Indian Kashmir and Kolkata, India and Herat in Afghanistan and the orphans and the wretched and the poor that we at CAI try to assist. I see I have touched her heart with my story of widows and orphans created by the Talibaan on Afghani Hazaaras, for she dabs at her eyes when I relate about the torture and amputated breasts of Shia women just because they believed in the wilaaya of Imam Ali (as).

And then, all of a sudden she lashes out. ‘Why in God’s name do you not look at me when you talk to me?’ I am about to answer when she gives me some more tongue lashing. ‘What? Am I not beautiful? You cannot be gay, right, you are a Moslem, well, a practicing one, like you claim anyway. So, tell me what is it? Women are beneath men in your religion, are they not? Is that it? You have contempt for me? Am I ugly? Aw, shit, forget it!’

I am shocked at her outburst; she seemed so friendly just thirty minutes ago! This Jackal and Hyde behavior is a little unnerving. We are both quite for a while but then she turns around and apologizes again for her outburst. I try my best to explain the reason why I do not make constant eye contact; I assure her that she is very beautiful, very pretty, uncomfortably so, that women in Islam have more rights than men in many aspects, that Islam gave rights to women much earlier than people in Europe even considered women as humans.

‘But why not look at me? If I am beautiful, that is good, right? I am attractive to you, right?’ I am beginning to get real uncomfortable with her line of questioning but explain nevertheless. ‘That is exactly the reason why Islam forbids excessive eye contact with the opposite sex, to safeguard unclean or sexual thoughts that are natural in all humans. It is part of my belief, so please do not be offended.’ Her face, however, tells me she is unimpressed.

We do not talk again until the pilot announces start of decent towards Johannesburg. Margaret decides to talk again, her previous anger apparently forgotten. She is an off duty air marshal for British Air, on her way to meet her boyfriend who works as some sort of security expert in Johannesburg. She does not look like air marshal material, I mean she does not look like she could tackle a hijacker but looks can be deceiving. Nor did I know there were female air marshals, but I keep quiet; I do not want to see the Hyde in her again.

As we land and taxi, Margaret turns towards me and, with an exaggerated attempt not to touch my fingers, hands over a crisp 50 British Pound bill. ‘I have learnt a lot from you Ali, especially about Islam and women in Islam; I had somewhat different ideas about you guys. I wish I can do more for your orphan kids in India and Afghanistan but please accept this token gift on their behalf. I will certainly talk to my friends about CAI. Keep up the good work, may your God bless you.’ She pauses, as I try to recover from her string of praises and look at her in pleasant surprise. She really is exquisitely beautiful, especially when she smiles, brightening the entire cabin. ‘You are obviously a very passionate man,’ she continues, ‘you should consider shaving that dirty looking beard on your face and smile more.’ She laughs; I give out a silly laugh, totally embarrassed. ‘But again, that might not be a good idea; women will have impure thoughts, yes?’ She laughs some more, obviously enjoying my discomfort.

With that last remark, she walks towards the now open doors of the aircraft and hurries towards them, eager perhaps to meet her waiting boyfriend.

Note: I usually write articles that reflect the sadness and misery I encounter within my role at CAI; you will read about some of that in Part 2 of this Trip Report, soon insha’Allah. I hope you have enjoyed this lighter phase of my extraordinary encounter with Margaret.

Yusuf S. Yusufali