fragen sie doch

It's amazing how we can spare ourselves making the most foolish of mistakes simply by asking! This was made abundantly clear to me on one of my recent oversees journeys.

On November 8, 2007, I was on a German Lufthansa flight from Frankfort Germany to Denver Colorado. As I was making my way through the aisle to find my seat all the way towards the back of the airplane (I walked so much I thought I was already in Denver), a flight attendant was apparently trying to gesture to me wanting to know how she could help. Naturally, I failed to see her gestures, since obviously my reason for her thinking that I wanted her help was the very fact that I couldn't see! It seems as though one of her bemused looks targeted her purser, and it seemed as though she was trying to mouth some words off to him presumably asking him what she should do! He looked at her and exclaimed in a normal, firm and professional tone of voice "fragen sie doch!", which simply means "ask!".

After getting over her shyness and being utterly surprised at me being able to converse with her in German, I safely got to my seat, and the purser himself, a Mr. Oblouvskey, came and introduced himself and asked "what can we do to be of help to you on this flight?" -- a simple yet very powerful question! I explained to him that I did not foresee any need for help during the flight, and that I will be sure to let them know if there was any exception to that on a case by case basis! Needless to say, the flight was one of my most pleasant ones! The statement that stuck with me ever since is "fragen sie doch" -- ask!

Nightmare in Dubai

Anyone who travels frequently will no doubt have horror stories about what can happen during a trip.  Airline delays, lost baggage, getting lost and that sort of thing is almost expected when you deal with a multitude of airlines, a variety of cultures, all when you are away from home.  Very few, however, can predict the sort of thing which happened to me on my trip back to the United States on March 27/28 of this year.

Why, how, when and where I traveled

After a period of illness which seemed as if it was only getting worse, I decided to travel to Dubai and Jordan to be with my family.  I would use the occasion to see my brother and his new bride whose wedding I missed as a result of that illness, and I would be in the company of people I love and care about, and who I know reciprocate those same feelings.  I also wanted to seek homeopathic remedies, and some of the best specialists in old Arabian medicine are there.

To pay the least possible price for my flight, I cashed in my United frequent flier miles to London, and purchased an Air France ticket the rest of the way to Dubai.  After spending a wonderful ten days with my brother and his wife, and after visiting with and seeing old friends and acquaintances, I flew to Jordan to spend a week with my family.  I bought a round trip ticket on Emirates airlines from Dubai, which naturally meant that I would need to return to Dubai to catch my flight back to the States since Air France refused to reroute my return flight via Amman.

The Journey starts

I headed for the airport on the morning of the twenty seventh in order to catch my flight to Dubai.  I had a ten hour layover, so I decided to call a friend with whom I didn’t get a chance to visit when I was there before, and thought that I would go to my brother’s house after that, eat a meal, rest for a bit, take a shower and continue my journey.  I was looking forward to the day, and was excited that a change in my routine which set in over the previous week was immanent.

Before the flight

My first scare took place when I was checking my luggage.  I wanted to check my bags all the way to Denver since I didn’t want to bother with them in Dubai.  The problem was that I had three tickets from three different airlines for my journey, which confused the heck out of the employee who checked me in.  He had to check the bags on Emirates to Dubai, then he had to make sure that Emirates routes it to Air France who were to take it all the way to London via Paris, then they were to give it to United, who were supposed to take it to Denver via Chicago.  The employee wasn’t sure how to go about doing that, and before I knew it, a crowd of airline employees formed in front of me.  They were all trying to figure out how to get that bag to its destination.  They made up several tags which they then had to void, until someone came who seemed to know how to do it.  Instead of giving me the regular baggage sticker to attach to my ticket sleeve, they gave me a letter size piece of paper to keep.  I guess they couldn’t fit everything on that little sticker after all.

I must say I was a bit nervous and wondered whether I would ever see my bag again.  Emirates, despite the fact that it won numerous rewards of excellence, doesn’t have the best follow up when it comes to lost baggage.  I have had a track record with them before, and, unlike my experience with many other airlines, the experience with them was horrible.  The other thought which got me even more worried was the fact that I was dealing with three different airlines and five different airports.  I may never be able to get compensation if the bag got lost, as each airline will blame the other for the loss.  I question the wisdom of what I was doing, and wondered if I shouldn’t pick up the bag in Dubai and take it with me and then hand it in person to Air France.  After considering it for a while, I finally decided to let it go – after all, there wasn’t much in it apart from my clothes, and most of those needed replacing anyway.

the flight to Dubai

As I boarded the flight, I was presented with a Braille safety manual, something which I know never existed on an Emirates flight.  I flew Emirates almost once a week for the better part of two years, and I learned to live with their insensitivity to people who required accommodations.  I inquired with the flight attendant who informed me that they were forced to print those manuals by the FAA as part of the requirements they had to fulfill in order to be allowed to land at JFK.  “God bless America” I thought.  I can’t believe how much effort was wasted in trying to convince them to do that.  It seemed as if everything we said fell on deaf ears, and when the American spoke, well, they listened!

The flight was otherwise normal, and we landed in Dubai close to 3:00 PM.  Everything went as expected -- The assistance I requested didn’t show up, and as usual, a poor unsuspecting Emirates employee was left with the task of sorting out what to do with me.  Dubai airport is huge, and despite the fact that I frequently traveled in and out of it, I still asked for assistance navigating it, simply because I could never figure it out.  Emirates has a department in charge of assisting passengers with special needs which they refer to as “special handling”.  The folks from special handling are supposed to meet the flight and offer assistance when requested, but as has always been the case when I traveled they just never bothered to show up.

At Dubai International Airport

The young man from Emirates who took it upon himself to help me wanted to take me to the special handling office.  I was supposed to wait there until one of their agents was free to take me to passport control and escort me out of the airport.  This meant that I could wait as much as an hour or more.  I know this because I went through the routine before, and I fought with special handling on numerous occasions before.

I suggested to the young man that it may be faster if he assisted me, and I explained to him my past experiences with special handling.  Though he has only been working at the airport for less than a month, I could see that he was quite sympathetic to what I said, and informed me that he would be delighted to assist me all the way through.

Getting the visa

My first task was to procure a transit visa to allow me to enter the country.  According to UAE laws, a passenger who has a layover of 8 hours or more qualifies for a 96 hour visa at the airport, as long as he had an onward ticket, and as long as the airline sponsored him for it.  The web site stated that the government doesn’t charge a fee for that particular type of visa, but as I found out later, Emirates and other airlines find it profitable to charge the unsuspecting customer a substantial amount of money.

It never ceases to amaze me how much effort people in the UAE spend on getting themselves out of doing what they’re supposed to do.  I think that if they used that same amount of effort to actually do the work they try to get themselves out of, they would be quite productive.  After running around and talking to so many people behind counters, we finally reached what seemed to be the right one.

At first they wanted to cell me a tourist package consisting of a hotel stay and various tours and such for $150.  I told them that I didn’t need a hotel, as I have a place to stay, and that I didn’t need to go on any tours, as I have already set up plans.  After a bit of arguing, they finally agreed to sponsor me for the visa, but wanted to charge me $50 for it.  Not having a choice in the matter, I agreed and proceeded to complete the transaction.  I got my visa in 15 minutes, and Johnson, the Emirates Airlines employee who was helping me, proceeded to guide me to passport control.

Trouble at passport control

Everything was going well until I gave the officer my passport and visa.  He looked at it and asked me whether there was anyone waiting for me outside, and I informed him that my brother was, and upon his request gave him my brother’s cell phone number.  I was expecting him to stamp the passport as they usually do, but instead, I was made to wait.  The officer stepped out of his area for over five minutes, by which time I was wondering what was going on.  I was in the middle of composing a text message to my brother informing him that I’m at passport control and that I’ll see him in five minutes (especially since I had no bags to collect), but I refrained from sending the message awaiting the officer’s return.

The officer came back, and as often is the case, he started talking to my companion.  I guess people think that if you’re blind you’re also deaf and dumb, but I’ve seen enough that this didn’t bother me, and I knew full well how to handle it when it happened.  Worse yet, it wasn’t that which occupied my thoughts, it was what the officer was saying that did.  “He is inadmissible on this type of visa” I heard him say to my companion.  Not knowing what to do, Johnson proceeded to look at me, and I instantly took over.  I asked the officer to explain to me the reasons behind their decision.  “You cannot be admitted under section 96” he proceeded to tell me, as if I knew what section 96 was.  I told him this much, and he stood there motionless with nothing else to say.  I immediately asked to speak to his superior.

The supervisor was a young man who must have been in his late twenties or early thirties.  He identified himself as Adil Abdulrahman, the duty manager, and after talking to him for a bit, I wondered which was higher, his IQ or his shoe size.

Mr. Abdulrahman’s explanation was that the law stipulates that a blind person cannot be legally admitted on a transit visa.  Despite the fact that all my paperwork was in order, my blindness and my blindness alone prevents me from being admissible.  If I wasn’t blind, I would have had no problem entering the UAE, but since I was, I needed to spend the ten hours at the airport.

I tried to reason with Mr. Abdulrahman.  I asked him to explain to me why such a proposition made sense to him.  After proceeding to tell me that this was the law, he told me that the idea is that a blind person is more likely to become a burden on the state, and hence the state chose not to take the risk.  “Something might happen to you if we let you in – who is going to take care of you”?  I found that to be ridiculous considering the fact that my brother was waiting for me outside to take me in his car to his house.  It wasn’t as if I was going in unaccompanied and that I was going to cross streets and find things (not that I have a problem with that mind you), but I found the notion quite preposterous.  In continuing to try to reason with him, I suggested that I’m actually les likely to get into trouble than a sighted person, since I was going to be looked after by a number of people, not to mention the fact that the UAE once was my home for two years.  A sighted person, on the other hand, was going to possibly rent a car or hassle for a taxi, which, strictly speaking, will make him more likely to get into an accident.  If that happened, the state was going to be obligated to him just the same.  When Mr. Abdulrahman had nothing to say, as was the case through out the evening, he cited the law.

It’s worth mentioning that there is no such law in the UAE.  There is a law which prohibited minors and people who were terribly sick from being admitted unless there was someone to sponsor them and vouch for them, but that law never mentioned people who have a permanent disability.

I continued to try to reason some more with the man, but he wouldn’t hear of it.  When prayer time came, he and most of his colleagues abandoned their posts presumably to pray.  I often wondered why employees through out the Arab world are most anxious to perform their prayers as soon as they become due, despite the flexibility afforded to them by Islam.  After prayer, some kind of a lunch was served, and it must have been delicious, since everyone didn’t have a problem continuing to ignore their business in favor of eating.

More problems

My problem was that my cell phone was a TD1 prepaid card from Germany.  I bought it two years ago when I stayed there for a month, and decided to use it when I travel since it can both make and receive calls anywhere there is GSM coverage, unlike my US based phone.  As if that wasn’t bad enough, I was running quite low on funds, and it was terribly expensive to call out or receive calls since I was roaming.  I was thus reduced to communicating with my brother via text messaging.  I needed to use the phone, and I knew that I would need it for a while to call a number of people, but they weren’t keen on the idea of having me use one of their phones.

I tried to use one of the pay phones located nearby, but there were no instructions and I couldn’t call mobile numbers or any numbers which started with a zero (the long distance code).  In our last SMS exchange, I asked my brother, who could actually see me through the glass from outside, to buy me a phone card and send me the number in the hope that I would be able to use it through the pay phone, but that didn’t work.  After I got the card number, I was told that I couldn’t call 800 numbers from a pay phone, and that was required to complete a calling card call.

Johnson, who by then was quite sympathetic, sensed my need for a phone and offered to have me use his.  I called one of my friends who was a director at Tamkeen, a training and advocacy organization founded by his highness Sh. Mohammed Bin Rashid, and asked him to explain to Mr. Abdulrahman that there was indeed no such law.  When I finally managed to get the two talking, and after a 15 minute conversation, my friend from Tamkeen told me that Mr. Abdulrahman wouldn’t listen to what he was saying.  “There is no hope from this guy” my friend remarked.  I was a bit surprised that my friend couldn’t do anything considering he’s a UAE national in a respected position, but then what was he to do!  It was the end of the work day, and why would he bother himself!  I guess on another level I expected my friend to be concerned, since this could happen to him or one of his constituents, since he himself was blind, but what the heck, it’s his country and therefore arguably his problem.

Mr. Abdulrahman became pretty scarce, and everyone else seemed to be reluctant to do anything about me.  I continued to pace through passport control, trying to find every chance to talk to any officer who would listen, and keeping an ear open for Mr. Abdulrahman.  I also needed to make some phone calls – I desperately needed to use the phone, but there didn’t seem to be a way to do that.

It was past 5:30 and Johnson was still with me.  Realizing that this may take a while, and sensing his anxiety, I asked him to leave.  He told me that he didn’t want to leave me there, but that his supervisors may give him a hard time if he stayed longer.  He wanted to make some phone calls and try to convince them to let him stay, but I told him that he should go, partly to spare himself the unpredictable consequences and partly because he could actually be a lot more useful elsewhere.  After much effort and a lot of convincing, Johnson left, and I was on my own.

I grew more frustrated knowing my brother was so close yet I couldn’t see him.  Heck I couldn’t even call him or anyone else for that matter, since my funds in my prepaid TD1 phone card completely ran out.  I wondered if I could sneak in unnoticed, but quickly abandoned the thought when I saw four or five people standing like wild guard dogs near the exit who seemed to know me quite well and who were only too happy to escort me back.  Thinking about it some more, I knew that it would mean trouble, since I have to get out a few hours later to catch my flight, and there would be no telling what they would do then.

I continued to occasionally run into Mr. Abdulrahman and tried to reason with him further still.  The more we talked, the more he stuck to his position and the more hostile he became.  He also took advantage of his ability to disappear from my sight, given that my sight doesn’t carry far, and since he was soft spoken I would have a hard time finding him.

Shortly past 6:00 PM, an employee of Emirates Airlines came to talk to me.  I recognized him because he was the one who sorted my visa earlier.  He informed me that passport control sent him to tell me that I needed to go back to the transit lounge, and that he was here to take me back.  I was beginning to think that this may be inevitable, but I wasn’t yet ready to give up.  I told him that if anyone from passport control needed to speak with me that they could do so without going through a third party.  I told him to let them know that I am perfectly capable of communicating with them in any of three languages.  Surprised by my defiance, he sheepishly retreated back to his position without saying anything.

The search for a solution

Johnson came back around 6:15.  He told me that he has finished his shift, but that he was here to check on me and see if I needed anything.  He told me he could stay for as long as I needed him to.  Needless to say I was quite shocked.  Johnson didn’t have to do that.  His shift was over.  Why did he need to worry about me or about anything for that matter!  He could have just gone home and forgot about the whole thing!  I guess in living in a world of “professionals” where you learn to deal with people as robots who are programmed to follow procedures, you tend to learn to hide your emotions, nevertheless act on them, and you tend to forget that we are human beings who want to do the right thing not because we’re paid to do it, but because it is the right thing to do.  That’s why Johnson was back, he was back not because he was an employee, an airline agent, he was a human being concerned for his fellow human being, though he’d only met him a few hours ago.

I explained to Johnson that I needed to use the phone.  After thinking for a split second, he took out the SIM card from his phone and gave it to me.  “It’s a prepaid line.  I don’t have much left in it, but it would at least give you a local number for people to call you”.  I told him that I didn’t know how long I would need it for and that I didn’t want to keep him around.  “That’s OK, I can go home, but you hold on to it.  I’ll disconnect it tomorrow and get a new one.  You will be well on your way then” he said.  I asked him if I could at least compensate him for the cost of getting a new line, $15 or so, but he refused.  I told him I could leave it for him at the airport if he could tell me where and with whom, but he just wasn’t concerned.  “Just use it to sort out your affairs and I’ll be fine”, his response was.

There were just a few cents left in Johnson’s card, but the card my brother bought me earlier also functioned as a refill card for that type of SIM, so I walked away with a loaded phone.

Fortunately, I kept all of my contacts in my phone.  I started calling and text messaging people left and right.  Some of these people were well connected, and phone calls started coming in to Mr. Abdulrahman, but I guess by then he took it personal and he wouldn’t budge.  In response to an acquaintance who called him, he cited national security as a concern.  According to him, admitting me would violate a national law, and he wasn’t prepared to do that.  Gosh, I didn’t know I could be so contentious

Giving up

I had a bit of trouble reaching key people I wanted to get in touch with.  Many such people wouldn’t answer their cell phones if they didn’t know the number.  Having a local number didn’t seem as good as I initially thought it would be, since it was an add hock number, and hence was almost useless but for relatives and friends.  Realizing that, I finally decided to go back to the transit lounge, especially that it was close to 7:30 then, and much of the evening was already gone.  I was tired, sweating, shaking and angry, but I was finally beginning to realize that I may be fighting a losing battle.  By the time things get sorted, assuming they do, and I wasn’t sure how that was going to happen, it would be too late, and I wouldn’t get much done anyway.  It just wasn’t worth it.

I asked my brother to go home, and headed back to the transit lounge trying to think of ways to spend the rest of the evening.  I usually don’t have trouble finding things to do and enjoy talking to people and getting to know their stories, but I was in no mood to do that.  I sweated so much my clothes became dirty, and I was so exhausted I could hardly talk.  I just sat there, taking a drink offered to me by the hostess and wondering what I could do for another six hours.  I was very self conscious, and couldn’t help realize how much I needed a shower.

New ideas

As I was pulling out my laptop hoping to find a wireless network and connect to the Internet, after which I can email some of the people I was trying to reach, a thought came to my mind and hit me like a brick.  Why not send these people a text message and tell them who I am!  They’ll know it’s me and they can call me back or at least pick up the phone when I call.

I did this with a reporter at Alitihad, one of the oldest and most respected national newspapers in the country.  She and I met under unusual circumstances at a symposium at the press club in Dubai almost three years ago, and she introduced me to her brother, who is a remarkable blind person.  I knew she would be sympathetic to my plight, and that if she couldn’t help right there and then, she would at least bring this issue up to the attention of the whole nation, in hopes that it would never happen again.

Sure enough it worked.  No sooner had I sent the text message, she was on the phone talking to me.  I explained what was going on, and she was outraged.  She apologized profusely and promised to do her best.  It was getting late then – we both recognized it, but we also knew that this wouldn’t be the end of the story.

Shortly after we hung up the phone, she called back to tell me that she has spoken to a tabloid paper who was very interested in covering the story and that someone will call me right away.  Yet another minute later she called back and gave me a contact at Dubai TV and asked me to call him and explain to him the situation.  She said that he may even bring a crew to cover the story right away.  Things were looking up.  I didn’t realize it at the time, but I guess it became personal to me as well.  I wanted above anything to prove to this Abdulrahman son of a bitch that he’s wrong and that I can get in if I wanted to.

Finally, a solution

While all of this was going on, my brother called.  Upset and angry about the situation, he was trying his own contacts.  He’s been working for Dubai Municipality for over a year, and he has built relationships with people who were either influential in their own right or who knew people that were.  It seemed as if he finally caught a break around 8:00 PM or so.  A colleague called to tell him that he can pick me up if he’s willing to sign a piece of paper stating that he is responsible for me, something which he offered to do when he talked with Abdulrahman earlier.  He asked me to get ready and informed me that he was on his way.

I called the reporters I was in contact with and gave them an update.  The Dubai TV guy was relieved and happy, and told me that he was going to go home.  My contact at Alitihad was relieved, but wanted to cover the affair still and speak about it.  The reporter from the Emirates Today tabloid was happy because she could send a photographer to take pictures of me.  We talked several times, and I finally met her photographer at one of my favorite restaurants in Dubai, Arous Dimashq (The Bride Of Damascus).

My brother was at the airport around 8:30.  He had a difficult time finding Abdulrahman, who was performing his evening prayers and who afterwards was having dinner.  He apparently called his connection back who this time stayed on the phone with him, and who made the necessary phone calls to get Abdulrahman off of his dinner plate.  At around 9:30, I was escorted back to passport control where I ran into Abdulrahman, who looked like he really had his ass chewed.  “Sorry Zuhair” he said sheepishly, “we gave you a hard time”.  Fuming still at the sight of him I said “I hope one day I’d be able to pay you back your kindness”, which caused some of the people around us to giggle.

My brother signed the required paper, which appeared to be a standard form, and we both left our passports with the officers and proceeded to get a byte to eat and get my pictures taken by the newspaper’s photographer.  Shortly before 11, we went to my uncle’s house who lived five minutes away from the airport, where I managed to speak to the Emirates Today reporter yet another time, and where I gulped down a couple of bottles of water and took a shower.

It seems the reporter called a high level official at the airport authority who assured her that what happened was a mistake.  He promised to personally investigate the matter, and I know that he did, since I heard from my brother a few days later that his connection was mift because management centured everyone involved.  I guess the higher you get in the chain of management in the UAE the less details matter.

Back to the airport

I headed back to the airport shortly before midnight, since my flight was due to depart at 1 AM.  I got to the Air France check in counter at around 12:10, and we weren’t sure if the flight was closed or not since we were so close to the flight’s departure time.  Things were made even worse when they wanted to see my passport, and couldn’t understand it when I told them that it was at passport control.  I was still mad and angry, and was in no mood to explain anything to anyone – they just had to understand.  I also told them that they should have received my checked in luggage from Emirates Airlines, but the guy couldn’t find anything about it in his system.  I was livid, and everyone knew it.

Seeing me in this state, and not knowing what to do, especially since there was so little time left, the airline employee printed out my boarding pass (without seeing my passport) and motioned me to go.  I remember hearing him on the phone with Emirates trying to locate my luggage.  If I had any doubt that my bags were lost, it has suddenly turned into complete certainty.

We got to passport control and asked for our passports, only to find that the employee at the counter didn’t know what we were talking about.

It was at that point that I lost it.  I remember screaming at the guy “what the hell are you doing to me – with what you did to me earlier, you’re killing me”, only to hear him giggle and say “well, I guess this is to finish you off”.  He opened the little divider and let us in to talk with the duty manager.

I explained the situation to another officer behind a window who appeared to know what I was talking about.  He fumbled through some paperwork and I thought he was looking for our passports.  He then picked up the phone and called someone, and we heard him say that he can’t find those passports.

I lost what little composure I had regained over the minutes that passed since I talked to the first officer who wanted to “finish me off”.  It was made worse when he tried to make it look like my fault for being late.  With what they did to me throughout the evening fresh in my mind, I found myself screaming at the guy behind the window so loud that other officers gathered around us to see what was happening.  I didn’t look like someone anyone could reason with.  Coupled with the fact that I was blind, one of the officers approached my brother and started whispering to him that the passports are OK, it’s just that there was a shift change and that since they handle departures at this side, someone needed to cross over to the other side and get the passports from arrivals where they were left.  It was almost 12:30, and the walk from passport control to the gate would take me at least 20 minutes, that’s assuming lifts were on time and I found buggies to take me.

I thought it was over when we got our passports.  I said my good-byes to my brother, and as I was turning away I heard one of the officers say to my brother “why is your brother angry after all the help we gave him this evening”.  When I heard those words it was as if this man took out a gun and shot me.  I turned back and started screaming at him.  “So you call what you did to me help?  You screwed up and you know it.  You know it damn well too.  I was supposed to get in from the start.  I didn’t get in because of your help, I got in because someone higher than you are gave the order and you had no choice.  And you know what?  This is not the end of the story too – read tomorrow’s papers and you’ll see what I mean.  Believe me, this is not the end of it – no it isn’t, not at all”.

I then turned around and walked away quickly.  I didn’t want to talk to or hear anything from these bloody idiots.  I wanted it to be over with.  I wanted to go home, wanted my brother to go home, and most importantly wanted to be out of there.

The flight back home

I was one of the last passengers to board the flight, and it was obvious they were waiting for me.  When I asked the gate agent about the bag and whether they got it from Emirates, she was quick to answer “yes, we got it”, without so much as checking a computer or looking at anything.  “yeah, you got it my foot” were my thoughts then, but I didn’t care – I was finally out of there.

The rest of the flight home was normal.  I was so tired I remember becoming lost and disoriented.  Since I find it difficult to sleep on a plane, I was awake the whole time, and remember going beyond tired.  I planned to inquire about my luggage along the route, but my main concern whenever I got somewhere was to just sit down and rest.

It was no surprise when I couldn’t locate my luggage in Chicago.  In fact, I was so ready for it I was even happy since I knew that I now have no chance of a delay at customs in case they needed to see what’s in the bag.  I filed the claim in Denver, and was then told that the bag is not even in the system – it’s as if they’d never got it.  “They probably never did”, I remember thinking to myself.  The surprise however was when the bag turned up a couple of days later.  I guess it’s true that miracles do happen.

Reflections

The events of that day left me with many thoughts and reflections, some of which still haunt me from time to time.  Perhaps the most important one is my realization that my brother is now a grown man – he’s really not my younger brother any more.  He has built his own contacts, he has made his way through life, he has built his personality – he is his own man.  I will never have enough words to express my pride – never.

Another thought, one that scarcely leaves my mind, is how someone could take the time to aid a perfect stranger without awaiting a payback.  Johnson and I didn’t share much beyond our sheer humanity.  He was Indian, I was Arab.  He was probably Hindu, I was Muslim.  Despite that, he saw no reason not to lend a hand to a stranger traveling away from home when he thought a hand was needed – at his own expense, when he could have come up with a million reasons not to.  Looking back at it, Mr. Abdulrahman, the duty manager at passport control at Dubai International Airport was praying to his God whilst unnecessarily inflicting pain and suffering on another fellow Muslim, while Johnson, who some fundamentalists and ignorant Muslims (possibly Mr. Abdulrahman himself) consider an infidel and have no problems condemning him to eternal punishment in hell fire was doing the right thing towards a fellow human being.  I wondered how God looked at it then.  I wonder how he looks at it now.

While I know and understand that God wants us to do what is right and be good followers of what he prescribed for us, I further confirm my realization that the sole judge of us of what we do and who we are, the dispenser of bounties and punishment is God and God alone.  No one dare assume that right, for who are we, and what do we know!  I know that God expects me to do the right thing towards the others whom he created.  As for judging them, that’s very much his jurisdiction not mine, and I don’t recall him delegating it to me.

Never judge a book by its cover, an interesting and strange travel tale

It was way past midnight, and I just landed at BWI in Baltimore, and after a 20 minute wait, I got into the Super Shuttle that was to take me to New Carrolton, where I would meet a colleague in the morning for an important presentation.  I’ve been to that customer’s site before, and I used to stay at a Ramada in Beltsville, which wasn’t too far from the client’s site, but my colleague booked the reservation this time.  He asked me about where we should stay, since I’ve been there before, and I told him that he should book us in at the Ramada near the client’s location.  When he went to the web site to make the reservation, he selected the only Ramada he could find in New Carrolton and booked us there.  When I made my shuttle reservation, I indicated that my destination was the Beltsville Ramada, since that was where I’d stayed before.

 

Just before take off, I thought I’d call my colleague and make sure he’s at the same place where I was going, and sure enough, he told me he was not.  He wasn’t in Beltsville, he was in New Carrolton proper!

 

It was well past midnight when my plane landed, and we didn’t hit the road until a little bit after one in the morning.  I inquired with the lady at the counter if there was any way they could change my destination from Beltsville to New Carrolton (they couldn’t possibly be that far from one another), she said that she could not help.  If I wanted to do that, I had to call the reservation office and sort it out with them.

 

After thinking about it for a split second, I decided that it may be too confusing for these folks if I had to make another reservation, and was worried that I’d have to do a lot of follow up afterwards if they charge my credit card twice.  I figured I’d go to Beltsville, and once there, I can decide whether I wanted to spend the night there or take a taxi to the New Carrolton Ramada.

 

I was a bit surprised when I got into the shuttle van at how loud the radio was.  The driver had the BBC on (apparently through one of the public stations), and he kept it on even after we hit the road.  There was myself and another couple in the van, and I could tell that the other couple were extremely tired!  They tried to ask the driver a couple of questions, but he was too focused on the news to here what they were saying, let alone respond to them.  While that was going on, I phoned the New Carrolton Ramada to inquire about how far they were from Beltsville, but they were unable or unwilling to provide any assistance.  I was a bit mad, but after having stayed there for three nights, I came to find out that this was standard business practice for them.  I concluded that this was yet another hotel to add to my “I’m never ever staying here even if they pay me” list.

 

The driver’s attachment to the news was unusual to me, and his disregard to the never spoken rule of “never disturb the passengers with radio or music that’s too loud” made me even more curious.  Having the BBC on, loud as it may be, never bothered me, especially that they were reporting live from Gaza!  In fact, I was so wrapped up in the news myself, and remember how I got so mad at them for talking so much about the suffering of those poor settlers who were having to abandon places they grew up in.  I was so mad that, from my seat, I sent the BBC an SMS (text message) on the number they advertise for that purpose – soliciting listeners’ comments.  I wondered in my message if those settlers ever bothered to think about the plight of the Palestinians they kicked out 57 years ago, some of whom don’t even have a home still.  I expressed that sentiment in my message, signing it with “Zuhair Mahd, a Palestinian American from Denver”.  I figured if the comment is broadcast on the air, the driver may recognize the sender, as he had my name and the place I was coming from on his passenger manifest, since I paid with an advanced prepaid reservation, but I didn’t care.

 

As I leaned back quietly in my seat, I just kept wondering why this man was so intently listening to the coverage, at the risk of drawing complaints and possibly protests from his tired late night passengers.  The passengers didn’t complain, and the ride seemed to go smoothly.  I wanted to engage the driver in a conversation, but I did not want to add to the noise, and besides, I wasn’t sure how he’d take my personal questions, especially in the presence of others.

 

The couple was dropped off first, and the driver and I continued on to Beltsville, when he turned to me all of a sudden, asking me if everything was OK with my hotel reservation, since he heard me talking to the hotel.  I explained to him my situation, and he instantly offered to take me directly to New Carrolton.  Taking him up on his offer, I thanked him very much, and used the opportunity to ask him the question that was nagging me, and that’s where he was from and why he was listening to the news so intently.

 

“I am from Israel” he said, “and I was listening because of the Gaza coverage”.  My heart sank.  Here’s a man who was doing me a great favor, and it is very likely that at any moment he may listen to my comment which I sent to the BBC.  I wasn’t sure what to do, and chose to continue the conversation with him and pretend that this meant nothing to me.  We said the generic “it’s really sad there and I wish that people would come to their senses” stuff, when he turned to me and said “you have a bit of an accent yourself, where are you from”?  “Palestinian” I said, “I hope that won’t make a difference” I continued with a faint smile.  “Oh no, absolutely not” he exclaimed!  “I have three passports” he continued, “an American, an Israeli and an Ethiopian”.  “Where in Israel do you live” I asked?  “When I’m there, I live with my wife in Telaviv.  I’m here to finish my graduate studies, and I used to work as a pilot for Ethiopian airlines.  I have a house in Telaviv, Addis Ababa, and I’m here for my studies”.

 

We continued to talk about Israel and how it wasn’t as Democratic as we’re lead to believe.  He began to tell me how there was blatant discrimination between the Eastern and the Western Jews, and referred to the story which I remember hit the news over 12 years ago, when the authorities threw out the blood of thousands of Ethiopian Jews who came to donate for a blood drive they were having at the time.

 

We continued to talk, and he started to tell me how Ethiopians are usually sympathetic to the Palestinian cause.  He surprised me though when he told me that he wasn’t Jewish, and that he was a Coptic Christian.  “Don’t you know?  30% of the Jews who migrated to Israel from Ethiopia aren’t actually Jews, they are Christians”.  I’ve always heard about the phenomena of persons from many countries, especially Ethiopia and Russia, claiming to be Jews in order to get out of their country and go to Israel, so that they may eventually make it to America, but never thought that I’d actually run into one of them.  We continued to talk, and when we arrived to the hotel, we exchanged warm regards and had a firm hand shake, usually a universal sign of friendship.  Upon offering him a tip, he refused to take it, and wished me a good night and drove away.

 

I wondered in the back of my mind how quick human beings are to judge each other.  We have gotten so used to profiling one another such that a person’s label or nationality give so many answers and lead us to a great deal of sometimes incorrect assumptions, causing us to hate and sometimes kill each other without a valid reason.  If I ever needed a reminder of how unique and special every individual on this earth is, that was it.

 

 

 

A touching experience

I wrote this a couple of months ago, but given my experiences this last week end, I wonder if it’s worth posting here.  It’s amazing how quick we are to come to judgment about others.  Sometimes if we care to take the time, we’ll gain a whole new dimension to the experience we’re going through.

 

 

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6/6/2005

I mostly forward things that I come across, but this is one I experienced myself, and feel compelled to commit it to writing because of how much it moved me.

 

Yesterday when I was taking a flight from Frankfort To Amman to see my family, and while waiting to board the aircraft, two men came and sat across from me and introduced themselves.  One of them was an Iraqi man, who was carrying his two year old son, whom he took to Germany for treatment.  The son was wounded in one of the American bombing raids, and some charitable organization helped him bring the little boy to Germany to see if there is anything they could do for him over there.  Unfortunately, the doctors told him that there was nothing they could do for his son, and that he will remain sightless for the rest of his life.  I guess that’s why the man came and sat across from me – he has just woken up to the fact that he too now has a blind son, and there is nothing anyone can do about that.

 

The man spoke no German, no English, in fact, he did not speak any foreign language.  The only language he spoke, so far as I could tell, was Arabic.  I tried to console him by telling him that blind persons these days can do so much because of the technology and awareness that exist.  I showed him my talking mobile phone and my talking computer, in order to prove to him that, even though I am a blind person, just as his son is, I am traveling the world, earning a decent living and living my life to the fullest.  He listened intently to what I had to say and uttered nothing except “well, that’s over there, over where they are, they have all these things, but what about us!”.  I must admit those words took me by surprise, and for a brief moment, I didn’t know what to say.  I regained my composure and tried to reassure him by telling him that all he can do is raise his son well, treat him just like everyone else, encourage him and make sure never to close any doors in his face, and that his maker will take good care of him.  I further told him that I was “there”, and through determination and perseverance, I managed to do what I wanted.  We left it there, as boarding began and chaos ensued.  The gentleman and his son were seated towards the middle of the aircraft, and I was seated all the way in the back, where a number of French, Swedish, German and other European passengers sat.

 

While the plane was landing, and right before we touched down, I heard one of the flight attendants say in a low, direct and angry voice, to someone who couldn’t hear her “sit down”.  A couple of seconds thereafter, the purser came on the speaker and said “sir, will you please sit down!”.  Landing continued, and by then we were taxiing on the ground in Amman, when, once again, the same flight attendant in the back was saying “can’t you listen, don’t you have ears”, in the same tone of voice as before.  No sooner has she finished uttering these words, the purser came on again with the same announcement “sit, down, sir!”.  An announcement was made a third time, and I can safely say that myself and others on the flight were getting concerned.  I guess the others were a step ahead of me as they could see what was going on, but it took me a while to sort it out, and I wish I never did!

 

Whilst still taxiing, the voice of a crying baby was coming closer to me.  I was sitting in the back, and the voice was edging ever so closely.  The baby would cry for a bit, gasp, go quiet and cry again.  Without uttering even a breath, the person carrying the baby was headed towards the back, and the flight attendants were getting quite nervous.  By the time he got to my row, the baby was crying uncontrollably.  The person carrying him, which, I came to realize, was a man, took him further to the back, trying to calm him down.  The man entered the galley in the back, and the flight attendants were quite worried by then.  “I don’t know what you’re doing” said one of the attendants, “but you are endangering the safety of yourself, your child and other passengers.  Stay! Away! From! The! Emergency! Exit!”, the attendant said in both anger and fear.  The baby continued to cry, and the man started calming his baby down by saying “shshshsh, yalla yalla yallla”, loosely translated as, hush, please, hush.  The man then turned around and left the galley, and stood directly to my left and started talking to his son.  I instantly recognized him – he is that Iraqi man.  My heart sank.  There he was, standing there, with everyone, people who looked strange to him, as strange as the people who took away his son’s eye sight, angrily staring at him, yelling at him, screaming at him in a language he does not understand.  His  silence, I’m sure, made a lot of people feel uncomfortable.  I’m sure there were people who thought he was a terrorist of some sort.  I’m sure there were people who thought he was an uncivilized dark skinned man, chaotic and uncontrollable as the rest of his people seemed to be.  What I am not sure of is whether people knew what was really going on inside that man’s head.  There he was, all alone, trying to calm down his son, his blind son, who cannot stop crying.  He was oblivious to everything around him, including the cries of the crew and the gazes of the passengers, partly because he couldn’t understand what they were saying, partly because he was attending to his son, but mostly because this seemed to be the man’s first or second time on an airplane.  Despite all of this, he remained absolutely calm, with nothing coming out of his mouth except “shshshsh, yalla, yalla, yalla”, and an occasional muttering of reassurance to his son in his own colloquial Iraqi accent.  I knew then exactly where this man was while everyone was doing this to him – he was staring into the eyes of the unknown, into his son’s future, a future which I’m sure he perceived to be full of nothing but pain for that poor little child.  He was, I am sure, trying to wake up to the reality of his son’s permanent disability, which, in a split second, replaced the happiness that comes with every new born.  He was standing there, naked of all feelings of pride, dignity, happiness, seeing nothing but darkness ahead.  I know this feeling quite well because this is how my mother told me she felt when she found out that I, her first and oldest son was blind.  She cried for years, until she started to have hope that I may one day live a normal life, but this man, this poor man, has just begun this painful journey, and what a way to begin!

 

As people started disembarking, I noticed the man making his way back towards the front.  I was following each footstep of his through the ceaseless crying of his son.  As the voice of his baby disappeared in the distance, I wondered in the back of my mind whether the flight attendants would have reacted differently had they known the man’s story.  I have no doubt in my mind that these beautiful young women would have been glad to take his son from him and hold him to their chests and see to it that he is OK.  I’m sure that, had they done that, this man would have been relieved, even momentarily, of his pane to see the caring and love in other people’s hearts instead of the angry cries and hostile gazes of the passengers.  It would have been a smile for everyone in the midst of a lot of tears for someone.  From what I could tell, no one but myself and the other person who introduced me to this man, who was sitting towards the front of the plane, knew about this man’s predicament, since we were helping him at the gate in Frankfort while boarding.  A word from me would have changed the night for many passengers, flight attendants, but most importantly for that man.  Alas, I just sat there bewildered, dazed and confused.  It was as if something has come over me, sealed my mouth, and froze my mind.  I wondered if it was too late for me to do anything.  I wondered if I could look for and find that man, even if I had to change my plans and cross the boarders into Iraq the following day.  Would I ever find him and his son I asked?  A voice inside me told me however that I probably wouldn’t, but that I would find many others in his homeland with his predicament, and many more who are probably even worse off!  Why did he come to the back though – I still wonder!  Did he come to see me?  Did he come to talk to me?  Have I failed him?  Should I have said something?  I don’t know, and I guess I’ll never know.

Travel diary, last week of July

It’s very interesting just thinking about where I am now and where I actually should be.  As I write these words, I’m supposed to be in Milwaukee for a conference, but I’m still home instead, which is not a very bad place to be, considering how often I’ve been hanging around here lately.  I haven’t felt well all week end long, and feel that I need to see the doctor in the morning.  I therefore didn’t fly out today, and changed my reservation for tomorrow, and even Tuesday if necessary, as the conference won’t start in earnest until Wednesday anyway, and there are five others from the same company already there.

 

I can say that I have survived one of the most challenging travel weeks I’ve ever had.  It was the kind of week where everything that could go wrong actually did.  It started with waking up tired and grouchy on Monday, and got down hill from there.

 

My flight to Baltimore, which was supposed to leave at 4:30 PM. Ended up leaving sometime after six instead.  This got me into Baltimore way past midnight, something which I tried to avoid by booking an earlier flight.

 

Upon arriving, it took me close to 45 minutes to find a taxi, as the regular taxi stand was closed due to construction.  The closure takes effect after midnight everyday, so most people didn’t know about it.  After running up and down the terminal and asking people, some of whom didn’t speak English, and most of whom had no clue what I was talking about, I finally caught a lucky break and got a hold of a taxi.  I later came to wonder whether it was all that lucky.

 

We proceeded to the four star hotel which I booked on the Internet for what I thought was a very good price.  After a fight with the Indian cab driver, who was very upset at the fact that I was paying with a credit card even though I did warn him of the fact before we left the airport, I got into the hotel and checked into my room.  I didn’t like the ambiance of the hotel – something about it struck me as being a bit creepy, but hey, it was almost 2:30 in the morning and I was so tired I couldn’t tell a rabbit from a flock of sheep.

 

I went up to my room, only to find that the air conditioning wasn’t working.  With temperature in the 90’s and almost 100% humidity, that wasn’t something I could tolerate.  Upon ringing up the front desk, they said that they had no one to fix the AC, but that they’ll move me into a smaller room if that was OK with me.  I did not mention that the room I was in was very, very small!  I figured I was there to spend the night, so I didn’t care so much if the room was small or large – I was so tired I just wanted a bed to lay my body.

 

Upon trying to get into the replacement room, the key didn’t work.  The hotel man and myself tried every trick in the book to no avail.  Suddenly, he just put down the key and ran away saying “I’ll get the lady up front to come and help you”.

 

I was getting way past irritable by then.  I waited for the lady for a couple of minutes, when my evil part began to take over.  I headed to the lift and proceeded to the lobby, only to find my friend the hotel man hanging out at his little stand, and the lady at the front desk talking to someone else (another colleague from what I could gather).

 

“I’m sorry” she said as she saw me approaching, “I’ll find something for you right away”.  I tried to gather whatever remaining patience and kindness, and told her that indeed she should find me something – a taxi to take me the hell out of here.

 

She was a bit surprised – she didn’t think I’d say that, and frankly, I was surprised myself.  It was so late and I was so tired that it would have made sense to try to sort something out for the remainder of the night, considering that I had to be at work at 8:00 AM, but my brain’s stubborn circuitry was irrevocably engaged and I wasn’t about to back down.

 

The taxi came, and I headed to the nearest Marriott.  I figured that’s something I know, and I was sure that I would find a clean and comfortable (and air conditioned) room to spend whatever left of the night in.  To my dismay, I was told that they didn’t have any availability when I got there, due to a convention they were having.  All I remember was that I just stood there and started laughing, so much so that I’m sure the lady behind the counter thought I was crazy (which may not have been very far from the truth at the time).  I begged and pleaded with her, and she (I guess) felt sorry enough for me to put me up in a room for the remainder of the night, on the condition that I’d get the heck out of there in the morning.

 

The following day went exactly as expected.  Machines crashed, software didn’t work nearly as well, and on my way to DC for a business dinner with a contact there, the train was two hours late.

 

The following day I went to visit a friend in Herndon VA, about 40 minutes from Union Station in DC where I was staying, and ended up staying there until half past midnight.  I wanted to take a cab back to my hotel, but my friend wanted to give me a ride instead.  Upon explaining to him that it would be easier for me to take a cab, since the hotel I was in was difficult to find, we agreed for him to take me to Tyson’s Corner, which is a midpoint between his house and my hotel, where I would take a taxi and thus save on the fare.

 

My friend wanted to be nice to me, and kept on driving past Tyson’s Corner without letting me know.  We got into DC, where we spent 40 minutes cruising around downtown DC trying to find my hotel.  There was not a soul out there to ask, and we drove through some heavily guarded areas as well as very scary ones.  My friend, who is a fantastic person, is the kind of person who’s directionally challenged, and therefore uses landmarks to find his way (I thought I was the only one that did that).  Since it was pitch dark, since it was a part of town he wasn’t familiar with to begin with, and since the streets in DC tend to run in circles with the capital being the center, he got completely lost.  We ended up chasing a cab in which I jumped, asking the driver to take me to the hotel where I was staying.  We drove for less than a block, and low and behold, there was the hotel!  I was worried about my friend – wondering whether he’ll be able to find his way back to the highway.  Other than his wife killing me, I was worried that I’d feel quite guilty and bad if anything were to happen to him.  He assured me he was OK though, and I asked him (just like an overprotective mother) to call me when he gets home, to which he obliged.

 

It was Thursday by then, and I still had a trip to New York City to finish before going home the following day.  I woke up in the morning with a horrible pain in my left foot.  I took it with stride though and proceeded to board the train to New York’s Pen Station, where I met my friend and had a wonderful time with.  It was a visit deserving of an article of its own right, so I’ll save that for a future reflection.  Needless to say, we went to a Brazilian restaurant and had a delightful time.  I took the train the following morning back to Baltimore and caught the last flight back to Denver.

 

I was hoping to finish some work yesterday, when a friend of mine who flew in from oversees came to visit.  He never did tell me that he was coming to the US, leaving it as a surprise for me.  Though I didn’t get anything done, I did nevertheless have lots of fun.  Today, however, was a day about which I knew very little.  I was so tired all day that I kept waking up and falling asleep.  I remember putting the laundry in the fridge (or maybe it was the washer – I’d better go find out), and recall that I woke up in earnest after 8 PM.  I ordered a pizza, and here I am!

 

I have lots I’d like to write about, but my brain, my body and my fingers are very tired – besides there is a total of over 50 emails I need to attend to – so I must stop.  Hopefully I’ll feel like writing sometime soon.

 

Diary of a blind traveler

The article below appeared in the fall issue of America’s Muslim Family magazine, a local paper in the DC/Virginia area. It is my understanding that this paper is about to go national, so hurray to you Kari and Ahmed! I am publishing the unedited versions of the articles I wrote last summer. Enjoy, and don't be too shy to comment!

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Diary of a Blind Traveler

Traveling is perhaps one of the most eye-opening experiences a human being can ever have. Through traveling you will see many new things that teach you about other cultures, which will ultimately help you see your own culture from a totally new perspective. So, with all the sights to see when traveling, what would it be like if you were blind?

Traveling is and has always been one of my passions, despite the fact that I am totally blind. It’s true that I cannot see however, I am a sharp observer. By listening to people and following how they react to different situations, I can sometimes see more than what meets the eye. So, it’s my intention in this column in America’s Muslim Family to let you experience the world through the eyes of a blind traveler, me!

Recently, I spent a month in Germany and notably a few days of leisure in Berlin towards the end of July 2004. I had been studying German and felt pretty confident for most of my month-long stay in the country, as a matter of fact, practicing my German was one of the most compelling reason for my accepting the assignment for my business in the first place. My hosts in Stuttgart, who were fluent speakers of English, dropped me off at the train station at around 11 AM. As we said our good-byes, I suddenly realized that I was on my own, without the benefit of a sighted guide, but even more nerve-racking was the fact I was without the benefit of a translator! I tend to be a bit of a perfectionist especially with language and so the prospect of needing to communicate in German was a daunting proposition.

I arrived in Berlin, after an exhausting but interesting 6-hour train ride from Stuttgart. You would think that on a long ride like this people sharing a row of seats would converse with each other and get to know each other, but alas, as typical in Germany, everyone buried their head in a book or put on a headset and simply minded his or her own business.
I reached the furnished apartment that would be my home in Berlin via taxi, conversing with the driver in German only to find at the end of the ride the gentleman spoke English. Mr. Cobin, (who actually spells his name with a K), spoke no English, which made the tour very interesting. I was pleased because I was able to converse with him despite his heavy Berlin accent, and I learned a few new German words.

My first thought, after I got settled, was to find some place to eat. I was looking forward to the experience, especially since I had spent the previous evening practicing my repository of food related vocabulary with Anna, my Stuttgart host's 12-year-old daughter. Specifically, we went over how to ask for a seat, asking what's on the menu, and most importantly, telling my server that I do not eat pork or drink alcohol. As you can imagine, I was eager to practice what I learned, but I needed to get to a restaurant first!

I explained to Mr. Cobin what I wanted, and after trying in vain to give me directions to a nearby Italian restaurant, he finally offered to take me there, an offer for which I was thankful.

As soon as I got there, a young man who was very accommodating greeted me. I went through what I had practiced with Anna the previous night, and when I got to the point where I explained that I did not eat pork or drink alcohol, he immediately informed me that he was the same way. He asked me where I was from, and I informed him that I was born in Jordan, and that's when he immediately started speaking Arabic with me. He was the restaurant owner's son, and his father has been living in Germany for over 31 years. Needless to say, all my practice the night before was in vain, seeing how we had more in common than just the language. I enjoyed the meal and the conversation and left the restaurant pondering the question, why would an Arab open an Italian restaurant in Germany?

I quickly became familiar with my surroundings and was able to find the Ban Huf, which is the German's way of saying "train station". I took the train the following day to the center of town and walked around, checking out the shops and talking to people. Needless to say, everyone spoke German, and I was truly proud of my ability to communicate with the townspeople in their own language.
Germans have a reputation of being cold by nature, however, people (mostly women) still came up to me, asking if I needed help finding something or crossing the street. In the spirit of sharing for which we Americans are renowned world wide, I'm proud to say that I have taught English to many people with whom I came in contact. Whenever someone tried to teach me something in German, I'd try to teach him or her the same word in English, whether they were interested to learn or not!
I found a Starbucks, and was quick to grab my favorite drink of a chocolate mocha with lots of whip cream on top. To my dismay, the whip cream was not as sweet in Germany as it is in the US. This made it especially strange, since, while I use whip cream in the US to sweeten my coffee, I found myself doing the exact opposite, namely using the Mocha to sweeten the rest of the lot. Small differences become significant when you’re far from home!

The following day was a Friday, and I was determined to find a mosque in which to pray. Blind, with limited knowledge of the city, the language and the people, I headed out, found a mosque, prayed, ate a delightful Indian meal, and went home to my furnished apartment. How I did that was an adventure deserving of an article by itself, and you will, my dear reader, read all about it in the upcoming Winter Edition of America’s Muslim Family, God willing.

Follow up to Diary Of a Blind Traveler

This is the second part of the article, unedited, which appeared in the winter issue of the same magazine as mentioned in the article above. Enjoy!

After a wonderful couple of days in Berlin, Friday was approaching, and I wondered if there were any mosques nearby for me to attend the Friday prayer. As a traveler, a Muslim is exempt from attending the congregational prayer, and has the option of praying alone, but despite that I wanted to satisfy my curiosity and see what life was like for Muslims in Germany. I had questions in my mind such as, “do they have the Khotba in Arabic or in German (surely not in English!)? Are the community dynamics similar to those of our communities here in the US?”. For this reason, I decided to go out and find a mosque; but the question that kept nagging me is how! I guess I could have asked the people I was renting the apartment from, but I don’t think they’d know! It suddenly dawned on me to go back to the restaurant where I ate my first Italian meal and ask the owner who has been in Berlin for over thirty years. I figured if anyone would know, it had to be him! He was Muslim (his name was Jamaal), from Jordan, and he spoke Arabic very fluently. So on Thursday evening I walked over to the restaurant and ate a delightful meal, and found the opportunity to ask Jamaal whether he knew of a mosque nearby. To my shock, he did not. I didn’t ask any more questions, and I could tell he was able to notice the look of shock I had on my face. He then went on to tell me that the best thing to do is to take the train to Pank Strasse and ask the first Arabian or Turkish person for the location of a mosque. Since Pank Strasse is a place full of Arabs and Turks, according to Jamaal, I’d have no trouble finding one, though I sort of wondered in the back of my mind how I’d recognize someone’s ethnicity by speaking to him or her in a language that was alien to both of us! I thanked Jamaal however and went on my merry way, fully intending to find a mosque the following morning.

After a good night sleep, the sun rose, and Friday morning awoke the inhabitants of Berlin in order that they go on their daily affairs. My affair that day was to find a mosque, and after going down to the office of the association where I was renting the apartment to check my email, I went out in pursuit of the place of worship. When I left my apartment that morning, the only thing I knew, besides how to get to the train (U-Bahn) station was that I needed to go to Pank Strasse and find a Turkish or an Arabic person and ask them about where I could find a mosque. You must understand, my dear reader, that this is totally out of character for me. When I undertake a task, I plan it beforehand, trying to cover each and every angle. In a situation like this, I would not have gone out if I didn’t have an address, a train schedule, and detailed information on how to get there as well as the prayer times. I was on vacation however, and I figured I’d take a vacation from my usual self by opening the door to whatever may come my way – and so I went on my pursuit!

It was close to 10:00 AM as I made my way to the train station. I got on the train, and found myself sitting next to a lady, to whom I started talking right away. I figured I’d at least ask her where Pank Strasse was, since I had no clue where it was! Unfortunately, she was not from the Berlin area, and was merely visiting there from Hamburg. She proceeded to tell me that she was in Berlin to attend for her comatose child who got into a car accident a couple of weeks earlier. Contrary to what I have become accustomed to from Germans, this lady had no problem showing her emotions. She even grasped my hand as I gave her a sympathetic look and cried even more. We then talked about other things for a bit, and found out from her that she was a teacher of German as a second language. As we were talking, she looked to the other side and told me “this is your stop”. Not having paid attention to the announcement, I believed her and immediately got off the train. My surrounding looked familiar, but I ignored that, thinking to myself that all train stations are alike in one way or another. My amazement continued however when I climbed the stairs to the main road. I couldn’t help but notice how familiar things were – the streets, the sidewalks, the shops, everything! I even found the Starbucks where I had a cup of coffee a couple of days before. This, I concluded, was not Pank Strasse, this was downtown. As much as I hate to admit it, I was right. Upon asking for directions, a gentleman offered to accompany me back to the train station, and informed me that I needed to take the train all the way to the last stop, and then find the U8 train which will take me to Pank Strasse. The gentleman proceeded to tell me that he had lived at Pank Strasse for over twenty years, which instantly triggered a thought in my mind to ask him if he was an Arab or a Turk. I summoned enough courage and asked, and sure enough, he was from Turkey. I immediately became excited, thinking that my search has finally come to an end. I don’t need to go to Pank Strasse any more, here I have a Turk by my side! I asked him the same question I asked the restaurant owner, and strangely enough, he gave me the same answer! Oh well, I guess the adventure is not over yet.

I took the train as instructed, and as I was getting out, a lady approached me and asked me in German if I needed help (I guess there is something about a blind guy walking with a cane that invites this sort of questioning). Recognizing that I actually did need help, since I had no idea where I’d go to catch the U8 train, I gave an affirmative answer, and told her what I was looking for. She told me that she was going that way, and that she wouldn’t mind if I walked with her. As we started walking, she asked me if I spoke Arabic, and I, once again, answered affirmatively, at which time she started speaking Arabic to me. She was a graduate student from Morocco, finishing her studies in Germany. We continued to talk as she was showing me the way to the track where the U8 runs. When we got there and as we were saying our goodbyes, it suddenly occurred to me to ask her if she knew of a mosque somewhere. Once again I summoned enough courage to do so, and to my pleasant surprise, she told me that there was a mosque right by the station where we were waiting for the train. She offered to take me there, and I instantly took her up on her offer. Fortunately, the mosque was no more than 100 miters away from the train station.

As I arrived, I met the mosque’s care taker, who greeted me and showed me in. It was barely 11:15, and the prayer didn’t begin until 12:15 or so. The care taker was from Pakistan, and I must say that it was my first time speaking with a gentleman from Pakistan in a language other than English! The Imam of the mosque was from Algeria, and he made the Khotba in both Arabic and German, which helped my effort to learn German tremendously. After prayer, someone was standing outside selling plates of food for three and a half Euros a plate, and people sat down around tables that were set up in the mosque’s courtyard talking about their daily affairs. In addition to German, people were speaking to each other in Urdu, Arabic, Hindi, Turkish, with a variety of dialects in each language. In a way the surrounding, with its interesting diversity, felt so familiar that I wondered for a split second why people were talking to me in German, but then I remembered that I was actually in a mosque in Germany and not in the USA.

After finishing lunch, I went out with a Turkish brother who was going back to the train station, chatting with him along the way about life, politics and the things that we talk about. I took the train back to where I was staying, feeling quite content for the way my day went.

Later on that day, I went to a nearby supermarket to do some shopping. I was sick and tired of paying over two Euros for a small glass of Pepsi. I figured that if I go to a supermarket, I would stand a very good chance of establishing a good supply of Pepsi and Mineral water for much less. The staff at the supermarket spoke no English, however, and I found their German extremely difficult to understand. As soon as I walked in, the lady behind the counter asked me a question of which I understood nothing. I assumed that she was asking me if I needed assistance, even though the word "Helfen" or a variant of which was never mentioned. Well, what do you know, I was right. I nodded in agreement, not really sure exactly what I was agreeing to, and within thirty seconds, a young girl, probably no more than 16 years old came to help. She also spoke no English, and she spoke at 90 miles an hour, so you can imagine what it was like trying to communicate with her. I understood from her that she needed a Euro coin, though I could never figure out why. Having gone through this fifteen years ago at JFK when I first landed in the US (when the guy who was helping me complete a phone call through a pay phone told me that I needed "Quodes" (quarters)), I proceeded to give her the Euro just to see what she was going to do with it. I figured that even if I never got it back, I would have paid for an experience, and that, to me, was a good enough bargain. I'm sure that by now you've figured out what she needed the coin for. She needed it to get a cart in which to put the stuff I was going to buy. We went around the store with me telling her what I wanted. It was a one way communication between us. I spoke (transmitted), but had no idea what she was saying (no reception). The ending was happy though, as I did find what I was looking for. I bought my mineral water and Coke (they didn't have Pepsi), and for two large bottles of each, I only paid two and a half Euros. Even better, I understood exactly how much I needed to pay, and thankfully, I even had correct change! I later on took the bus and went to visit with some friends, and had a wonderful dinner with them. They were Berliners, born and raised in the city. They had some interesting tails to tell about the time when Berlin was divided, but I'll save that for another time.