I spot her as I stand in line with my red bag at the Egypt Air counter on my way from Istanbul to Cairo. She dons the black Muslim veils, black gloves and her eyes peer out of a tiny slit of fabric. My thoughts turn to oppressed Saudi women who aren’t allowed to drive and who’s heavy handed husbands keep them in line. I wonder who this woman is, what she’s doing traveling and where she’s going.
Her robes touch the floor. I can’t even see her feet. A flurry of feelings pass through me. In a nano second my mind launches into a litany of thoughts imagining what she’d think of me - sinner, disbeliever, loose American woman with her short sleeves and short skirts. Temptress.
She moves on and disappears into the airport by the time I check my bags. I don’t give it a second thought until I’m sitting on the plane in seat 22H heading to Cairo. The plane is nearly full, but the two seats next to me are empty and here she comes, walking down the aisle. When I see her, I have the flickering thought, “Oh, please don’t sit here,” at which point she gestures that these are her seats - one for her and the young man behind her.
He hoists a huge blue bag into the bin over my head, and then glides past me to the window seat. “Sorry,” she says, as she brushes past my knees while hugging her purse close to her body. “No problem,” I say. The woman behind me raises her eyebrow in my direction, as if to say, “crazy.”
What are the odds? I ponder. I gaze down. I’m full of that feeling of not-quite-sure how to behave. The cultural gap feels wide. I don’t understand the Hijab, the need to so fully cover oneself. It feels repressive. It reminds me of the nuns in grade school and how we couldn’t see any bit of flesh, or hair underneath the long robes. I always wondered what Sister Teresa looked like out from underneath the wimple.
I assume this woman won’t want to talk to me, the American sinner. I’ll focus on my book, not that I was looking for conversation anyway. But then something ignites the volley of questions. Simple ones at first.
Where are you going?
What’s your name?
Where are you from?
And we are in.
We are chatting like two long lost friends.
Her name is Mona, she was born in Egypt, now living in Quatar, has eight children. She met her husband when she was living in London. It was a love marriage, not an arranged marriage. They are separated now after seventeen years.
“I think arranged marriages are better,” she tells me. “A mum knows her children, knows the values they need in a partner. Emotions fade. Love fades. There is so much more than the whimsy of emotion.”
We dive into religion, talk God, Buddhism, yoga. “Oh, I know God exists,” she says. “He wants the very best for us.”
She is so open. Not what I was expecting.
“Ok, tell me about the hijab. What’s it like to wear all black and not reveal a bit of skin?” I ask. “It’s so hard for me to imagine wearing those heavy clothes, especially in hot weather.”
“I love it,” she says.
“I feel safe and contained. There is something completely freeing about it. No-one can see you, but you see out into the world.”
She tells me she’s been in Cairo on a business trip.
“What’s your business?”
“Lingere.”
I burst out laughing. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” she giggles.
We are about to land.
The time has flown by.
We’ve talked the entire way.
“So, would you ever think of visiting the US?” I ask.
“No. That’s a place I won’t go. I don’t think people would know how to deal with my attire. I’m too much of a symbol of what is not right in the Muslim world for Americans.”
I take in her words.
She’s right. Look at me - open minded liberal with a whole host of judgments I had about this person I didn’t know just because she’s wearing the hijab.
“You’re right. It’s sad, but true.”
As the plane descends we exchange business cards.
“It was so great to meet you,” I say.
“Yes, yes it was. Many blessings to you,” she offers.
As I get off the plane, my heart feels full and grateful.
Grateful for her openness.
Grateful for my openness.
Grateful to have built a tiny bridge across worlds.
