Two weeks ago, I found myself stuck in a disabled toilet in the middle of a hellish airport, unable to carry the full weight of my mum’s body and simultaneously straighten out her clothes.
Each time I lifted her up off the wheelchair, completely carrying her weight (she’s surprisingly heavy for her frame), she groaned in pain, from what I assume was the arthritis in her knees. It’s hard to know for sure when a person can’t express themself in words.
We had already been stuck in Istanbul airport for 2 hours, trying to get the attention of the “assistants” at the transfer desk whose job it apparently is, to spend as long as possible ignoring the disabled passengers they’re meant to be helping.
Let me back up.
It’s been a busy couple of weeks in Mamoon’s world.
Just before Ramadan, I took a trip to Pakistan to speak at the annual Afterglow conference – a spiritual retreat aimed at Muslim women who want to transform their thinking and connection with Allah, the Quran and Islam as a way of life. While I was there, I spent a week with my mum, who was living with her sister and being cared for.
A few years ago, she had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, so my family decided that this year it would be best for her to try out living in a place where she can receive 24/7 care and attention.
However, while I was visiting her there… I just couldn’t leave her.
And after having talked about it at length with my wife, (Side Note: this is something we talked about and agreed on before we even got married – that if any of our parents ever needed it, we would be there for them when they were older), she and I agreed that it would probably be optimal for my mum to live with us in Marrakech. The idea was that with us, not only would she be taken care of, but she would have an abundance of love and the best life we could possibly give her.
All of this culminated in me deciding to not leave Pakistan… without taking my mum with me.
This led to a slight logistical problem.
I don’t know if you’ve ever tried taking an elderly wheelchair bound patient with dementia from Islamabad to Marrakesh via Istanbul… but I don’t recommend it.
The first flight wasn’t the end of the world. But even though I went out of my way to make sure we got taken care of, had assistance all the way through, and flew business class… It still wasn’t great.
God Bless Turkish Airlines, but most of the time, the airline staff completely ignored us on the flight, aside from occasionally offering us bottles of water we didn’t want or need, before disappearing again.
When we arrived in Istanbul, the so-called airport “assistance” was, how shall I say this… non existent.
Don’t get me wrong. There was a company there that claimed to be providing assistance. But every senior member of staff of this company seemed like they really didn’t want to be there, and acted as if they were doing us a favor by stonewalling us, talking over us and not consulting us to see what we needed.
I say “us”, because my mum and I weren’t alone. There is this special place in Istanbul airport, where disabled people go to transfer to their next flight. This special little place, in many ways, reminds me of the Quran’s vivid descriptions of Hell.
It took us several hours to get an actual assistant (not a ‘manager’ who seemed to be greater in numbers than the actual assistants) to get us out of the airport and onto the bus that would lead to our hotel where we had to spend the night.
Now you might be wondering… why were you spending the night in a hotel in Istanbul, Mamoon? I thought you were trying to go to Marrakesh? So did I.
But of course, the first flight from Islamabad to Istanbul was delayed, and the very next connecting flight from Istanbul to Marrakesh was the next day.
Thankfully, they booked us on to that next flight and put us up in a hotel… but they made sure that the process was as painful as humanly possible in inventive ways I’m not going to describe now.
Here’s the point.
Despite flying by business class and booking all of the official organizations that are supposed to provide assistance, the only thing that really helped us wasn’t the stewards, the assistants, or the hotel they put us up in.
The people that really helped us were…
Complete Strangers.
Which brings me back to the moment I was stuck in the disabled bathroom with my mum, unable to single-handedly help her get dressed properly. It was a 2-person job and I was completely stuck, and basically needed an assistant to help.
I asked an official airport member of staff who is nearby. The helpful gentleman said, “Well, if you walk 150 meters down that way, you will find the official assistance for disabled people”.
“Ah, wonderful”, I thought. “You want me to go back into hell to get the people who don’t want to help, to come and help. I had already spent two hours doing that.
So you know what I did?
I simply waited.
For a hijabi.
Obviously, a man couldn’t do this job. It involved helping my mum get her clothes on.
And sure, a kind person without hijab would have done the trick too. But I figured, a woman who wears the hijab, ostensibly because she believes it’s commanded by God, is almost certainly going to be a believing Muslim who knows to help out if she can.
So I waited for a hijabi.
In Istanbul airport, this took about 30 seconds.
I saw one walking towards the bathroom with her mum. I asked if she spoke English and asked if she could help. Naturally, she was a bit precautious, because it’s very strange for a weirdo at the airport to ask you for anything.
But as soon as she looked at my mum and saw the light coming out of her face, she naturally agreed to do what she could. I held my mum up. The hijabi helped get her clothes on, gracefully and efficiently. I sat her back down in her wheelchair, and we were good to go.
At this moment, a tear of gratitude and love for this complete stranger who probably still thought I was a bit of a weirdo, bubbled up.
All I could do was look up at the Hijabi and her mother and say:
“Jazak Allah Khair. You have no idea how grateful I am.”
This put a smile on their faces as they went on their way.
This wasn’t the only stranger who seriously helped us out.
There was a staff member at the hotel, and a staff member at the airport who did also help.
But the moral of the story is that in the end, it’s not the money you pay or the official organizations that do most of the work for humanity.
It’s the common kindness of strangers that changes the world.
It’s like the verse in the Quran chapter that says, “…Woe unto those who pray, but are heedless in their prayers, doing it to show off, and then forbid common kindness”.
Because Allah, the All Knowing, absolutely knows that, in the end, that’s what counts:
Common Kindness.
