METRO keeps a head. Unconsciously I, myself, now have in mahattah Mar Girgis. Ashraf stands close to the door; preparing himself. The next Mahattah is El-Malik El-Saleh, then Sayyeda Zeinab and he is going to out there. There are seven mahattahs left–going to I passed by–but, I, myself, just achieve Ramsis. After that, I will get on other metro go to Shubra El-Khaima–my journey is still far from here.
Metro goes–slowly then be furious–again then achieves El-Malik Al-Saleh. It stops. Doors are opened. Some people out, an old man wants out. Before he gets out, he holds my hands and he thanks me, myself, with a mouth that never stops to pray for me. I said Amin again and again. I, again, use my black glasses and cap.
Next to me, a veiled woman looks joy her talking with a tourist-woman. One by one my ears catch their talking about–she’s explaining about what had happened before–about the annoying feeling of Egyptians toward U.S. I correct their misconception about Islam regarding what had happened before. She also explained–with her fluency on speaking English–the means of Hadiths that I had said at past. She, then, nods her head.
When I am on Sayyeda Zeinab, Ashraf waves his hand to me and then goes out. A chair next to the foreigner grandma was sat by a ma’am–empty. If I wanted I could sit there. Yet I saw a young little girl brought a shopping bag in–I let her sat on that chair.
Metro goes on. A veiled woman and the foreigner woman keep talking each other–look very close. Yet this time I don’t clearly hear what are they talking about. The heat wind comes from the window. I look the view–villagers houses look like boxes not arranged like a lined cardboard are not well-organized. Metro begins to in into the underground street–all side covered by darkness–metro’s lights are on. Suddenly metro had on the mahattah Saad Zaghloul and stopped then. Some people step out and others get on metro. Three foreigners ready themselves to out, also the veiled woman; they want to get out on Tahrir.
Those women still talk each other. They are very close with me; moreover, I could hear their talking–about where they come from–clearly. The veiled woman was born and growth up in German. But her blood, lineage, is mix from German, Turkey and Palestine also. Other–the foreigner–was born and growth up in U.S. her blood is England and Spain. They, both, give their name card each other.
The foreigner woman stands, exactly, in front of me–with her face facing toward the veiled woman. Metro, suddenly, squeaks–trying to stop itself–slightly swaying carriages and making the foreigner woman body sways. At that time, she looks at me–smiles and stuck out her hand to me and then says,
“Hai Indonesian, thank’s for everything. My name’s Alicia.”
“Oh, you’re welcome. My name is Fahri,” I answered placing both my hands on my chest, not possible for me to take her hand.
“I did not mean, not respects on you. In Islam, men may not pebble his hands to women and touch them except their wife and mahram.” I explain it to her to reduce her misconception.
She’s smiling and answering, “Oh, never mind. And this is my name card, for you.” She’s giving her name card to.
“Thank’s,” I reply taking the card.
“It’s a pleasure.”
Metro stopped.
Alicia, her grandma and her sisters go to the door to walk out. The veiled woman is still standing at same place–looking people want to out–then she takes her first step, then greets me,
“Indonesian, thank you.”
Suddenly, I remember she’s a German. I meddlesome answered her question in German,
“Bitte!”
She looks startled hearing my answered. She, directly, stops her steps and looks at me with her eyes having many questions.
“Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” she asks in German. She, maybe, wants made sure that what she’d heard coming from me, myself, is really German and I could speaks German; she wasn’t mishearing.
“Ja, ein wenig. Alhamdulillah!” I answered calmly. If only to speak German insya Allah not too difficult; in contrast, if to make a thesis, well I surrender.
“Sind Sie Herr Fahri?”
I smile hearing her question. She asks me like that; she truly carefully heard my arguing with three Egyptians so she knew my name; otherwise, she heard my introduction with Alicia.
“Ja. Mein name ist Fahri.” I answer.
“Mein name ist Aisha,” she replies and gives her name card. Then she gives a pen and a small note book toward me.
“Bitte, schreiben Sie ihren namen!” she says.
I accept those pen and small note book. I knew Aisha means–not only my name also completed my cell phone numbers and my address. The machinist metro sounds the alarm, as a sign its doors will be closed and it will move on its trip. I only write my cell phone numbers and my name. Then I give back both to her. She, Aisha, directly outs and says,
“Danke, auf wiedersehen!”
“Auf wiedersehen!” I answer.
Metro keeps moving on. There are many empty chairs. It is my turn to sit. It’s been being more than a half journey; and the time shows thirty five minutes past one–enough to be there on time. Insya Allah I had been there and sit in front of him, Syaikh Utsman, on time. If the truth showed different, well I will only late about few minutes–still in the apologizing dead line. Now, relax is the only one choice that I guess could relax my whole body. Also it is the time to repeat and repair my recitation of Al-Quran that I’m going to share to Syaikh Utsman.
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