By
Nadrat Siddique
I had the most incredible iftar the
other night at Cheesecake Factory (Inner Harbor) with my friend, N. She is a
beautiful, young, Pakistani-American who wears hijab, even living and working
in a very red neck area. Very earnest and honest in everything she does, she
has been going through some trials and tribulations in her life. It was quite
late, and we were seated outside, sipping our hot chocolates/ iced coffees,
admiring the Baltimore skyline silouetted against the harbor, and catching up
on events in our respective lives. The service was very slow, and the waitress
seemed determined to ignore us, after our day-long fast.
People who were not patrons of the
restaurant occasionally passed close to our table. One of these was a homeless
Caucasian man. Emaciated and bedraggled, he walked with some effort. He mumbled
something as he passed our table, but did not ask us for anything. My friend
and I discussed for a moment the sorrowful condition of the man, and pondered
how to help him. I lamented that I had only $3 cash on me, relying instead on
my debit card. N said we should buy him dinner.
Then, before I could blink, she left the
dinner table. First, she chased down our elusive waitress, and ordered a basic
meal for the homeless man. Then, she ran after the homeless man (he had moved quite
a distance away) to find out how else we might help him. She returned shortly
with surprising news: The man declined the Cheesecake Factory meal. They
treated him badly there, he said. And- he was very cold and needed to go
indoors somewhere and get warm. A cool breeze was blowing over the water. It
felt lovely to us, who were well nourished. But- I could see why it might feel
unpleasantly cold to someone who had not eaten a proper meal for days, and had
been sleeping on the streets.
N quickly caught up with the waitress
again, and cancelled the order. She and I both apologized profusely to the
waitress. Given the hour, and the fact that most restaurants in Baltimore close
ridiculously early on weeknights, we were at a loss of what to do. "You did
the best you could. Allah knows your intent was to help him," I told my
friend.
By now, the two White women at the
neighboring table were intrigued. They complimented N on her efforts, and
expressed surprise at the homeless man’s unwillingness to accept the profferred
meal. Even the waitress, who had been quite cold toward us previously, was
bubbling with compliments for my friend's generosity and caring.
I leaned over and whispered to N: “It
looks like you just did some da’awah inadvertently. Alhamdulillah.”
A short while later, the homeless man
reappeared. This time, we invited him to sit at the table with us. Under N’s
questioning, he shared his story with us. His name was Michael, and he was a
Muslim, although his family was not. He wasn’t from Baltimore. He had come here
to do some construction work, but his work partner had scammed him, and taken
off with his few belongings. He had asked numerous mosques and churches for
help, but none of these were forthcoming.
N asked Michael if he had a home. He
did, in West Virginia, where he’d lived with his mother prior to coming to
Baltimore.
“Maybe your mother could help get you
home?” asked N.
“She is paralyzed. So she can’t really
work,” said Michael.
“Well you shouldn’t have to sleep on the
street, if you have a home,” said N. “We will try to get you home.”
We paid our bill. The rest of our iftar
evening was spent trying to buy Michael a bus ticket home, a bit of a chore,
since he didn’t have ID (everything had been stolen from him by the partner),
and we couldn’t simply pay for his ticket on line..
