A Universal Language

I had a 19 hour layover in Casablanca on my way back to Miami after spending a month touring Turkiye, driving from Istanbul to the borders of Georgia. It was an opportunity to visit the largest mosque in Africa and eat Tagine, Morocco's famous lamb dish. Checking in the hotel, two girls asked me if I had plans to visit the city. I said yes and asked them if they wanted to join me. It turned out, they were also on my flight to Miami the next day, and were returning from Lisbon after attending a Taylor Swift concert.

When Yassin picked us up in the morning, we spent several hours together learning about Berbers, French colonizers, and slow cooking lamb in underground holes in the hot, summer desert. I couldn't help but think how these two girls lived an hour from me, yet it was destined for our paths to intertwine across the Atlantic in Casablanca. After our driver dropped us off at the airport, we checked in and waited near our gate. I watched as thousands of people from all over the world carried their own story. It was only in this moment that our worlds merged. But in a few hours, I would be flying to Miami; the thousands of other travelers would be flying somewhere else. Each person continuing their own journey from their angle. How was it possible that God could keep track of every detail and every thought and every concern and every prayer and every gratitude of 8 billion characters?

It was mind blowing. Things were always perfectly orchestrated to meet a certain person at a certain time in a certain place even though we normally were thousands of miles apart. It forced me to zoom out of my world and see myself for what I truly am: just another speck in this giant circle of mankind on earth. It was as if our world was one massive spider web where each person and each experience was delicately laced with another string.

How many of these people were near me in the world of souls waiting to be plucked and planted into the womb of a woman to begin their journey of life on earth? How many of these people did I cross paths with at some point and never even know it? I stood to get a cappuccino and asked my new friends to watch my bag. As I was waiting in line, a brother asked me if I knew what time it was. Surprised at my perfect English, he asked where I was from.

"Tampa," I responded.

"No way! I pray at Sligh all the time. I'm on my way to Mecca."

That was the first and last time I saw this man who was traveling with his son. We lived 45 minutes apart. We went to the same mosque. However, we shared a few words in a random airport across the world while standing in line to get a coffee. But we would never notice each other at home. There was a sense of relief being able to communicate in Casablanca through Arabic or English after spending a month in Turkiye, where very few people spoke anything but Turkish. During this trip, I realized just how important communication and words were. We need it to connect. To grow. To understand. To listen. We need words to feel. To bond. And it felt good to have a voice again. I thought English was the universal language; but I learned that was not always true. I returned to my section, cappuccino in hand, and sat down. A few minutes later, a Muslim girl sat next to me.

I had seen this girl an hour earlier walking with the cluster of people, waiting for her flight to board. I thought her dress was beautiful and when she disappeared, I forgot all about her.

"Where I pray?" she asked in broken English.

Realizing she didn't understand my instructions, I gestured how to reach the Musallah. I tried to explain that she could leave her carry-on with me until she returned. Someone else overheard and translated to her in French. She agreed and left her luggage. When she returned, I was reading Quran. She sat down. After a few minutes, she asked me what surah I was reading. I showed her Al-Araf. She said, "God bless you."

Then, she pulled out her Quran and started reading. I could hear her voice. It was a soft and beautiful melody. I finished my page and waited for her to finish the page.

"Do you want to read together?" I asked. "I can read one page and you can read one page?"

She didn't understand. Once again, I gestured, pointing at her and at a page. Then I pointed at me and another page. She liked the idea. She chose Yassin, the heart of the Quran. We took turns reading until we finished the chapter. My heart opened at the sounds of Allah's words. It felt expansive and full of love at this miraculous moment where two people who could only communicate through hand gestures were suddenly connecting and speaking the same language.

In a few words, I was able to learn that she was from Guinea, Africa and her name was Salimato. She was on her way to Canada for a few weeks. It was no coincidence that the web of earth connected our strings at this time and space for no other reason than to read the heart of the Quran to witness the truest miracle of the Prophet Muhammad, peace and blessings be upon him. The miracle of a living language. A language that connects people regardless of who they were or where they were from. Truly, a universal language.

What a gift traveling is. It's pure. It's spacious. It opens you up in the most humbling manner and gives you experiences that leave you connected in the fabric of our intricate and perfect web.